Yesterday, I used my annual 31 Days of Horror movie marathon as an excuse to start writing regularly again. Going from a freelance writer to a full-time management role took its toll and I’ve not been stringing words together creatively for far too long. But writing is both a muscle to be exercised and a schedule to follow. Without both, the rust sets in and it gets harder to make the words sing on the page. And like going back to the gym, you’ve got to put in the time and suffer some before you get back into shape.
Coincidentally, yesterday the World of Darkness’ “Month of Darkness” list dropped, featuring 31 prompts to stimulate creativity throughout October. Considering my gaming group has just celebrated the 1 Year Anniversary of our 1st edition Vampire: The Masquerade chronicle and I’m looking for writing exercises, I thought, “Why not do that as well?”
The gears are a little rusty, but I’m trying not to be too self-conscience. I’ll remember the process in time, but not without doing the work. And so, here we go.
Day 1: The World You Left Behind
The flames roared as they devoured my home, consuming 15 years of happy memories with gluttonous hunger. Orange and red reflections danced across the windshield of my car idling at the end of the driveway. Even from where I sat inside it, I could feel the blaze’s heat and faintly smell the black smoke rising into the starless night. My home, now a bonfire I set with my own hands, was outside of town and it would be a while before the fire department arrived—assuming someone had called them. I hadn’t.
No, I needed to be sure. I watched the flames lick the sides of the house, its green paint blackening and peeling in the heat. I stared into the heart of the fire, trying to make out any movement in the blaze. Aside from the ravenous flames whirling like efreeti in the night, I saw nothing. But I couldn’t leave until I was certain Linda was dead. Dead for good this time.
No one would believe me if I told them what really happened. How her eyes glowed green like a cat’s in the dark. The stink of the grave that followed her when she walked into our house, our house, an act she shouldn’t be able to do. Linda was dead and buried, my final goodbye spoken to her at her grave side two days ago. But somehow, she came home. Hungry.
Debrief had turned to fear and fear became violence as she lunged for me, grave dirt shaking from her hair. I screamed, half mad, and hit her with the bedside lamp I don’t know how many times. The crunch of the lamp’s thin metal as it struck her head was echoed by the sound of her skull fracturing. One blow, two blows, a dozen more as I struck what had been my wife over and over, screaming at her that she was dead. As if I could convince her this was all a mistake and she needed to go back to Cedarwood Cemetery and not stir again.
In the end, I pinned her—or what was her—to the bathroom door, the mangled lamp rammed through her stomach and into the cheap wood behind her. She still tried to embrace me, her head looking like a mangled machine part pulled from a junk yard, embalming fluid flowing from her wounds. She continued to struggle as I turned on all the burners on the kitchen stove, piled dishtowels atop them, and pouted liquor on the pile. Then I grabbed my car keys and fled out the front door.
That was 45 minutes ago.
I should leave now. Drive away. Back to the town I was born, back to my old college town, back anywhere. The world no longer makes sense, as if I had gone through a looking glass darkly to a place where horror and madness reign.
But first, I have to be sure.
