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The Taurus Conspiracy

      A great, rusting ring drifted through a stale ether of thick clouds that had blotted out Taurus. The mysterious clouds settled especially thickly around the stars of the Great Bull's horns, causing Messier 1 and Elnath to become so dimished they could no longer sense one another.     Unfortunately, it's very hard to determine how everything went so wrong when no one was around to witness. But when Gunnar woke up to the consequences of said unknown event he knew that Murphy's Law had played a strong role. Even through the thick clouds that swirled amidst his mind he could tell that much.     Gunnar shook his head, hoping to clear it, but instead resulted in more open spaces for the madness to seep into. He dropped to the meshed-steel floor, his vision wavering on the thick lines branded into the grime-covered flesh of his forearm; 76. Just as his vision began to focus the ship lurched, sending him rolling into the glass siding of his ship; The RV Osiris.     A dead body bearing an uncomfortably familiar face slid into Gunnar's lap, staring up at him with clawed out eyes. Gunnar gagged, pushed his dead wife's body away, and screamed to the empty heavens.     "You have been chosen." A grating voice filtered through the clouds consuming his mind, and it filled him with a sudden rage.     "Chosen by what?!"     "I... apologize, that the experiment was a failure, but everything needs a beginning."     Gunnar stared wide-eyed at the rusting floor -fuckin' Torres- forcing the darkness in his mind to subside, but it had built a home nestled deep within his cerebellum. The muscles throughout his body twitched with the effort, it was like dragging cinder blocks through molasses with dental floss.     "Unfortunately, this is where I must leave you. The Follies may have chosen you, but we no longer have a need for them, and the well-being of Taurus is no longer our concern."     "What are you talking about?!?"     "I'm sorry Mr. Gunnar, but this is where you die." The voice was gone, and a gap opened up within his mind.     Thinking quickly he dove for it, taking control of the territory before the Follies did. Gunnar stayed bent over for what seemed like hours, just trying to accept the bottom line fact of the situation. Torres had betrayed him, had betrayed Amy, had betrayed Taurus, and he'd be damned if he'd let them get away with it.     Gunnar pushed himself up and stumbled for the Diving room. With power long gone he had to rely on his brute strength to get around, and it was slowly being consumed by the Follies' infestation wreaking havoc on his mind. A row of helmets, all either broken or on the head of a dead companion, filled the numbered stations. He walked through a graveyard of gore -disgust, rage, and fear playing their own roles across his face. Gunnar reached station 76 and slipped the thin band around his temples comfortably, a middle band locking into place from the back of his neck to his forehead.     Darkness swirled around him like a tornado, and when it was over he stood there, sweating and breathing in the middle of the murkiness of his infested mind. He could feel the twin Magnums strapped into holsters at his ribs, the sawed off shotgun resting against his back, the machete hanging from his belt, and thousands of beady eyes ready to rip him open and use him like they'd used the rest of his crew.     Perfect marksman bullets tore through the air, slowly depleting the amount of beady eyes racing toward Gunnar, slowly diminishing the darkness clouding his mind, slowly killing the infestation of Follies. With every hit Gunnar became clearer of mind, and stronger of body, but with every hit he felt it. Felt the searing pain the removal of a Folly caused in each cell it had latched on to.     The sun had risen and set it's light on the thick darkness that shrouded Taurus twice by the time Gunnar had fought his way to the base the Follies had built within his cerebellum. He stood, sweating and breathing, looking out the citadel window the Follies had built. Gunnar pulled a cigar from his pocket, it's paper stained with blood on one side, and lit it up, pulling a long, slow drag into his burning lungs. He knew one of the slimy little buggers was still around, lurking in a corner of the off-kilter room. It soon came screaming out of hiding and Gunnar, still puffing away on the cigar, lifted the shotgun and fired, the large caliber bursting through the Follies' spindly black chest. Black goo sprayed across the stone floor, and the whole building began to crumble.     Gunnar closed his eyes, pulled an invisible helmet from his head and gasped for air, the cigar dropping to the steel floor of the Diving Room. He dropped to one knee, hands held to his head, a physical attempt to keep from it metaphorically exploding along with the crumbling citadel the Follies had built within him. His screams hit the walls of the room and dropped, echoless within his dead ship.     Pain had consumed his life since he'd woken up to the inexplicable devastation that had befallen The RV Osiris, and now he was ready to dish some out. Torres would have no idea what hit them.

