Saturday, October 8, 2011

Listen To Her Story

Every Saterday I am going to add a short story here. This is to get my own butt in gear and start writing again. Let me know what you all think. Warning there are a few curse words.

                                                                         “Listen To Her Story”
                                                                        -Stephanie Barmann

To who ever finds this:

    People thought my grandmother was insane, but she wasn’t. She always told me she had secrets and as long as they remained secrets everyone would be safe. She didn’t like to go out in public a lot incase anyone was watching her. I can see how one would have assumed the woman nuts. I know differently. I know because now they are watching me because I learned the secrets. Problem is I have no idea who it is. I just know they are there.    
    When grandma died a few weeks ago I found her diaries and journals. They were packed with information on the Atanacio’s. She never wrote exactly what they are, but her descriptions scared me. Antanacio’s can be anything from a dog to a person. They hunt you for as long as it gives them pleasure and when they take you no one will recognize your body.
    I can hear something scratching at my windows now. I know it’s not a tree branch…they are coming. I’m trying to steady my hand to finish writing this. People must be warned. My heart is racing though, it feels like it’s about to burst out of my chest and it’s hard to hold my pen. I know I am going to die soon. What an odd feeling. I wonder if my grandmother knew. She would have had to I suppose.
Grandma wrote there are three simple words call them to you, three words that determine if you live or die. I can’t write the words because if you even read them it’s all over. The fire will destroy them and hopefully no one ever mutters them accidentally.
All I can smell right now is the gasoline. The pile of my grandmothers writing was the first to be doused before I covered all my rugs and curtains. Every room in the house has a coating of gas on it. When they finally get in I’m lighting these matches. Everything is destroyed in fires so hopefully those God forsaken creatures will be too. If anybody ever finds this letter it means I wasn’t successful and the Antanacio’s are still out there, watching, waiting.
    Oh God, I don’t want to die. I’m only twenty-five. Why couldn’t she have left an escape option? Is there even is one? I guess if I’m successful in destroying them I’ll be an unknown hero. I want to live though. I want to grow old!
F&*k, now they are howling. It’s such a horrid sound, like a wolf blending with the shriek of a demon. I keep hoping someone, anyone will show up and save me. If these things can exist why can’t super heroes? Every time I cover my ears it only makes it louder. How is that even possible? I have the most unbelievable pain in my eyes right now. It’s as if someone is shoving scalding, jagged pins into them.  I must keep writing this though, people must be warned.
    There’s a banging on the roof, like a hundred people standing up there stomping their feet. They are tormenting me. My grandmother wrote that they feed of tormenting their prey. I wish I could run away, but what’s the point? They’ll only catch me.
I shouldn’t give a s#$t what they are. They’re out to kill me, that’s what’s important. I can’t stop the curiosity from overwhelming my brain. I want to know, need to know what it is about to end my life. Will I even see them? No, I won’t have time. First sign they are in the house and I’m torching the place.
    Have you ever had someone sit on your chest making it hard to breathe? I feel like someone’s doing that right now. It’s the strangest thing like someone is squeezing the air right out of me. I know they’re not in I can still hear them circling the house. There must be a hundred of them. Every now and then I catch an indefinable shaped shadow flash by my window. I hear them snickering when I flinch. They are getting sick pleasure out of terrifying me.
    Blood is dripping on the paper from the gashes appearing on my arms. The son of bitches cut my grandmother like this. There wasn’t an inch of skin left unmarred by cuts and bruises, except her legs and stomach. Those looked to have been chewed away. The coroner said he’d never seen anything like it before in his life. The dumb ass police blamed a twisted killer. They just couldn’t accept it was these creatures, even after I insisted, even after I showed them my grandmother’s diaries. I guess it’s easier to believe in human monsters than the ones people are to afraid to believe in. They don’t hurt as much as they burn.
    I closed my eyes for a moment thinking of the stupid things I did in my youth. I can’t help laughing now. They want my fear, but that isn’t going to happen. If I’m going out I’m going out laughing.  
    The walls are pushing in and out as if the house was a giant heart beating. I can’t imagine it will be too much longer. The windows are vibrating and my books are falling off the shelves. I break out in hysterical giggles when my copy of Dracula just fell on the table in front of me. How I wish these were vampires at least they’d kill me, not mutilate my body while I’m forced to sit here, knowing what’s happening.
    Oh my God, they are in…

Six hours later

    “Detective, I think you need to see this.” A young investigator holds out a blood spattered letter he’d found on the victims desk.
Detective Stenzel reads the letter slowly and looks around the room. There isn’t a trace of a gasoline smell. The victim was found with a scorched box of matches beside her, but nothing else was burned. It’s a gruesome scene, worse than even six weeks earlier when he investigated her grandmother’s murder.
    He hated to think he had a serial killer on his hands who likes to torment the victims before he kills them. Apparently this young woman was as crazy as her grandmother. Everyone knows monsters are only in horror stories.
The strangest thing of all about the murder scene is that nothing is out of place. The house is neat and tidy with everything in its place. The white rug below the body has no blood on it, yet the body is torn up. It’s almost as if parts of her were put through a meat grinder. What did the words on the wall mean?
    Detective Stenzel takes out his pen and begins taking notes. He walks from the desk to the box and inspects every window and door. There is no forced entry, no foot prints, nothing. He walks back in by the body and stares up at the words written in blood on the wall. He jots them down just before e covers his ears and falls to his knees.  


  1. good lord, i thought this was real..i thought you had lost your mind at the start!

  2. Sadly you're not the first to say that so A. I wrote a realistic story or B. I am a bit insane ;)