ONLY 2 days left till the winner of this months contest is announced and will feature in March's Dark Descent: Whispers From Beyond webzine :) ....

Children at Play

Shelter is shelter, he told himself.  The torrential rain made the lights twinkle invitingly through the trees as he tried in vain to find his way back to the road. Close up, the building looked abandoned and yet the lights were on. He looked for a bell or intercom, but if one existed, he failed to find it in the near dark. Shivering violently, he struggled to take hold of the rusty, round door handle which slipped and slithered in his grip before turning. Pushing with his dwindling strength, it at last gave way and creaked open.

“Hello?” The pale green walls and linoleum tiled floor suggested a hospital or nursing home, somewhere that should have staff, but no one responded to his call. A metallic smell, perhaps of blood, not quite disguised by the odour of bleach made his nose wrinkle.  Flickering bulbs and music too faint to hear properly enticed him down the corridor and into the depths of the building.

Laughter and the sound of children playing lured him further, but the light remained subdued. A door rattled and a cold draught raced down the corridor. The ceiling pendants swayed, producing changing shadows that grasped and grabbed at him.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” Silence echoed in reply. The back of his neck prickled, and his hands grew clammy. He hesitated, and then moved towards the open doors in the distance.

A wheelchair rolled at speed out of a room, only just avoiding the opposite wall, before turning away from him

“Hey,” he called. The wheelchair slid to a halt. There were no hands on the wheels nor a battery to power it. It reversed in his direction. The wheels squeaked rhythmically reminding him of a tricycle he’d once seen in a film. The back of the chair blocked him from seeing its occupant – it must be a child, or a very small adult, he thought.

The chair kept rolling backwards, creeping closer. He wanted to run, but didn’t want to make a fool of himself by running from a five-year-old – and he didn’t want to go back out into the storm. Taking a deep breath, he strode to the chair, a welcoming smile plastered on his face in anticipation of a greeting.

The chair was empty.

It stopped in front of him. He tried to slow his breathing and hold down the scream that threatened to erupt, when suddenly, behind him children screeched with maniacal laughter. He was trapped between the chair and invisible children. Doors started slamming, at first chaotically in random abandon and then with coordination until they banged, slowly, together, repeatedly. Menace that could not be seen.

 “What do you want?” he heard himself whimper.

He whirled around towards the clip-clopping sound of heels striking their approach. The dark shadowy figure came out of the gloom. A black nurse’s cape billowed around her. Her eyes glowed red, her smile thin and evil.

“Just your soul.”

Halfway Home Like almost every night, the nurses were too busy subduing Mr. Ackerman next door to notice Vivienne slipping out. Her half-open silk nightgown flapped as she strode down the cluttered hallway.

Vivienne felt restless. For a place of healing, St. Vincent’s Hospital was far too noisy and filthy; slivers of peeled paint and chunks of drywall lay strewn everywhere. Vivienne couldn’t remember when the place had gotten so untidy. Perhaps it was always like this? Either way, she felt ready to be discharged. If only her husband, Carl, would come and get her. Last time he visited, he promised it wouldn't be long.

"Everything in life is only for a while, Vivienne. Stay strong. We'll see you soon." He kissed her forehead and said goodbye.

The days and months blurred into one messy streak for Vivienne since then. Had it been two or three days since she last saw Carl? Or was it a week? Could it already be a month? It was impossible to tell.

The children were playing upstairs again. Vivienne heard the patter of small feet racing down the pediatric ward hallway. She stood still, listening to their bubbling laughter and wondering whether she should join them. She hadn't seen Clarissa since...

Memories of her husband and daughter were beginning to feel like half-remembered scenes from an old black-and-white movie. The colors, textures, and scents were slowly fading from them. She was starting to forget the timbre of Carl’s voice, the golden sheen in Clarissa’s hazel hair—

She pushed the stairwell door open and flew down the stairs. She needed fresh air. She exited on the ground floor and wandered the empty reception area. Pools of moonlight dotted the tile floor. Vivienne always half-hoped to see Carl and Clarissa waiting there for her. The chances were slim, but still, one could hope.

A bright flashlight beam tore through the darkness and stopped in front of Vivienne. A scream echoed from the other side of the entrance hall, and the beam tumbled to the floor.

"Shhh! She's here!" A man whispered. "Quick! Take a photo!"

There was a noise and a flash, but Vivienne was already halfway up the stairs.

She returned to her floor and watched as nurses dragged a heavily bandaged Mr. Ackerman back to bed. He yelled something about the Allied Forces and that he was needed elsewhere. He tried to smack the nurses away and clutched at the wall crevices, leaving bloodstained handprints everywhere—but they overpowered him, just as they did every night.

