What Is This Thing?
This week, the Revellations staff decided to try finding inspiration for short pieces in a thread of mysterious, unidentifiable or ‘cursed’ images. With Halloween almost upon us, many of these certainly had a spooky feeling to them, so we hope you enjoy!
The Lines by Reese Welch
If you go far enough out in the desert, you almost always eventually find the lines.
The lines are where sand has shifted in such a way as to create long lines running through the arid landscape, spiderwebbing through the orange and red rock like cracks in glass. They only appear far from civilization, so if you see the lines, it means you’re hopelessly lost.
This is why most people follow the lines once they see them. The desert heat beats against your back, sweat dripping down from your clothes and onto the sand as you struggle to put one foot in front of the other. There is no sense of direction this far away from civilization. The lines are the only guide you have.
Contrary to popular belief, the lines do have an end. But it takes so long to reach that end that most perish or turn back before they reach it. But sometimes, you make it.
It’s almost always nighttime when you reach the center of the lines. The sun has gone down; there are no city lights to obstruct your view of the sky, and you can see thousands of stars in the canvas of black above your head. The only light that guides you then is the full moon, and in its ethereal glow the lines in the sand seem to glow as well.
You step towards the hole, and your instinct is screaming at you to turn around and leave. But you’ve been following these lines for days and aren’t going to give up now. Even if it means your end.
You step up to the lip of the dark hole, and peer inside. It’s pitch black. The piercing beam of a flashlight does nothing to clear up the darkness, and you bend down to get a closer look.
Big mistake.
The ground collapses beneath you, and the underworld welcomes you with burning arms.
Last Exit by Matthew Gustafson
It’s 2 AM, and I hear a loud beep from my driveway. My car’s alarm is going off. I live in an apartment complex a few miles off campus, so I don’t have a personal garage. Someone has broken into my car, I know it. I throw on some old clothes and a pair of slippers and rush to the ground floor. Sure enough, my car is driving off, tires screeching as it skids away at high speed. The tire marks on the asphalt are surprisingly visible, so I can follow them clearly for a few miles. I get my bicycle and begin riding.
The inky black tracks lead out to a large open field at the park. Sure enough, my car is sitting there, perfectly still, surrounded by several dark figures. My car can only seat five people, but there were at least a dozen circling the vehicle now. The low hum of a group chant drifts through the otherwise quiet night air, making my skin crawl. Cautiously, I approach the vehicle, keeping a low profile.
I can’t understand a word they’re saying. All I can tell is that they’re saying the same thing. I hold my breath, keeping as silent as possible. My phone starts ringing; it’s my wake-up alarm going off. The chanting stops. And then it continues, much louder than before.
The headlights switch on. The engine starts running. The tires squeal despite being on the soft grass. The lights turn to my direction and the engine gets louder. I start to run. The vehicle gains ground as the chanting seems to follow me. It’s deafening. My feet slip on the wet grass and I fall. Last exit for me.
The Cat Mother by Jackson McGlasson
The beast nurtures its soldiers in silence. The cat-rat mother grants its life-giving milk to its minions in exchange for their binding loyalty. It has been there since the dawn of time, growing its power. It creates a deep psychological hold on lesser beasts, enthralling them with its energy. They are turned into lifeless brain-dead zombies that follow their master’s every will. It only grows in strength with each rodent suckled into its army.
The apocalypse draws near and this is its prophet, spreading dark energy, engulfing lesser beings and feeding on their life force. Each soul it devours adds to its ascension. It will deceive us all, and we won’t realize it.
You think, “Oh it’s just a cute little cat, what harm could it do?” Don’t be naive enough to think it will stop at rats. By the time you read this, it will probably be too late for anyone to do anything about it. We’ll be next. First rats, then squirrels, dogs, bears and even people. All will succumb to the corrupted milk of the cat mother.
It holds a dark evil that cannot be extinguished. There is no hope for us, only death and servitude to our new lord. Every day the army grows with all beasts of the world. This is our life now, she is our goddess, our only meaning. All hail the cat mother, all hail, all hail, all hail.
In the Streets of Ukraine by Jorge Gimenez
Today, on a Saturday morning, I woke to the smell of rot from once living, thriving creatures — both plant and animal.
I got myself up from my cot, slowly and methodically, to look out the small window where cool wind flowed into the room and over my skin. I grasp both my hands on two different steel bars welded to the window and peer outside: cloudy and damp, as always. Despite the smell from some deceased fauna weighing the air down, inhaling the outside air was almost rejuvenating after being in this room since Thursday.
I stand like this for hours on end most days, watching the humvees and buses drive by to change personnel shifts, the smaller, shambling cars filled with visitors for the others here, and the occasional truck for resupply.
My room, only furnished with only my cot, toilet, and a simple, small coffee table, was approached by one of the workers at this facility.
“On your feet,” he said as he waived his steel-core baton towards me.
I stood up quietly, looking at the floor with my head hung low.
The gate to my cell was unlocked and I was forcefully ushered out. Today was another work day, and at this point I’ve lost count of how many have been assigned to me without break. I was led outside past the other inmates, to a group of 4 others just like me.
The officer standing by the entrance leaned against the wall with a lit cigarette in hand, waiting for us to continue. We grab the brooms put against the rack right outside the main entrance, along with trash bags and gas masks. We were thrown into the back of a truck with our gear in hand and left in the darkness as the door shut.
The truck doesn’t go back to the prison.
