HIS name was Tommy boy.
At least that's what everyone called him that knew him well. This is his story.
Although nobody ever believed his stories.
Today, the inner pain lay buried somewhere in the depths of his upper body; it felt like a cross between a slipped disc and a coronary. It had begun after a conversation earlier in the evening, a much too prolonged talk with his psychiatrist.
''What do you want to talk about today, Tommy?'' Dr. Wilson had asked, lighting his pipe. The smell of cherries filled the room, a sweet smell, but Tommy considered it a stagnant odor, like burning manure. Dr. Wilson thought it smelled of class; Tommy thought it reeked of shit.
''This is the story of Tommy,

by Kris Schmidt

I found myself in a large, open room. There were other people there, having appeared just as I did. We were all strangers; no one knew one another, how we had arrived or where we were. The room was immense like a hangar; a cylindrical shape with a high vaulted ceiling. The floor sloped down slightly toward the opening at the end. We all walked slowly toward the opening because of the view outside. At the end the floor stopped at a raised platform. The platform seemed to be ground level because it ran all the way outside. When we got to the platform immediately we knew not to step onto it, but we didn't know why. Outside the room the ground was flat and seemingly made of rock. It continued for a distance and then seemed to stop, as if there was a cliff. Well beyond the cliff's edge there was a range of coppery-colored mountains which seemed to hold up the sky. Beyond them the yellow sky turned black and smoky.

DESCENT INTO HELL

by Kris Schmidt

I've all the demons of hell in my head;
My only salvation is to vent them on paper!
- de Sade, Quills I felt the anger within begin to change me. As my enemies threw themselves upon me, I began to grow stronger. As the mountain of bodies above me grow larger, the world began to grow dark. In the midst of all, I came to realize blind rage. In that moment I felt an immense strength explode through my being.

An arm entered my view and I wrapped my hand around it. I squeezed it and felt the skin buckle and the bone splinter. Feeding on my fury I pulled it towards me. A momentary pause, then with a sickening crunch it came free. I felt the power now. I fed on it like a hungry savage. Suddenly I was no longer afraid.

by: Wyatt

It was hard to say who was who. For a moment, they all were the same. We all stood around the fire. The building was no longer there.

We, were murderers. We had burned down the building, thinking it was empty, then we heard it, the screams. The man inside had been frying while we stood outside laughing, at least until we heard it.

He was a janitor. A clean up man. But still...we, had killed him. Just a group of teenage friends looking for a kick. I stood next to my girlfriend, Kate. She had a horrible look on her face. She knew, what she had ultimately done. She and the others, including me, had committed manslaughter.

by Sandy Moran

I started having Halloween parties back in '90, cause Renee Jenkins sold her house and moved to the Virgin Islands. Renee always threw a hell of a Halloween Party, and she had the perfect house for it, real old with a kind of classy but funky atmosphere. I loved that house. Whenever I pass by it, I wonder if the people who are living there now ever have half as much fun as we did back then.

Anyway, after Renee left town, there were no Halloween parties for a couple of years. I was married to Rick then, and the thought of having one of my own never occured to me until I found myself unmarried to Rick, managing a music store, and living on my own in a little house way out in the country. The closest neighbor was down the road a piece, and the house was surrounded by woods on three sides. It was a little spooky for me living out there by myself, but I had my dog Normie, and my friends were always coming over.

by: Wyatt Terwilliger

His eyes opened to the shade of his room. He leaned over and looked at the big red glowing numbers on his alarm clock. 8:07... He slowly got up and after wiping the crust from the corners pf his eyes, he walked like a zombie over to his dresser. There he pulled from the second draw a pair of jeans, blue, faded around the knee and thigh area. He pulled them over the boxers he went to bed in the night before.

Well that only took five minutes... if he were more awake it would have only taken him about two...even with the tremendous effort of tossing on anew pair of under shorts! He then noticed that his mouth was very dry. He opened the door and began walking to the kitchen.

"When we first met," he began, "I thought you sang like a sheep with constipation."

Between coughs - she had just taken a sip of her wine - she managed to ask, "Is that something you learned in your farm labouring days? How constipated sheep sing?"

Actually &" he hesitated. "No, I've already revealed one secret. It's now time to hear one of yours."

They had tossed a dice to decide who took first turn in the game. He had thrown a six against her meagre two.

Her calm eyes rested on his face. "I can catch up later. Tell me what you were going to say. What's your next secret?"

"I don't have a cousin in Pembrokeshire, and I've never helped on a farm in my life. I made up that story. "She waited for him to say more. "I was in prison," he admitted.

Again it gave her pleasure to be inside the room and unable to hear the sounds of her family living their lives. Again, the pleasure made her feel guilty.

