Psychological-horror | a little bird tweets

Feb 10 2013

The Dying Swan

The haunting notes of Tchaikovsky satiates the emotions of its listeners; and as the dancing swans pirouette effortlessly and transversely upon the stage, the spectators will gasp in horror as the one I love falls to her death. I have witnessed her demise a thousand times; and my heart never fails to be wounded. Her blood seeps through layers of tulle and feathers, in the same moment that her dark-shaded eyes close and the curtains fall. As I rise from my seat for what will be the last time, I enter the dark streets alone; knowing that her gaze had never met mine, knowing that she never knew how enthralled I was by her beauty.

Tagged Alone, Ballet, Beauty, Blood, Curtains, Dancer, feathers, Fiction, Heart, Horror, Psychological-horror, Psychological-thriller, Stalker, Streets, Swan, Tchaikovsky, Theatre, Tulle, Up to 200 Words, Watcher

Feb 04 2013

5 Comments

Flash Fiction

Naomi

‘You’re not the woman you think you are.’ Stephen whispered.

With wary eyes, he watched his wife rotate before the mirror in a black satin dress. He remembered when she used to dress so strikingly for him; when they were in love.

‘Did you say something, honey?’ she asked, as she sprayed musk to her throat; completing her dress-up session for the evening ahead.

‘No, I didn’t say a word.’ he replied.

‘Well, I’m done here honey. I probably won’t be back until late, so don’t wait up. You know what it’s like when the girls get together! Anyway, there’s lasagne in the fridge, if you get hungry later’.

‘Thanks.’ he replied.

She leaned over to kiss him goodbye, but he rejected her. The thought of her red poison lips upon his, caused acid to circulate around his stomach. How can she go on acting day after day like she loves me; to put on this one mad hell of a show?

As she turned to leave, his heart fell to his feet. He grabbed her throat and pushed her against the bedroom wall. As his knuckles whitened she choked several times, drawing at her last breath as she grabbed at thin air with her hands. She slid to the floor, her eyes glided to the back of her head. Then life left her.

‘I’d rather see you dead, than with him.’ he said, walking away.

Tagged Deceit, Dress, Fiction, Lasagne, Lies, Mirror, Murder, Psychological-horror, Psychological-thriller, Throat, Up to 250 Words, Writing

Jan 13 2013

10 Comments

Flash Fiction

The Raven

That day had been notorious. I had strolled across the tribe-island where I had glimpsed a raven perched sternly upon a birch branch. I had gazed at it but had not met its eyes. My grandma had warned me over again as a young boy to never look, not even in a time of weak curiosity. I would question why and she would reply, ‘Danton, it will bring with you much danger and bad luck. The red gleam of light that comes from a ravens’ eyes will weaken the soul of any that look into them; just like the sun is danger to eyes on a searing day.’ I had gazed at the black plumage of the raven perched there as I recalled her words, and my feet had become unsteady with terror. It had begun to squawk, to make a racket with its heavy wings; then it had flown from the branch, over the bank towards me; the shadow of its span had buried me into darkness, and my legs had begun to crumble beneath me. Its sharp beak had struck my head many times. I had fallen to the ground in pain, in silence, frozen with fear. Then it stopped, and as I looked at it I had witnessed my own blood stains drenched in its feathers; red on black luminous plumage; so beautiful, so ugly. Then it had flown into the sunset horizon, leaving me marred with its violence. I was twelve years of age on that notorious day, and there has been no day pass since, when I haven’t looked a raven in its eyes.

