Disenchanted (21 page)
Authors: C L Raven
"Let me remove these wet
clothes."
Prince Charming.
"You're just the demon from
my nightmares. You're not real."
He threw me to the ground and
climbed on top of me. "Then how come you can feel me?" He thrust
against me, his fumbling fingers trying to undo my corset.
I bit his cheek as Perrault leapt
on his back and sank his teeth into the Prince's throat. He fell off me. I
leapt up.
"Can you feel this,
scumbag?" I raised the axe and hacked into his other leg.
He yelled, blood pumping from the
wound. "That's not how a princess treats her prince!"
"Do I
look
like a fucking princess? This is for Grandma."
I snatched my dagger from his
belt and slammed it into his crown jewels. His screams became a gurgle as blood
spilled from his mouth and gushed from his obscenely tight trousers. I watched
for a moment before raising the axe and hacking off his head. It rolled into
the river with a splash. His body twitched as his blood spurted all over me. I
kicked his body into the river to join his head. Then I vomited.
I scrambled up the bank and found
myself on a road. It was deserted, endless. No streetlights illuminated this
highway to Hell. Trees lined both sides, their iniquitous power calling to me.
Perrault nudged me on, the axe dangling by my leg. Wind covered me in cold
kisses. I shivered, wrapping my wet cloak around me.
The moon glowered, an unblinking
eye that watched me. A gnarled branch stretched across its face; black claws
that would tear it to shreds.
I wasn't sure how long I walked
but a horn blast startled me. A black hearse rolled to a stop and the passenger
door was flung open.
"Going my way?"
I smiled and sat in. Perrault
jumped on my lap then climbed into the back, his bushy tail hitting me in the
face.
"You look dead sexy soaking
wet," Creighton grinned.
"I chopped Prince Charming's
head off."
"Well that's not an end
Disney predicted."
"Roald Dahl would've liked
it."
He floored the accelerator.
"Maybe we should avoid the woods for a while. I don't want Prince Charming
trying to kill us when we're living out our fantasies."
"But now where will I have
my wicked way with you?" I rubbed his thigh.
He jerked his thumb backwards.
"We could park somewhere quiet."
"Kinky. We can use body bags
instead of sleeping bags."
Teasing him kept my mind off the
horrors I'd just faced. I closed my eyes but saw the bodies floating in the
river, Grandma's head on the cutting block, her butchered remains and Prince
Charming. I sat up and avoided looking at the woods.
"Have you ever seen anything
in the woods?"
"You, naked and enjoying my
company." He winked.
"Anything scarier than
me."
"I'm not scared of
anything." He poked his tongue out.
"Everyone's afraid of
something."
"I overcame my fears. The
dark, clowns, man-eating teddy bears." I laughed. "The only way to
survive is to confront your fears. I've done that. Those woods can't hurt
me."
"I confronted my fear and
cut his head off."
"They'll leave you alone
now."
"Or they'll come back and
finish me. Nobody's ever escaped the monster and lived to tell the tale."
"Until now."
***
I curled up in bed, trying to
sleep. Perrault insisted on coming inside and lay at the foot of my bed,
snoring loudly. Creighton tried sneaking in too, but I'd refused. I might get
away with explaining a strange wolf in my bedroom, but not the village bad boy.
My mum would rather I got rabies than love bites.
Something scratched the window. I
told myself it was a branch, but my mind insisted it was the talons of the
damned.
Perrault wriggled to his feet.
Low rumbling emanated from his throat. I crept to the window, snatching a
dagger from my wall. It helped having a blacksmith as a boyfriend. I flung the
curtains open. The front garden was empty. The gate banged against its post. In
the distance, a lone cry warned the villagers the nightmare was still alive. I
closed the curtains and turned away.
SCRATCH
!
I whirled around and stared into
the lifeless eyes of a corpse. Her long raven hair was a stark contrast to her
translucent skin. Her lips glistened with scarlet promise. A stained wedding
ring burdened her wrinkled finger as her long, broken nails scraped the glass.