The Dark Ritual by Jeffrey Keller
The figures came from the dark. They shuffled forward, their faces concealed by their hoods and the darkness of the overcast night. First there were five. Then ten. They moved slowly across the dying fields to the body, which lay dead in the center. They formed a circle around the body, moving silently. The dark figures never turned to acknowledge one another.
The dead laid in the center of the circle, battered, its body broken, the color fading from the lifeless corpse. And then, the chanting began. The dark figures chanted in a language unknown, a loud, never-ending chant. Their arms raised in the air and the grass beneath their feet seemed to fade in color even more.
The loud, deep chanting continued, and then, the body was lifted in the air. Color began to return as paint that had once been lost magically reappeared. Glass fragments from the ground elevated and slotted back together like puzzle pieces. The dents seemed to get pushed outwards as the body retook its original form. The wheels inflated to their full size.
And then, the car engine revved.
Ocelli by Sejal Spicely
“What do you think that is?” I ask. She squints up at the dark streak in the sky, smiling.
“Inside of a zipper.” She sounds excited, but her expression remains mild. “Where the aliens come through.”
I raise my eyebrows skeptically. “Aliens.”
A nod. “Aliens. Little buggers, like mosquitoes. They lay their itchy eggs under our skin, and they leave back through the zipper and close it all up so we don’t know they were ever here.”
“Right,” I say, amused. She’s an odd creature, this girl of mine. I twirl her around, and she lets me. “And why do the aliens want to lay eggs underneath our skin?”
She blinks. Her eyes are so dark I can’t see the pupil. Sometimes it looks like she doesn’t have any.
“Because it’s warm there.” I can’t help but make a face. Odd and a bit disturbing she is. It’s hard loving her, but it’s worth it for the sweet things — like the kiss she gives me before dancing out of my reach.
I look back up at the sky, and blink in shock, my mouth falling open, and blanch, because —
The streak —
The zipper —
It’s opening.
And the swarm descends, blocking my view of whatever endless void lies beyond, but I’m not looking for long, because she’s there, then, smiling wide and serene even as her hair thrashes violently around her head. Screams start to ring out. The wind sounds like the droning buzz of thousands of wings.
The swarm crashes upon me before I can so much as gasp, and in the center of it is her, smiling her too-calm smile that doesn’t reach her soulless eyes, and —
— I can’t help but smile at her sloe-eyed face.
“That,” she says in answer to my question, “is a chemtrail.”
I look back at the dark streak in the sky, scratching at an itchy bump on my arm — I must have gotten bitten by a mosquito — and say, “Huh.”
Sepia, by Emilie Ribo
They were yellow and sulfurous. I could not understand why or how they had come to their existence. The Victorian mansion was, apart from those stains, perfect. Majestically rising among the pine trees, looming across the verdurous valley, the manor seemed unaffected by time. The exterior was a deep burgundy and a delicate black brooding gate circled the estate, deviously inviting its guest to come in. The interior was entirely furnished with antiques that had been the prized possessions of a once wealthy family. An intimidating clock towered in the entrance hall and its ominous ticking reverberated through the walls. The only imperfection we noticed were those speckles ornamenting the blue walls of the attic.
My husband assured in his authoritative voice that it must be some type of mold developing from the recent downpour the county had experienced.
“I think that is indeed the only plausible explanation. I will make sure to have the walls coated with a new layer of paint to spare you the trouble,” quickly brushed off the real estate agent.
And that was the end of it.
Until one day they were back. I saw them when I was emptying our last box from the move and absentmindedly my eyes had wandered around the room. The quantity had doubled and was now spreading across the walls and the ceiling.
This plague, slowly but surely, was submerging our world, crawling in and out of each room even infecting the furniture.
One morning I woke up, and as I was bringing my hands up to rub my eyes I gasped in horror. The skin on the back of my hands was wrinkled and paper thin. I turned around to show my husband but saw a decaying corpse instead. I screamed and on my way out noticed the colorful photos on the wall of the past owners had turned sepia. In the entrance hall, the clock’s hands were moving forward at an alarming speed. The house creaked, the wood molded, the wallpaper ripped, the paint faded, and I was shriveling up by the second. The hands suddenly stopped and the house was not stuck in time anymore.
Spots… by N. Sowers
I knew this house was old, but the inspectors said, thanks to the dry climate, there didn’t seem to be any mold, mildew, or even water damage… It was a quaint little place, that I got for a steal, and in this economy I didn’t think too hard about it.
So I was more than a little disappointed when the little yellow spots started popping up along one of the walls in my bedroom… Like the house had taken on liver spots overnight. I decided to fight it myself at first, with fans and open windows and eventually a mold screener… But the resolute spots matched along the southern wall, from corner to corner of that old room.
I stopped sleeping in there when I began to see those spots at work, crawling along the walls, only to vanish when I looked again… And still they spread, out one bedroom and into the guest room I had moved to.
Soon I started seeing spots on my legs… They didn’t itch but I scratched them ruthlessly, tearing out the stained skin only for it to scab over and still be a spot… with a new one beside it. My doctor took one look at me and sent me to have my eyes checked, not my skin… But I know it’s really there. Whatever disease possessed my house, it wants me too. It took root in my lungs and now its sprouting up everywhere, and I can’t stop picking. I’ll tear it all out like I did my walls before I let it get me.
Even here, on these white padded walls… They’re there, I tell you! You can stop me from scratching but I’ll scrape off my skin with anything!