Tagged bad luck, Blood, boy, branch, danger, Eyes, fear, feathers, grandma, Psychological-horror, Psychological-thriller, raven, sun, tribe, Up to 300 Words

Dec 02 2012

6 Comments

Flash Fiction

Anna

It’s four in the morning, and I’m sat in this room of gloom, eyeing pictures of you, of us. The rain clouts against my window, violent yet so soothing. I stroll to the door with my head tilted like a broken doll because I sense you standing in the hallway. The door creaks open, and there you are my love, with those dark eyes of yours; the ones I fell into. I run to you but you run from me, and I can only scream, urge you to return, but you are gone. Then I remember that time has slipped by; almost a year has passed. The panic subsides, yet the pain lingers on. Your voice calls from outside and I wander towards the lake, where I sense you. The front door of the house bashes in the wind, and I leave it behind, allowing silence to envelope me as I walk. And again I remember that time has slipped by; almost a year has passed. I’m at the edge of the lake but you are not here. Where are you? Don’t you want to exchange conversation with me? Don’t you remember us laughing that night, when the sun melted into the sky? Don’t you miss me? I sink to the ground, and my heart can take no more. He played games with the one that loved him. I slide into the water. The coolness soothes my soul, my mind; and slowly I sink into darkness, and I am gone.

Tagged Doll, Door, Eyes, Fiction, Hallway, Lake, Pain, Photo, Psychological-horror, Psychological-thriller, Rain, Room, Scream, Suicide, Time, Up to 250 Words, Wind, Writing

Sep 30 2012

4 Comments

Flash Fiction

The Letter

I stagger along the tree-arched footpath; the bronze light through decaying trees no doubt casting cracked contours upon my face. I take a swig from the bottle. I seek the nearest bench and curl up on its mouldy slats. I eye every passing stranger who looks at me with fear and disgust. I must look vile. I abandon the thought and take out the torn notepaper from my pocket; a letter that he’d left upon the kitchen table for me to find, one year ago. I read it for what must be the billionth time; each and every word causing my heart to bleed, my soul to cry.

My dearest Sally,

I spoke with the doctor today. He said I only have three months to live.

I am devastated. I am lost. I need to run.

I cannot let you see me deteriorate every day.

I want you to remember me for who I am.

I am headed to a place far from here; the sea shall wash away the pain.

Please do not look for me.

I will always love you my angel.

Our love will never die.

Smile your beautiful smile, always.

Your husband,

Charlie.

I take another swig from the bottle, close my eyes, and fall into stagnation.

Tagged abandon, alcohol, bench, Death, doctor, footpath, Heart, letter, Love, Psychological-horror, Psychological-thriller, Sea, Up to 250 Words

Sep 17 2012

2 Comments

Flash Fiction

Daphne

“The storm had come up strong and wild. I remember there were three men, and a woman. They were screaming in the midst of the deafening wind. The noise was unbearable. I tried to run to help them, but they fell into the river before I could reach them. Then I looked up to the clouds and I saw it…it was looking at me.”

Daphne sat awkwardly, rocking back and forth upon the hospital bed, her knees clenched to her chest, as she recounted the storm to Rowena.

“Saw what? What was looking at you, Daphne?” Rowena asked, “Honey, I know this is uncomfortable for you, but it is important we revisit the storm so that you can be free of your recurring nightmares. Do you understand?”

Daphne stopped rocking. She stared up at Rowena with vacant eyes and formed her mouth into a large oval and screamed, “I saw the evil of the storm…and it is going to get me and you, all of us! It’s just a matter of time!”

Rowena shuddered and didn’t reply. She recorded the conclusions of her session with Daphne in her notebook.

Day 53: Symptoms of psychosis; namely ‘lack of insight’. Daphne is still experiencing frequent psychotic episodes. She is totally unaware that her delusions/hallucinations are imaginary.

“Thank You, Daphne, that will be all for today.” Rowena said, getting up to leave.

But before she reached the door she stopped suddenly as she listened to the cold words that were leaving Daphne’s mouth.

“Rowena, you are next.”

Tagged Delusions, Hallucinations, Hospital, Nightmare, Notebook, Psychological-horror, Psychological-thriller, Psychosis, Storm, Up to 300 Words

Jul 17 2012

5 Comments

Flash Fiction

Paige

Paige’s soul sleeps somewhere numb, somewhere cold. Her dark, disturbed visions summon her to the razor. With every cut, she bids her blood to run. With every failed seep, she utters her mantra.