"Snow White!"
Behind her, the garden was filled
with identical corpses. Some stood staring at the cottage, others lay in glass
coffins. The moon covered their pale bodies in a silvery shroud.
"You're not real." I
closed my eyes and blocked my ears. "You're not real."
I opened my eyes. Snow White
smiled, revealing receding black gums.
"Red Riding Hood," she
whispered.
I screamed.
"What's going on?" My
mum rushed in. And screamed. "What's that creature doing in your
room?"
"Protecting me from the
corpses."
"What corpses?"
"The ones in the
garden!" I pointed. She approached the window. The corpses had gone.
"Go back to bed. And get
that mutt out of here."
"He saved my life."
"Bed. Now."
She walked out. I turned back to
the window.
Snow White smiled.
"Won't you join us in the
castle?"
"No!"
I pulled my cloak over my
skeleton pyjamas, grabbed a sword and ran outside. I stopped in the deserted
garden. Perrault stood beside me. I crept forwards, hunting for that putrid
princess.
"Snow White," I called
softly. "Come out, come out, wherever you are. I've got a juicy red apple
for you."
Silence. Great. She fell for
everything the wicked queen offered her, but suddenly grows wise for me?
"I've got your prince
hogtied in my wardrobe. If you come out, I won't hack off his Golden
Delicious."
"Give me my prince!"
She leapt at me, snarling.
I swung the sword, decapitating
her. The darkness spewed more Snow White corpses, advancing like an army of
undead
brides in varying stages of decay. Some gripped
rotting bouquets in their crumbling fingers, leaving trails of withered petals
in their wake. I tightened my grip on my sword.
"What's the time,
Mr.
Wolf?"
I put on my deep voice.
"Killing time!"
He leapt at the nearest corpse
while I attacked one to my left. I twirled away from another corpse and stabbed
one through the throat. I ducked a flailing arm, grabbed the corpse around the
waist and dumped her over my head. I pivoted and severed her head from her
neck. Cold fingers seized my arm, so I thrust the sword backwards into her side
then broke free and beheaded her.
"And Mum thought zombie PS3
games were a waste of time." I lopped another corpse's head off.
Perrault had killed another four
and managed to avoid being covered in goo. I looked like I'd rolled in the
stuff. A corpse tugged my ankle from under me. I hit the ground on my back. She
crawled onto me, her ruby lips parting to reveal rows of tiny fangs.
I plunged my dagger into her eye.
She screeched, a horrific sound that grated my nerves. She fell off me, trying
to pull the dagger out. I rolled onto my knees and kindly helped her before
stabbing it into her throat.
She stopped screaming.
I rose. The front garden was
littered with Snow White cadavers. It was like the aftermath of the worst fancy
dress party ever. If this wasn't in my head, I was facing serious charges. I
let the sword tip kiss the ground and stooped to pat Perrault. He licked my
hand then wiped his muzzle with his paw. Something tapped me on the shoulder. I
whirled around, my sword behind my head like a baseball bat.
Prince Charming went down on one
knee, offering me a wedding ring. "Marry me. We'll live happily ever
after."
I swung my sword, slicing his
head off. As he crumpled to the ground, I planted my sword into the grass.
"I don't believe in
fairytales
."
###END###
About the author -
C L Raven are identical twins
from Cardiff, Wales. Their work has featured in 8 Hours Anthology, published by
Legend Press; August 2010 issue of Writing Magazine (winning ghost story); The
Pages Anthologies; issues 50 and 52 of Dark Fire Fiction and issue 6 of Dark
Moon Digest. When they're not spending their days looking after their animal
army, they're exploring castles, ghost hunting in spooky locations and drinking
more Red Bull than the recommended government guidelines. Along with Ryan
Ashcroft, they make up the ghost hunting trio, Cardiff's Answer to Supernatural
and have their own show on YouTube -
Calamityville
Horror.
Other books by C L Raven:
Short story collections
Novels
Connect with us online:
Sign up to receive our
newsletter
If you enjoyed this book, please
consider leaving a review, even if it's only a couple of lines. Reviews are
really helpful to authors and other readers. Thank you.
Turn the page to enter the
gates of Ravens Retreat,
where the siren song of insanity
is too hard to resist.
C L Raven's debut novel, Soul Asylum.
Due for release October 2012
Chapter 1
The screams of the damned penetrated his tortured mind. Black smoke
choked him, stinging his eyes until scalding tears left tracks through his grimy
skin. Gasping for oxygen only caused him to inhale more of the smoke until his
throat was raw, as though Satan's talons were gripping it. He stumbled blindly
on. He could hear the fire crackling nearby, but the fiery threat remained
invisible. Like a nightmare hiding just beyond the veil of consciousness. Glass
shattered around him as windows exploded like souls fleeing their hosts. A
place once so familiar was now a terrifying labyrinth of darkness and smoke,
each corridor leading to death. More screams pierced the gloom. Somebody
crashed into him and he plummeted down the stairs, falling deeper into the
abyss. Here, the heat was intense, suffocating. His broken body fought for
breath as the fire caressed his skin.
I wrenched my hand from the headstone
and opened my eyes. Rain danced on my skin, kissing my face and bouncing off
the gravestone.
CYNFAEL
SMITH
1864-1904
My fingers traced the weathered
letters of his name. I closed my eyes.
He
lay curled up on the burning stairs, his lungs filled with deadly smoke as the
fire consumed his body. Screaming and sobbing failed to drown the fire's roar
as it raced through the corridors, its need for life insatiable.
I lowered my hand. The clouds
wept invisible tears for another life lost. I scanned the graveyard; every
grave was old and forgotten. I walked among them, my black trilby hat keeping
the rain from my pale grey eyes. As I passed the headstones, my hands remained
by my sides. Today, I didn't crave death. They could keep their play of
horrors.
The ground was soft beneath my
bare feet, my toes sinking into the slick mud, the grass pricking my frigid
skin. I was careful not to step on any of the graves. Time had merged them with
the ground like one plague pit and nobody cared enough to stop it. Least of all
me. Smoke embraced the graves. The headstones and the black skeleton of a tree
were the only objects visible.
I reached a black and silver
Rover P4 and ran my fingers over its sleek body. Rain drops bounced off its
glistening paint. My feet crunched on the wet gravel. Sixty years ago there had
been a well-tended grass and flower patch in the centre of the drive. Now it
was overgrown with trees. I glanced back towards the graves. They were shrouded
by the smoke, but I could still see the skeletal tree.
The chapel stood forlorn in the
distance. Phantom organ music haunted the graveyard. A large stone asylum rose
majestically to greet me. It couldn't decide whether it was brown or grey. Two
large gargoyles guarded either side of the double oak doors. Above the door was
a worn stone sign that used to proudly declare "Ravens Retreat." I
ascended the wide steps, flanked by peeling wrought iron. Decades ago, flowers
had separated the steps into two stairways. Now they had been combined. I
walked up another three steps and pushed the left door. It creaked open,
revealing darkness.
The lights flickered and sizzled.
The dark wooden floor gleamed in the meagre light. I ran my toes over it,
liking the smoothness against my skin. A grand staircase to my left beckoned
and I obeyed, my hand gliding up the banister. The stairs creaked. I stopped.
The lights continued to flicker. The front door opened slowly, the old iron
hinges protesting. It slammed shut. I scanned the hall.
I was alone.
I hurried down and slid the bolt
locks in place. A door upstairs closed, keys jangling as it was locked.