Mrs. Greene, a retired schoolteacher, sat in her wheelchair in the hallway, watching the spectacle while knitting a blanket. Her knitting needles clicked rhythmically against each other. She was always on the same row whenever Vivienne saw her.

“Do you think the nurses ever get tired of fighting him?” Vivienne asked.

Mrs. Greene looked up at Vivienne and frowned. “What do you mean?”

“They say everything in life is only for a while. Why does this feel like forever?”

Short Cut

Ambulances scream. Jayce wakes up in a hospital. He looks around the room.

"Is he going to be okay, Dr...." Cody asks.

"Satoshi," he replies. The doctor approaches his patient. "What's your name?"

"Gojyo." The other replies.

Cody's jaw drops.

"Very well," Dr. Satoshi remarks. "What year were you born in?"

"19...75." Jayce stumbles to recall.

"I see." The doctor holds up a paper. "Follow the instructions."

"1, 2, 3, 4, 5." Jayce responds with conviction. "Hey, Goku, what the hell is going on?"

"Excuse us." The doctor holds up his hand. Dr. Satoshi leads Cody into the hall. "Your friend is very ill. We must run some scans..."

Suddenly, a nurse approaches with a wheelchair.

"And you are?" The doctor raises a brow.

"Carmine." She smiles. "I'm here to transport the patient."

"Ah, yes." Dr. Satoshi enters the room. "Gojyo, Miss. Carmine here will take you to get a CT scan."

"No complaints here!" Jayce winks at the nurse.

As the two prepare to leave, Cody's feet move forward. Despite being halted, Cody cannot help shake his discomfort. He doesn't want to leave his best friend in that state!

Meanwhile, Jayce continues to chat up the nurse. His new persona is exceptionally cheeky. Miss Carmine dismisses his request for a date with laughter. She wheels him down a new corridor.

"Is this the right way?" Jayce asks.

"I know of a short cut." She smiles.

Jayce shrugs. He looks ahead. At first, the hallway seems normal. However, the longer they walk, the more dismal the hall becomes.

"I don't think we're supposed to be here." He frowns.

"Don't be afraid," Miss Carmine reassures. "We're almost there, sweety."

Jayce watches as the ceramic tiles become more damaged. What the hell happened here? He wonders. Jayce feels a sudden bump. He cracks his forehead on the dirty floor.

"Ouch!" Jayce shouts. "Some nurse you are!"

Just as he turns to face her, Jayce notices something strange. Miss Carmine's skin crinkles and splits open. Her mouth distorts with sharp teeth. The faux nurse's eyes change into slits. Jayce screams as she goes to lap the blood on his head.

"What the hell!?" Jayce curses.

A swift motion from behind catches the faux nurse off guard. Cody appears armed with his skateboard. He beats the monster in the head. Once subdued, he approaches his friend.

"Dude, there were no Miss Carmines!" He pants.

"Damn, Goku, I'm so happy..." Jayce pauses. He grabs a metal rod and strikes beyond his friend's shoulder. "Lay your eyes off of me!"

The two watch as the beast recoils from being hit in the eye socket.

"Hey, Cody." Jayce calls. He watches his friend's jaw drop. "Come on! I want to go to another hospital."

"Yeah, let's get you somewhere actually safe." Cody looks at the bloodied monster on the floor."Up you go, Gojyo."

"Admit it, that was funny." Jayce laughs.

He shudders as they head back to the main hall: "Yeah, some shortcut that was."

Creatures

Zachariah and his friends decided to visit the recently abandoned hospital on the edge of town . No one knew what kind of hospital it was. The doctors and staff came in blacked out cars every so often. Anyone who went to the hospital didn't return.

Zachariah and his friends JJ, Adrian, and Joey set out just after dark . It was a few days before Halloween as the group talked about their upcoming plans to celebrate. They arrived at the hospital and entered through a window that was busted. As the group headed down the hallway in what looked like the children's ward they hear a eerie sound.

At the far end of the hallway they see a shape emerge from a room. The group stops moving as the lights begin to flicker a wheelchair is now sitting in the hall.

A figure slumped beside it. Suddenly it jumps up and sprints toward the teens. It looks human but one eye bulges out of it's face it's teeth are like oversized saw blades. It's mouth juts open due to the teeth and it's forked black tongue flicked out. The group scattered not realizing they are surrounded by similar creatures.

Patience

The institutional blue and white of the walls were painted with the faecal matter and filth of the escaping inmates. Hand prints and blood splatter further decorated the corridors of the once bright home for the disturbed. The singular wheel chair left abandoned had long since been devoid of its occupant since the alarms had sounded and the inmates had carried off any who who had been unable to escape.