There was nothing wrong with taking a break from them, but it could only be a short break. There were so many things she had to do. Every day it was like that. She could not afford to lose slices of time from her life. She needed to be careful that she was not away from the family for too long.

"Adam" she had called softly after leaving the room, the first time she had gone right in and closed the door. Outside was a different kind of silence from inside. "Becca?"

As she went along the hallway, she heard the drone of the television. Upstairs she found Becca asleep and Adam curled up in bed. "Night, Mum, " he whispered sleepily when she kissed him.

 

"What did you say your name was?" he asked, as I closed the front door behind us.

"Lianne," I said. Lianne Lawless." I knew it sounded unlikely but I didn't care. Saying the name made the inside of my mouth tingle.

I didn't know his name. It didn't matter. All that mattered was that ever since he had first glanced up, in the bar, and noticed me looking, tiny fish had been swimming through my veins.

I chose the empty carriage hoping to be alone with my memories.

The guard waved his flag, then blew his whistle and the train began to move slowly away, Then with a rush the train door opened and a fat middle aged woman about my own age heaved herself into a seat opposite to myself.

Keeping my eyes lowered I pretended to be reading the newspaper on my lap, while I observed out of the corner of my eyes her thick set legs dangling inches from the floor. The train began to gather speed and at the same time her fat legs swung back and forth in time with the motion of the train.

There would be times my body would betray me, freezing in place, when what I did hear upset me, usually the sound of someone yelling. This was just..the way it was..and I didn't know any better. I never just enjoyed a sunset; it made me weep. A petty quarrel would become a dark silent rage. When I was happy, I was delirious. My times of sadness were so intense I wanted to die. All of this was hidden behind an impenetrable mask I felt compelled to maintain at all costs.

 

Since the accident my life had undergone a dramatic and unbelievable transformation. I guess that after being involved in a plane crash it would be foolish to believe that everything would ever seem exactly the same again, but the changes that I experienced go beyond anything that anyone could ever have foreseen.

My name is Jack Franklin, and I’m one of the actors referred to in the headline. Over the past ten years or so I’ve made quite a name for myself in Hollywood, appearing in no less than six block busting movies. The other gentleman that was in the plane with me when it went down, with the exception of the pilot, was Charles Durrant - an equally successful actor, and treasured friend.

 

Rose clicked the television silent, straining her ear against the storm that splattered the roof with a mixture of rain and hail. Tentacles of delicate fog raked across the window glass seeking shelter from the thunderous wrath of the gale winds.

The soft thump came from the basement, as though someone, or something, had knocked a book to the floor. Rose gripped the arms of the chair and cursed her husband for leaving her alone on a night like this, knowing she was fearful of storms, empty houses and prowlers, however imaginary they might be. She'd already lit every lamp and overhead light in the house, but they failed to dispel the damp, dreary feeling of impending doom.

I was about to put my feet up to read a good book when there was a knock on my door.

It was a policeman, one Detective Sergeant Rydon.

Rydon and I have worked together unofficially for several years.

Whenever he gets a case that is unusual or involves the occult he'll ask for my opinion.

People say that the past, good or bad, has a habit of catching up with you.

Now that my past has caught up with me, two things feature most strongly in my mind:

guilt and fear, but mostly fear.

Let me begin this story now, ten years on.

It was a cold, wet and windy night and Jane had been driving for over nine hours.

 

She was going to spend a week in the Lake District with Susan, a friend she hadn't seen for seven years.

 

They grew up together but went their separate ways soon after leaving university.

 

I'm going to central Europe to see if I can trace the ancestral history of the Wolfjackal family.

If anything should happen to me while I'm there I want this record of the events of the last twenty-four hours to go to the police.

- - - - -

My name's Sarah.

Kim was on her way back from Italy where she'd been negotiating loans for her merchant bank in Paris.

Her schedule had been so busy that she'd missed the train with her sleeper reservation.

So she tipped a guard to let her know if any of the cabins turned out to be free.

Of the many case files I have piled up in my study the story of the notorious

"laughing boys"

stands out.

The name was a flattering way to describe Matthew and Sebastian, two twelve-year-olds who had terrorised their local community, subjecting them to so-called practical jokes - but not the kind that made you laugh.

Four innocent people are about to go on a journey through hell and near damnation for no fault of their own.

The only reason they have been chosen for this deadly task is that they have turned up in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The four victims are unaware of the dangers ahead as they approach each other along a quiet desert road.

Driving his campervan is Steven with his girlfriend Zo and her younger sister Becky.

True!

 nervous, very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad?

The disease had sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them.

Above all was the sense of hearing acute.

I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth.