C S Jones is an award winning writer from Wrexham, North Wales, who holds a prestigious 10 meter swimming certificate. Often mistaken for an escaped mental patient, he has been writing for only a short time, his recent massively inflated sense of self finally winning out over the years of overwhelming laziness. A keen horror enthusiast, he has finally decided to give back to a community that has provided so much, whether that be in his writing or general appearance. Initially a timid child, he was scared of anything and everything, including Ghostbusters 2 - insisting his parents record over it immediately. So far, he has released one novelette - Colours and hopes to have more available before the year is out. If he can make you feel even a modicum of the terror experienced during Ghostbusters 2, then mission accomplished. I, I mean, he, hope's you enjoy.
WHEN DID I GO
by
C S Jones
Day 1
It started with a single scream. The hunting lodge was under attack. I heard it over the boom of partygoers; haunting and shrill, it ushered in the carnage that quickly followed.
At first, no one reacted, some even chuckled. It seemed to be one huge joke. The machinations of someone far too drunk to control their actions.
But then came snarls – rumbling and ferocious. The furore. The cries of pain. A severed head rolled to my feet, it's expression frozen in a moment of unbridled terror.
Another creature appeared at the window. It leapt, smashing its way in. It skulked through the shadows; I could barely make it out, but once it stood, I witnessed its twisted visage; an ungodly, bipedal creature of monstrous size with antlers that dissected the pale gleam of moonlight. With gangly limbs and a narrow, bony snout, it tore into the nearest guest, eviscerating them right before my eyes.
I sought shelter in what I can best describe as a cleaning supply room with another – Linus.
We barricaded the door and closed our ears to the cries of anguish. Over thirty guests were out there and this high in the mountains, there was nowhere to go.
With all the screams, we made an agreement not to let anyone in until a rescue team arrived. To help was to invite death.
The creatures carried on their rampage, attacking and smashing, though the hysterical cries had diminished.
Day 2
One scream today, but it was abruptly ended with a crack.
Linus found a sink hidden beneath some boxes; a discovery akin to a goldmine.
We tried our phones, but neither had signal this high up.
Day 3
No human sound came from beyond the door today, but I hear the creatures still roaming. I think they can smell us.
Linus has taken to chewing on something. I found the action quite detestable.
The water’s stopped, the pipes likely frozen. Or these things are that clever; a notion I find truly horrifying. All we have are bottles of bleach and window cleaner, both far from ideal drinks to stay hydrated. Fortunately, I’d already anticipated this before finding the sink and had been urinating into a collection of jars.
Day 4
Linus said I’d been crying in my sleep. I told him I hated his chewing.
They're still out there, sniffing and scratching in their desperate attempts to track us down. I believe the bleach masks our scent. Little victories.
Day 5
In the early hours, someone spoke on the other side of the door; a young woman, scared and desperate for somewhere to hide. Linus reminded me of our plan. I ignored her. She got angry and growled. I think it was a trick.
Linus won't stop chewing.
Day 6
So hungry, I'm getting cramps. The water’s almost gone, too. Linus tried to take some, but I stopped him. He’ll think twice next time. His chewing is making me crazy. Is he hiding food from me?
Another voice at the door. It says we're safe, but I know better. Between breathy words, I hear its panting.
Linus has grown reclusive as the day has gone on. He won't talk to me anymore.
Day 7
So, so hungry. Also thirsty. These cramps are becoming unbearable and everything hurts. Linus is still chewing, so I confronted him. How dare he hold out on me.
He won't look at me, so I pry his mouth wide. Blood spews out – he has chewed off his tongue. Been drinking his own blood, too. I can't believe he's eaten without me. He mumbled through gouts of blood that I didn't share my water, so why should he?
I found a carpet knife and gutted him. How dare he not share his food.
I couldn't find any of it in his stomach. Never mind.
Day 8
The hunger is unbearable, so is the smell. Those things are still outside, sniffing and scratching, but I ignore them, the hunger pangs are far too distracting. Much like those creatures, its rage is unbridled, with no hint of mercy. My body burns with starvation.
I won't survive unless I eat. I'm so hungry. Linus would want me to survive. There's no point letting him rot.
Day 9
I'm stronger today, yet oh so sick. My stomach bulges, yet I remain famished. Something’s happening to me; my body twists and warps, the pain is insurmountable. This pure, untapped fury courses through my rippling body, crippling me.
I try to throw up; I needed to after what I’d done, but the cramps in my swollen stomach refuse to let it out. I have no control. I gurn and drool, praying for release.
My arms, my legs, they crack and realign, tensing and quivering. Try as I might, I cannot move them freely. Not even a little. Crushing spasms have consumed me. My skin shimmers with my body's tenses. It's too much to take.
I'm balled up on the floor, my body clenched. I'm alone, yet the feral growls that had so terrified me now sound like sweet music. They call to me. Death has already come for all who came here, but not for me. At least not in the same sense.
Linus lays beside me, his bones stripped and cracked, the marrow sucked dry. I had no choice, you see. I’d have starved.
The cramps return with a vengeance – brutal and unyielding. I curse and gurn. I'm so hungry. My fingers hook, I swear the bones of my fingertips want to burst through. Every muscle in my body despises itself.
I'm in Hell right now. There’s a howl that echoes the screams of the dead. And that music, it calls me on.
My skull has since warped and pushed itself through my face. I've also grown humongous antlers. My body has become skeletal and my fingers aren't what they once were; I don't think I can write any more.
I think I'll open the door.