I shivered and continued
upstairs. Squeaking wheels echoed along the corridor. I turned the corner, but
saw nothing. The squeaking stopped. I edged forward, fingertips brushing the
brown and white tiles on the walls. Squeak, squeak, squeak. I stopped. So did
the noise. I closed my eyes. When I opened them, an old wheelchair sat in the
middle of the corridor. I looked around but I was alone. The wheelchair
trundled towards me. I stepped aside to let it pass. As it reached me, it
vanished.
I made my way to the master
bedroom. The black four-poster bed stood in the red room. Thick black curtains
danced in the breeze. I crossed to the window and shut it. I didn't remember
opening it. I stared out over the graveyard, the graves almost invisible
beneath the smoke's cold cloak.
Downstairs another door slammed.
Running footsteps on the stairs. I tensed. A door banged. I snuck from the room
and heard the sound of running water. Edging a short way down the corridor, I
hesitated at the bathroom door, gripping the cool handle. The gushing water was
taunting me. I tried the doorknob. The door swung open. The shower was running.
I leaned over the bath and switched it off. As I reached the door, the tap
squeaked as it switched back on. I turned it off then gripped it.
I would not lose this fight.
I released the tap and left the
room, waiting outside the door. Nothing. A smile played on my lips as I
returned to my bedroom. I sat on the bed and removed my hat, tossing it towards
the throne on the other side of the room. It landed on one of the tall sides
and spun around before coming to a rest. Music started. Muse's 'Hysteria'
blared through the asylum, shattering the silence. I closed my eyes. The music
grew louder. I covered my ears, my ear drums pounding. I shot off the bed, ran
down the landing, flung open one of the doors and entered another bedroom. It
was almost barren, painted grey with a single metal bed and a bedside cabinet.
There used to be two other beds in here. They wouldn't allow the male staff to
sleep two to a room. I guess if the patients couldn't control themselves, why
should the staff?
The radio looked out of place on
the cabinet. I switched it off. It immediately turned back on.
A figure huddled in the corner of
the room, rocking back and forth and whimpering. Footsteps echoed through the
room and a young male attendant entered, dressed in black. Trousers, waistcoat
and a coat, which only had the top brass button done up. The collar of a white
shirt peeked out. His peaked hat was askew.
"You shouldn't be in here,
John. These are the staff's quarters." The key chain from his pocket
clanked. They looked more like prison warders than attendants.
"Get away from me!"
John shoved him over then bolted from the room.
He swiftly rose and shadowed him.
They ran down the corridor towards the end wall. They ran straight through it
and disappeared.
Leaving me alone with the
asylum's memory.
I heard a car approaching. I
hurried downstairs. I slid back the bolt and opened the door. An old bright
green Beetle parked beside the Rover. I watched a young man exiting the car
carrying a rucksack. He peered through the Rover's windows. He seemed to sense
me watching him because he whirled around, startled. I closed the door. The
gravel betrayed his footsteps. His knock echoed around the asylum. I waited
then opened it.
I looked past him to the falling
rain. His Beetle was the only source of colour in the dismal surroundings. The
driveway stretched on forever, the black gates barely visible in the gloom.
Just inside the gates, a grey building, newer than this one, was partially
concealed by a hedge. A light shone in the downstairs window. I hadn't switched
it on.
Thunder rumbled in the bowels of
the clouds. Lightning flashed once like a dying bulb. I heard a flap of wings
as a raven landed on one of the gargoyles. The lantern above it had gone out.
The raven cawed a warning, its round black eyes fixated on this stranger. It
shook its wet feathers then took flight, its wings beating the air. From the
roof, another raven answered, sparking a fierce debate with the ravens guarding
the tree. I listened, but their plotting remained a secret. Inside the asylum I
heard footsteps in the corridor upstairs. The wood creaked. Footsteps ran down
the stairs and I shivered.
"I'm here for the
tour," the stranger spoke, looking past me. "I'm from the paper.
Mason Strider. We spoke on the phone. Thank you for fitting me in at such short
notice."