“Life won’t let me go. I cannot respire. I cannot perish. Forever, I shall suffer.”

Tagged Blood, Cut, Fiction, Mantra, Psychological-horror, Psychological-thriller, Razor, Suffer, Suicide, Up to 50 Words

Jul 01 2012

8 Comments

Flash Fiction

The Dream Maker

‘Isaac, shortly you will enter your desired dream. Now you must ensure that your body is in a relaxed state, and that you allow my first few words to sink slowly into the alcoves of your mind. For several minutes my words will introduce you to the setting, and thereafter, the path you take, the characters you encounter, will be of your own design. Should you feel uncomfortable with the dream at any stage, be sure to tap my palm three times, and I will talk you back into reality. I cannot stress enough, the importance of these taps. Failure to react in good time, can lead to violent nightmares, confusion, and more than often, seizures. It can take patients weeks to recover psychologically; while some never do. Ok, are you sure that you are ready to proceed; to pursue your answer?’

‘Yes Dream Maker,’ Isaac replies, ‘I’m ready.’ His body lays stiff on the surgery bed. His dark-rimmed eyes speak of months of sleepless nights, brought on by the frustration, of never knowing who had murdered his dear wife, Irise.

‘Isaac, then we shall begin.’ The Dream Maker places his bony fingers on Isaacs’ forehead, and as he begins to speak, blue vapours spiral from his mouth, and slowly fill the room.

‘Now… relax… breathe slowly… and let your five senses open. You are walking towards the peaked horizon of earths’ circular soul… you see cerulean skies rotate into silver-watercolour-curls in the far distance… they are inviting you… and you step in… you are now strolling towards the end of a rainbow… there you smell the colours of crimson and coral, of cobalt and ochre… and you see that the rainbow is a bridge… that it has a sign… the sign bears an arrow… you are following the arrow… you are walking over the rainbow… you have suddenly stopped at the start of a silver path… and it is here, Isaac, that you make your dream your own.’

Isaac shuffles on the bed. His eyes twitch, as he accepts this new, vivid world; and he continues to dream of his own accord.

Coldness hits me… it’s nearing dusk… time is ticking… I need to find Irise… I’m sprinting along the silver-winding path… insidious trees overhang and attempt to reach out… to touch me… to stop me… but I’m too fast. I arrive at the end of the path… it opens out onto a floral yellow carpet… I walk over it… I can hear weeping… the weeping is coming from behind a tree… I sprint to the tree… there’s a woman with flowing, auburn hair… she is standing in a yellow robe… her face is pale… her eyes are hollow… she tells me she is a lost angel… that she’s my lost angel… she is opening her hands to reach me… to touch me… I am confused… this is not Irise!… this is not my Irise!… I need to escape… to run…

Isaacs’ body twists violently on the bed. His eyes have moved to the back of his head. The Dream Master stands up ‘Isaac, tap my palm three times!’ he urges. But Isaacs’ body continues to distort, uncontrollably.

She tells me that she is my Irise… she is gripping me… pulling me towards her… I try to break free, but my feet are floating helplessly… she is putting her face close to mine… it is Irise!… her face had been distorting into the faces of others… of her family… her friends… I hadn’t recognised her… Please Irise! Stop pulling me! I have come here to help you! To identify your murderer! To kill him, when I return to earth! So we can both be at peace, when he dies! She is laughing at me… she tells me I don’t remember anything… that I am a fool for coming here… that we can never be at peace… she loosens her grip on me… I fall to my feet… my feet are sinking into the floral carpet… she is walking away… I try to follow her… but my feet are grounded… Come back Irise! Tell me who killed you! She looks over her shoulder… she tells me that she will weep forever… that her distorted faces… the ones I have seen… were the faces of the people that miss her… love her, down on earth… that my face will never be seen in hers… because I never loved her… I am confused! I love her! I thought she loved me? She doesn’t love me! She can’t love me, for she is walking away! Leaving me here! Come back Irise! I love you! I have always loved you! Why do you run from me? She is laughing… she tells me I am strange… she tells me how I hated her for years… that I had resented her… for sending me to a shrink… that I had struggled with sanity for many years… that I’d go through depressive states…manic highs… that I’d made her afraid to be around me… that she couldn’t take any more… that she wanted to leave… that I wouldn’t let her leave… that I’d hated her but wouldn’t let her leave… she tells me that I was the one that killed her…

