Unsettling Images
This week, the Revellations staff had another group writing session! This time, these short stories were inspired by unsettling or ‘cursed’ images that were found online. Hope you enjoy!
LOOKING TO PURCHASE by Reese Welch
We have a mice problem in our server room. We only have a very small room to store all our computer towers in, so we can’t move around whenever there’s a problem with the wires. Sometimes the wires need to be replaced, or they get unplugged, or they get tangled because of the mice running around, and we have to move one of the towers to reach it.
We’re looking for a necromancer who can provide us with skeleton mice to solve this issue. The benefits of skeleton mice in server rooms are well known. They follow instructions, the temperatures don’t bother them, they don’t chew the wires, and they can’t get electrocuted. Not to mention, we think the skeleton mice will scare off any remaining living mice we have in the room.
We would like at least 10 skeleton mice to serve in our server rooms, so that we can prevent any further wire issues from occurring. The only criteria for the mice we have is that they are summoned to remain here indefinitely, they are bound to follow our IT guy’s instructions, and that they are willing to fight any living mice to make them go away.
Please no unsolicited offers. Only necromancers with 2+ years of university experience will be given interviews. All resumes must include pictures of previous minions you have summoned. Experience with small rodents is preferred.
Secret Sidewalk by Paul Sanford
“Are we there yet?” I asked.
“Almost, I think. The sidewalk is somewhere over there,” Denice said. She pointed southeast towards the hills.
“This is kinda sketchy guys. Didn’t someone get threatened by an old man with a gun here?” Eric muttered. It’s true; an acquaintance of Denice got chased off the property by someone with a gun. Allegedly, other people had been arrested for trespassing. Eric and I were on edge, but Denice was confident we wouldn’t have any problems. Except, we still couldn’t find this secret sidewalk we were looking for.
Though it was hot, I regretted wearing shorts; we trudged through brambles and bushes and my legs were scraped and bleeding. We suffered quietly, fearful that vocalizing our pain and boredom would lead to events far too exciting.
Despite the rustling of long grass and the crunching of leaves under our feet, I heard a sound. It was a sound much like the ones our feet made, but distant. “Stop,” I hissed. “I heard something.”
The others stopped dead in their tracks. I ever so slowly creeped around a crooked tree, whose branches hung low to the ground, encompassing it in a sphere of foliage. I was extremely conscious of the crunching under my feet now. I rounded the tree and was startled to find myself face to face with a buck.
We eyed each other for what felt like an hour. Well, I eyed those antlers. His antlers must’ve just shed their velvet, because they were stained red. I hoped that’s why they were red. I wasn’t excited by the prospect of fleeing a man-eating deer.
“What is it?” my friends called.
“It’s a deer!”
They came around the corner, but their appearance spooked the buck, and he ran off. I sighed a breath of relief.
We were close, it turned out, to a railroad that Denice said led to the sidewalk. We followed the tracks and found ourselves at a tunnel. “Is it through here?”
“Uhh, I don’t think so, but do you want to go through?” Denice asked.
I peered down the tunnel. It was a long way to the end. “We probably shouldn’t. This track is still active, isn’t it?”
It was a good call; a train passed by three minutes later. We rushed behind some trees to avoid being seen. Only moments later did Denice realize we were crouched 30 feet from the sidewalk.
I didn’t know what to expect. She never told us. What it was was a seven foot tall concrete wall that was about 5 feet wide, separating a hilly pasteur from the maze of brush we walked through. We clambered up and were greeted by a small herd of cows on the other side. We found that the sidewalk was hollow. A large slab of concrete was missing, allowing us to peer inside. The sight sent shivers down my spine and I shot down the possibility of exploring it before anyone asked. It just didn’t feel right. It felt like we were being watched
We took pictures and ate lunch, all the while I felt increasingly nervous about being there. Once done, we hopped off the wall. I was careless and landed on uneven ground. Pain shot through my leg. I insisted I was fine, and I began limping behind them.