I read his ID card. He was
twenty-five, two years older than me. He adjusted his rucksack, his clothes
soaking.
"You're not on my list. And
we've never spoken. I didn't invite you."
"Is it alright if I come in?
I need to sort my equipment out. It's freezing out here."
I opened the door further and
allowed him to enter. He surveyed the hall uneasily. A door up ahead opened and
I gestured for him to follow me through it, into the dining room. A long table
stood in the centre with ten chairs surrounding it. He placed his rucksack on
the table and unzipped it. The chair to my right scraped back. I seated myself
at the head of the table, watching him empty his bag: a digital voice recorder,
camera, a video camera, notebook, pen and a torch. A nurse dragged the voice
recorder towards her. I reached out and stopped it. Mason looked alarmed then
laughed.
"That was good. Did you use
magnets?" He checked under the table.
"No."
"I know you claim this place
is haunted." He was looking at the empty chair to my right.
"I didn't use magnets."
I resented his accusing tone.
"You can save the tricks for
the tour. You don't have to entertain me."
"For those who believe, no
proof is necessary. For those who doubt, no proof is enough."
I watched him intently and
released the
DVR
. It stayed put. Upstairs a
floorboard groaned. Mason glanced up. A door shut. Keys locked it.
"You live alone?" He
asked.
"The living don't stay here
very long."
I stood up and closed the black
curtains, blocking out the light. Mason began writing in his notebook. After a
few minutes, he asked if I had anything to drink. I fetched him some water then
retreated to my seat. He asked how to spell my name so I took his notebook and
pen, making him jump. I wrote
Phineas
Soul
on his page and handed it back. I watched a lady collect a bowl from
the other end of the table and carry it behind me into the kitchen. The door
opened and closed soundlessly, swallowing her into its silence.
"When my editor told me he
wanted me to write a piece on Soul Searching, I thought he meant inner peace
rubbish, not a ghost hunting tour. When does it start?"
I exhaled deeply. "One
hour."
"When was this place
built?"
"Building started in 1844.
It opened 1848. It was the only asylum for North Wales. Before, patients were
sent to England. Which wasn't helpful since most of them couldn't speak
English."
The overhead lights flickered.
Mason blinked as they came on. Voices. Whispering. He crossed to the door and
opened it. The hall was deserted. He closed it and returned to the table. The
kitchen door opened. Faint sweeping footsteps passed behind him. He jumped at
the noise of cutlery being dropped on the table. He glanced at the end of the
table. Empty.
First impressions - the asylum is huge and creepy. Lights flicker,
there seems to be someone else in the house. Footsteps, doors opening and
closing, standard stuff, the
DVR
moved but I didn't
see any magnets. Thought I heard whispering. There're strange noises like
someone preparing the table for dinner, could be a recording. Tour is in 1
hr
but there seems to be no preparation.
I watched Mason write. The woman
at the end of the table was laying cutlery in front of the chairs. Dinnertime
in the house of wolves. Mason glanced up as the lights flickered then died.
Sighing, I opened the curtains. The rain was reflected on the table in large
drops. I could feel the storm as though it was brewing in my mind. The thunder
comforted me.
"If it wasn't raining, I'd
take you to see the graveyard," I murmured. "It's very
beautiful."
He glanced out the window.
"You have a graveyard! It's not an ancient Indian burial ground is
it?"
"This is North Wales, not
America."
"Who supposedly haunts this
place? The people in the graveyard?"
"Everyone who died in this
asylum."
"I was told there's a
poltergeist."
I could see the staff and
patients but not the poltergeist he referred to. Maybe some things weren't
meant to be seen.
"He's not a poltergeist.
He's an unwanted guest who refuses to leave."
Running footsteps upstairs. Music
played. Meatloaf's 'I'm
Gonna
Love Her for Both of Us.'
Somewhere in the asylum's twisted heart, someone screamed.