she is weeping… she is smiling at me… she is walking away… she looks behind her shoulder… she tells me that my ears will forever hear her weeping… she is fading into the horizon… my body is shivering… it’s cold… so cold… I am trying to move my feet… to follow her… to tell her I love her… again… but they are stuck… it’s nearing dusk… I am standing here… alone… grounded… and her weeping haunts my ears…

‘Isaac, tap!’ The Dream Master shouts, as the bed flips to the floor. The Dream Machine moves from low-to-high-alert in seconds; its high-pitch deafens the Dream Maker. He flees the room, where the blue vapours have turned into hot amber billows. And in that moment, Isaacs ’heart stops beating.

Tagged 1000 Words, Angel, Dream, Fantasy, Fiction, Hate, Heart, Love, Murder, Psychological-horror, Psychological-thriller, Supernatural

Jun 17 2012

Anonymous Caller

‘Hello? Who the hell is this? Will you please stop calling me?’

Heavy breathing penetrates the phone receiver, whilst keyboard taps meld with sounds of spittle. Then silence.

Marian’s heart thumps; she drops the receiver, flees the house, stands in the road and stares witlessly at every unlit window surrounding her.

In an apartment, ten blocks away, he hangs up and types.

Dear Marian, the docile tones of your voice inject me with virtuous energy. I know it upsets you when I don’t speak; but knowing you’ll reject me again leaves me with unwelcome dread. I can offer only silence.’

Tagged Apartment, Fiction, Heart, Keyboard, Psychological-horror, Psychological-thriller, Silence, Telephone, Up to 100 Words, Writing

Jun 04 2012

3 Comments

Flash Fiction

Lady of Darkness

‘The artist had depicted Eloise’s portrait a thousand times, but none had seized her essence quite as beautifully as the ‘Lady of Darkness’, dated 1949. The artist would repeatedly draw, paint, erase and collage; reworking the image in his desire to capture her myriad of emotions. This overworked process not only reflected his obsessive-compulsive nature, but also the subjects’ taunted, troubled mind. Heavily applied pencil marks portray her self-inflicted facial scars, with loving precision. She is encapsulated by an abundance of charcoal; reflective of the depressive world in which she existed. A bandage appears to adorn her forehead; but it is merely the result of overworked paper that became abraded and torn which required patching. Now, before we move on to the next piece, does anyone have any questions?’

‘How did Eloise die?’

‘She committed suicide. In his memoirs, the artist describes Eloise of having been infatuated with him; a desire he could never nurture.’

Tagged Artist, Fiction, Infatuation, Obsessive-Compulsive, Portrait, Psychological-horror, Psychological-thriller, Suicide, Up to 200 Words, Writing

Jun 01 2012

2 Comments

Flash Fiction

Lydia

Lydia, as I sit in our garden, I am reminded of you. The orange-blossom scent of the tree, the one you planted two years ago, does so echo the deceitful musky fragrance of your skin. I wonder if the roots have consumed your ashes, and if your scent has been carried up through the branches to be radiated out through the buds. The thought of your scent fusing with the Spring oxygen, leaves me sickly. Tomorrow, at dawn, I shall chop the tree; that once was a symbol of our love. John.