Only two rooms remained closed, having been secured by the old fashioned method of lock and key rather than electronic key pads. These were the two oldest wards for patients who were considered permanent residents. Alone in their chambers they had listened to the sounds and screams of the riot outside. The cries of the victims of the massed criminally insane had echoed around the building, yet the two remaining inmates sat unmoving isolated from the chaos.

Catatonic, they sat eyes fixed on the doors of their cells, they had been inactive and devoid of movement prior to the emergency, little seemed to have changed. Their thoughts, however, were busy.

Thoughts that they shared with each other, “Peace at last,” came the message from 21B,

“Yes,” thought 21A, “It didn’t take as long as we had anticipated, do you think anyone remains?”

“You know what I think, my dear.”

The patient in 21A almost smiled.

When the emergency services arrived days later they found the remaining two patients alive, but malnourished. They had soiled themselves but were considered safe enough to be moved to another facility. The ambulance staff had carefully placed them in wheelchairs and took them out to the secure ambulance where with an armed escort they began their journey out of the asylum.

The following police broke hard as the ambulance turned violently into the marsh that hemmed the road. Hastily the pair of them waded into the murk to check upon the driver, but he and the orderly in the passenger seat were dead. The former strangled by the latter, and the latter had crashed into the windscreen, her hands still stretched out to her victim.

Inside the ambulance the patients were remained strapped to their stretchers, seemingly unharmed. The two nurses, however, were slumped on the floor with syringes sticking out of their arms, apparently self administered.

Both officers looked aghast at the scene before them, before climbing in to check the vital signs of the patients. Officer Kirk checked the pulse of the first, a gaunt older man with greying hair, but with pale eyes. He reached to his radio, then paused, and slowly turned to face his partner. She too was standing straight, but flexing her shoulders.

“What do you think?” He asked in a clipped voice,

“You know what I think, 21B.”

After/Birth

Strip-lights trembled an embryonic darkness as Kyisis cut through a pungency of offal-stink and the line of anxious hospital staff. Every face battling with it-couldn’t-happen-here acceptance. 

“Excuse the mess, Detective,” the uniformed Corban joked, lifting the crime scene tape. 

Kyisis’ feet broke the white, powdery line at the threshold to the old operating room. 

“Salt,” Corban revealed. “She spread a circle of it round the room.”

Kyisis fed his gaze on the corpse in the center of the dimly lit chamber; a distraction from the horror show on its walls. 

“Suicide?” he asked, frowning. 

“Come see,” Corban directed. 

Kyisis stepped through the pooling blood, cradling his nose. The body wore hospital orderly robes, was young — even pretty — once. Her abdomen was ripped open. 

“Looks—”

“—Like somethin’ ate its way out, right?” Corban said, grinning sardonically. “And what’s with all that shit on the walls?”

Kyisis forced his eyes upwards. Someone had woven a copper-lattice hemisphere onto the central ceiling light, reaching down on all sides like the crinolines of some vast, antebellum dress. It gave the room a domed feeling that belied the once-straight tiling of the blood-spattered walls. But it was what was grafted onto the copper dome lattice that compelled Kyisis to cover his nose again. 

Flesh. Black and brownish yellow. In places, some chunks fought to retain their rounded, disk-like shapes; elsewhere, others had succumbed entirely to the pull of time and rot. They were the source of the offal stench: the corpse-reek that delivered the room to his sickening pall; Kyisis’ stomach itched with it. 

“Near as we can figure, she’s been bringin’ ‘em down here for months,” Corban said, gesturing to the bound flesh. 

“We know what they are?” Kyisis asked. 

Corban nodded over to the two forensics officers in coveralls snapping away with the expensive camera. 

“Lizzie Borden over there says they’re placentas,” Corban declared, running his hand down his fat gut. “Wild, huh?”

“Why would anyone do that?” Kyisis asked. 

“Might have something to do with this,” the female forensics officer replied. 

Lizzie Bordan, Corban? Asshole. 

Kyisis stepped around the corpse, trying not to see the reverent anguish imprinted on her face. The forensics guy groaned, then flashed another shot and the room was birthed in an oversaturation of unforgiving light. 

“What we got?” Kyisis asked, stooping down to see. 

It was a journal of sorts. A decoupage of newspaper articles and hastily scrawled notes. Stories of pregnant girls bleeding out in parking lots; doctors dealing in illegal, backstreet abortions; the summonings of some insane, revenging pen in many scripts and languages. But — on the open page, in English — ritualistic words screamed out: ‘Five Must Die To Bring Its Birth. 

“What do you think it means?” Lizzie asked, massaging her abdomen and wincing slightly. 

“You eat a bad burrito too?” Corban spouted, doubling over and clutching his gut. 

The tormented squeal of an oversaturating flash gave form to shadows. It was then that Kyisis felt the itching of his stomach start to bite.