“Yo, look at this! Talk about luck,” Eric exclaimed. He motioned towards a patch of grass. In the center of it was a wheelchair. “It’s perfect for you.”
We approached the wheelchair, and it decidedly was not perfect, nor was it functionable. One wheel was crushed, bent to half the diameter it should have been. The black leather seat was stained.
“You see where the old person this came with is?” Eric joked.
“Let’s just get out of here,” I said.
It Crawls by Matthew Gustafson
A glass shatters in the kitchen downstairs, rousing me from my sleep. My dog wasn’t in his bed when I woke up, so I guess he’s trying to get some food. I normally love how anxious he gets when he wants a snack, but at 3 AM, his actions are frankly inexcusable. I toss on a light jacket as I walk down the steps from my room, my phone’s flashlight illuminating the halls. I didn’t want to turn on the lights, that’d just wake everyone up, and my dog wasn’t worth that.
Another glass falls. At least my wife and I made sure to hide away the fancy china from our wedding somewhere the dog can’t reach it. As I enter the kitchen, my flashlight illuminates the shards of glass on the floor, reflecting some of the light up to my dog, perched on the counter above with his dark coat of fur, pale extremities, and round face. He’s smiling at me.
I walk over to my dog and grab him by his torso. He arches his back like a cat as I pull him off the counter, and his expression darkens a little. Silly dog. I bring him back up to my room and set him down on his bed, covering his hands and feet with a blanket. He’s definitely getting more and more disobedient as time goes on. When I get to the lab the next day, maybe I’ll look into getting him a new “brother.”
Above by Alyson Zabala
The circus hasn’t been opened for about three, maybe four years. After Mr. Lombardi was arrested for tax evasion and money laundering, management was never the same, and the place just sunk down into the shitter. To be honest, there wasn’t anything special about it: popcorn that felt like chewing styrofoam cups and rides as sketchy as the massage parlor two blocks down. There was one part of it though that never left my mind.
The carousel.
The caricatural animals looked as if they were made by someone who had a vague idea of what a horse should look like. They were all posed in slightly contorted manners, as if their bones didn’t sit quite right. No matter how much the manufacturers tried to make the ride look welcoming to kids, the carousel toed the line of psychologically traumatizing.
Despite that, my mom used to love taking me on it. Her favorite seat was this pale beige, pretentious piece-of-shit pony. Its artificially shiny, empty black eyes scrunched uncomfortably as the pony smiled. Its teeth protruding from the mouth in awkward directions. I always imagined it to never be able to close its mouth right because of all the fucking teeth it had, salivating every where, drool pooling underneath its hooves.
It makes me feel like a princess, she would say. As we spin around, everyone blurs into one like we’re above it all.
When she started slipping away, that’s all she could talk about: a fucking carousel. She couldn’t remember anything else. Her husband? No. Her own children? Nope. Not even her own name. Day and night, she cried, she pleaded, she screamed. Please please please when can we go back to the circus? Please please please please. Is Mr. Lombardi back yet? I miss the carousel so much. Please, I want to feel like a princess again. Please please please please, take me back to the carousel, please please please please please please please please please.
At first, I was broken down by her illness. By her bedside, waiting for her to come back to me. I prayed for days and nights; to any god, to anybody, just bring my fucking mom back. All I was asking for was one last touch of my cheek, one last tender kiss on my forehead. Something, anything at all, that resembled the woman I remembered.
Was that too much to ask for?
Her words are carved into my brain, carelessly scratched into the folds of my amygdala. They itched in the back of my skull and begged for relief. For years, even after that bitch died, all I fucking thought about was a stupid circus ride.
Tonight though, the itch is gone. I’m finally free as I go round and round on this piss-stained pony. Its contorted legs melting under the heat of the flames.The twisted smile’s plastic drips down to the floor. As I watch everything blur into one, I feel all the more above it all.
