Z Martin is a creator of short horror stories for one and all. His works have been featured in many different locations such as Join me at the campfire, stroll down the crooked path, and the price of insanity. Audio adaptations of his stories have been featured on the nosleep podcast, indie horror room, and Nova Nocturns YouTube channel. Z enjoys frightening folks a bit to much but hopes to continue doing it for years to come.
Read more from Z Martin right HERE.
THE WORLD KEEPS TURNING
by
Z. Martin
Falling, descending deeper and deeper. Inky blackness surges up to greet me. Rows of jagged teeth lie in wait.
“Mike, wake up!” Dave shouts, jolting me from slumber.
Startled, I tumble from the rickety chair, crashing into the wall. With sleep banished from my mind, I gaze at Dave.
The portly, balding man scowls at me. In an attempt to disarm him, I offer a grin while massaging the knot forming on my head. He sighs in exasperation as he heads toward the door. It's not the first time I've dozed off on the job.
“You know the consequences if you're late,” Dave reminds me, opening the guard shack door. “Get moving.”
I check the clock on the wall; it's ten minutes to midnight. I need to hurry. The job isn't difficult, but working the graveyard shift takes its toll. Trying to sleep during daylight hours doesn't agree with my body.
I leap out of the chair and rush for the door, keys jingling at my hip. This part of the job always unnerves me. I reflect on the past few days as I fling the door open.
The view never ceases to amaze me. Prison cells line the walls to my right and left. Directly across from me is Dave's office. Each cell houses the world's most notorious criminals, according to the government. In the center of the enclosure stands the reason for my employment.
An ornate skeleton adorned with jewels and gold hovers above a chasm. Staring at it too long can drive a person to madness. It beckons you to come closer. We were warned, upon signing the contract, never to gaze at it for too long.
Two guards are always present in case one disregards the rules. If a guard goes rogue, they must be dealt with, and a replacement summoned immediately. I only got this job because Dave dealt with my predecessor. He was sure to tell me all about it on my first night.
The prisoners are throwing their usual tantrums. Those who still have their wits know what comes next. I jog to my left. The prisoner who spat on me two nights ago is in cell twelve.
I open the door to find him huddled against the back wall, tears streaming down his heavily tattooed face.
“I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, I swear,” he whimpers.
I don't bother to respond. He resists sluggishly as I pull him to his feet. As we approach the pit, the skeleton turns to face us. Its gleaming form descends slowly toward the inmate, the black stalk supporting it bending as it approaches.
Bony arms open, enveloping the prisoner in an embrace. All I can hear are his whimpers as he's yanked into the darkness. I wait for a moment near the cell wall. A feeble cry echoes up, followed by a sickening crunch.
The world can continue for another week.