Astaroth
[*screaming into the void intensifies*]
Original poster
STAFF MEMBER
DONATING MEMBER
FOLKLORE MEMBER
- Invitation Status
- Not accepting invites at this time
- Posting Speed
- Speed of Light
- Slow As Molasses
- Online Availability
- It varies a lot depending on my schedule, unfortunately.
- Writing Levels
- Advanced
- Adaptable
- Preferred Character Gender
- Primarily Prefer Male
- Genres
- Psychological horror
Body horror
Supernatural
Giallo
Splatterpunk
Dark fantasy
Historical
Low fantasy
Magipunk
Weird West
Noir
Thriller
Gothic horror
Southern Gothic
Gaslamp fantasy
Cyberpunk
Space saga
Clockpunk
Space Western
Space opera
Paranormal
Modern fantasy
Dieselpunk
Post-Apocalyptic
Crime drama
Medieval fantasy
"I'm not sure anymore how long I've been here," confessed Danielle, tipping her chin down toward the littered floor of the bar. "A long time. Longer than Tyson has, and he's the only other one I know who… is still here."
The hole left in the wall of the bar was not comforting, and she knew Tyson felt the same. He wouldn't show it, though; he would want to keep everyone at ease. But still… When night came… Danielle suppressed a shiver. She would let Tyson explain about the Umbra.
The hole in the wall was a hole in Tyson's soul. He gripped the edge of the bar as it ripped open inside of him, twisting and tearing and wrecking his guts. It took him a moment to recover enough to hear his patrons again. When he did, his grin turned wry. Rueful. He remembered a time when he'd asked those questions, and he doubted they'd like his answers any more than he had.
"This place is called Potter's Field, according to the signs we've been able to find. As far as anyone can tell, this is where you come when you die. And those creatures are what we call Umbra." It wasn't his word; one of the ones who had been here before him had used the name, and it had stuck. Tyson wasn't even sure if that man had been the one to use it first, but that didn't matter. It was a name to put on the things that stalked them, a label for something to fear. "It seems like there's one Umbra for each of us. They try to draw you out in the open so that they can catch you. When your Umbra touches you, it's over. You're gone, just like that. You're safe in your Haunt- that's wherever it is you woke up- during the day, but at night they can get in.
"…And that's about all I know," he finished, apology in his tone. Once again, Tyson's eyes drifted to where the charred man had punched through the wall. The bar was Tyson's Haunt; what did the breach mean for him?
Was it still safe?
He was looking at her no no no no.
She was ugly, so ugly, so she shrank away. He could never understand because he looked perfect with his handsome unblemished face, smooth pink skin and he didn't look like her, didn't look dead and ugly and horrid. Don't look at me, she heard herself say, don't look don't look.
She didn't want him to see because then he'd leave.
Back, she had to step back, put her back up against the wall, even though that didn't make her safe and
Why was her back wet
Paint?
An otherworldly wail rang down the hospital corridor. This was not the screams of a woman; it sounded more like a chorus, like three distinct voices crying out in unified, hellish anguish.
Something else was here.
When Krystaline reached the rooftop, she saw the silhouette of a man standing in the shadows of the church bell. It had Daniel's height, his build. It even had his scent; Krystaline could smell his cologne from where she stood. The figure's back was turned to her, however, and she couldn't quite make out any concrete features.
Krystaline… Help me… The whisper came again, caressing her ear.
The two-headed Umbra managed to close in on its prey, despite its struggles against itself. As it approached the edge of the sand, it took deep whiffling breaths, seeking out the scent of its creator. Its tongue lolled like a fat, wiggling grub from its skeletal mouth.
It could not see, but it could smell him. Taste him.
Delicious.
As Jethro approached the threshold of his garage, he heard shotgun fire again. Closer, this time. Was it only a street over?
The hole left in the wall of the bar was not comforting, and she knew Tyson felt the same. He wouldn't show it, though; he would want to keep everyone at ease. But still… When night came… Danielle suppressed a shiver. She would let Tyson explain about the Umbra.
The hole in the wall was a hole in Tyson's soul. He gripped the edge of the bar as it ripped open inside of him, twisting and tearing and wrecking his guts. It took him a moment to recover enough to hear his patrons again. When he did, his grin turned wry. Rueful. He remembered a time when he'd asked those questions, and he doubted they'd like his answers any more than he had.
"This place is called Potter's Field, according to the signs we've been able to find. As far as anyone can tell, this is where you come when you die. And those creatures are what we call Umbra." It wasn't his word; one of the ones who had been here before him had used the name, and it had stuck. Tyson wasn't even sure if that man had been the one to use it first, but that didn't matter. It was a name to put on the things that stalked them, a label for something to fear. "It seems like there's one Umbra for each of us. They try to draw you out in the open so that they can catch you. When your Umbra touches you, it's over. You're gone, just like that. You're safe in your Haunt- that's wherever it is you woke up- during the day, but at night they can get in.
"…And that's about all I know," he finished, apology in his tone. Once again, Tyson's eyes drifted to where the charred man had punched through the wall. The bar was Tyson's Haunt; what did the breach mean for him?
Was it still safe?
He was looking at her no no no no.
She was ugly, so ugly, so she shrank away. He could never understand because he looked perfect with his handsome unblemished face, smooth pink skin and he didn't look like her, didn't look dead and ugly and horrid. Don't look at me, she heard herself say, don't look don't look.
She didn't want him to see because then he'd leave.
Back, she had to step back, put her back up against the wall, even though that didn't make her safe and
Why was her back wet
Paint?
An otherworldly wail rang down the hospital corridor. This was not the screams of a woman; it sounded more like a chorus, like three distinct voices crying out in unified, hellish anguish.
Something else was here.
When Krystaline reached the rooftop, she saw the silhouette of a man standing in the shadows of the church bell. It had Daniel's height, his build. It even had his scent; Krystaline could smell his cologne from where she stood. The figure's back was turned to her, however, and she couldn't quite make out any concrete features.
Krystaline… Help me… The whisper came again, caressing her ear.
The two-headed Umbra managed to close in on its prey, despite its struggles against itself. As it approached the edge of the sand, it took deep whiffling breaths, seeking out the scent of its creator. Its tongue lolled like a fat, wiggling grub from its skeletal mouth.
It could not see, but it could smell him. Taste him.
Delicious.
As Jethro approached the threshold of his garage, he heard shotgun fire again. Closer, this time. Was it only a street over?