*Here’s another revisited piece of Halloween goodness. Originally this was posted on Webook for a contest to create monsters. It didn’t win but plenty enjoyed it. I hope you will to. Until next time have a writeous day!*
“I just want her to dance again.”
The words pour in my ears through a dirty filter of drugs working through my veins. I’m numb. If not for the fact I can see and hear my captor I could have mistaken this for death. A man, shock of red hair and yellow skinned, sharpened a blade at an ancient grindstone. Sparks flew, illuminating the filthy dungeon which housed them. Remenants of other unfortunate teen girls littered the blood-soaked floor. As the sparks fall like poisoned fairies I can see his bloodshot eyes. I can’t tell the color they once were. It looks like he’s done nothing but cry for years nonstop.
The grinding stops. Only a lone candle lights this torrid opus of horror. I see the machete blade clearly as he holds it in trembling hands. He’s so thin the blade seems to anchor him to the ground.
“She was a beautiful dancer,” the crying-man says. “Since she could walk…she danced. Then daddy had a bit too much to drink one day and ran her over as she walked home from school. I didn’t mean to. What father would that to his little girl?”
The crying-man nearly collapsed under the weight of his fallen tears, but steadied himself with the ominous blade. I want to scream but the damn drugs. “She died. All because of me she never got to be the dancer she wanted to be. But I can fix that. Isn’t that right honey?”
With that said there was a shuffling sound. Something was dragging along the floor. I can’t tell if my heart is pounding or not. Then the sound reveals itself. Jagged nails dug into the ground to pull his daughter into the light. A series of garish black stitches seem to hold all of her limbs together. The arms are slightly different sizes, her once beautiful crimson locks was now a mangled mess, and her lower half…was missing. The crying-man leaned down and stroked her face like she was an animal. He stared upon what was left of his baby girl before turning to me again.
“I just want her to dance again.” He comes closer to me, close enough for me to feel the dampness in his eyes. “You would have loved to see her dance. She was so…beautiful.”
He raises the blade.
The candle goes out.