The End. © 2017 by Zoe LeCraw

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Symptoms of a Damaged Mind: A Short Story by Zoe LeCraw

     The sound of voices and footsteps overhead came together like a bad static, echoing through to the hidden chamber below. The shadows that accompanied them flashed between the shadow of the grate far above his head. They belonged to the people of London, England, and they were completely oblivious to what lay beneath them. It wasn't until the wee hours of the morning that the static roar faded to a mere whisper, and the endless shadows became fleeting figures that broke the lines of the shadow-grate.     Throughout it all he sat in a state of near darkness, the cold of his underground prison permeating the very marrow of his bones. When it rained, which was often, the cold was ten-fold; but still he seemed unphased. For hours the water would pour down on him, drenching him, sinking into his skin until he was covered in goosebumps. And still he remained completely unphased. The conditions of his imprisonment were almost designed to drive any man mad, or a madman madder; but not this one. It was as though it gave him a sense of calm. He remained in his seat endlessly, not even moving to urinate, with the same stoic expression on his face. I believe that this is what frightens me the most about this one; the complete and utter lack of physical reaction to anything.      Jack was admitted to this facility under advisory of not only 'too dangerous for society', but as 'too dangerous for an insane asylum'; and so this prison was commissioned specifically for him. Primarily to segregate him from the rest of the world, but the conditions suggest a secondary purpose. Whether as a way to torture him with the knowledge that there is, and always will be, a world that he can never return to, or as a way to harness the elements in an attempt to submit him to some form of waterboarding, I don't know. Either way, it wasn't working. And that's why they brought me in.      As a well-versed psychiatrist, educated in all areas of the field of study, and a member of the church I was intrigued by the patient. But now I fear I may have willingly wandered in something that will, if not end my life, change it forever. It has only been a few days since I laid eyes upon Jack Addams, and already I can feel a darkness creeping into my life, consuming every part of it. I've begun to see things in the shadows that weren't there before; or maybe they always were I just didn't notice them. Unaware. Just like the populace going about their day. Unaware of Jack Addams. Unaware of the darkness that hides in plain sight.      As I pour myself the fifth drink of the night I realize I have consumed more alcohol in these past three days than in the entire year. The crystal carafe let slip its final drop, and the old grandfather clock in the hall -that hadn't made a sound in years- echoed through the house. I almost dropped the glass, my heart is racing now. I slowly walk down the hall to the clock, and it's as though I can see him, those unblinking eyes wearing me down until there's nothing left. I must try to sleep, but I fear I may never truly sleep again knowing he is out there.      Even as the sun rises and fills the room with light, I can see darkness. Like shadows dancing inbetween the particles. I know what I must do, and ignore them as I prepare to spend the night with the man; who I firmly believe isn't really a man anymore.      I arrived around mid-day, and I swear even the wrinkles in his clothes are unmoved. His pale, almost gray eyes portraying the same terrifying calm, like he's waiting for something. Waiting for a reason to move, I just wish I knew what that reason was. Water dripped from the grate high above creating small indents in his skin. Those shadows, flashing between the shadow-grate, there's something more there now. Something darker. I shake my head and clear my vision, then look up at him.      I would like to think that the fear was not evident in my voice when I spoke to him, but I'd be a fool to believe it. Just as the other times, he remained silent. Unreactive. His eyes practically mocking me as the fear built up inside me. Then the light in the chamber altered, striking the long chains that bound him in a way I'd never seen before. Strange markings were etched into the large chain links that led to his cuffs, and yet more in the bars that separated us. I'm not sure when it happened, but at some point everything had become eerily silent. And dark. A darkness unlike any I had seen before. I looked at my watch and knew that I was still in the hours of daylight. Then the walls began to pulse, and it was as though a mirror cracked, shattering the illusion of what I was truly looking at.      Any suspicions I had were now confirmed. I was no longer dealing with something of this world. In all likelihood this wasn't even Jack Addams anymore, and probably hadn't been for a long time. That unmoving figure, the man who had sat for years under the torturous conditions that was his imprisonment, was nothing more than a husk. A feeding ground for the demons that lived inside him. His eyes, before so full of fear-inducing life were now dull and empty. The only sign that this man was still alive was now gone. His body, just as rigid and still as it was before now showed a different aspect. Shapes of hands, screaming faces, and feet all pushing against his skin. Like hundreds of bodies were trying to escape. Demons.      I quickly turned to grab my bag, fleeing the only thing on my mind, only to come face to face with an alarmingly familiar man in marked robes. The same markings that were scrawled over the chains and bars that held the body of Jack Addams.      "What did you bring me here for?" I clutched my bag to my chest, my fingers tingling with how tightly I held onto it.      "To see if you could see the truth."     His voice was so calm it was almost annoying.     "What?!"     Fear was being replaced with irritation.     "Jack Addams died decades ago. After being forced to commit an uncountable amount of horrendous acts by the demons that possessed him, he finally broke the surface. Long enough to find us, and surrender his body to eternal imprisonment. It is because of his great sacrifice that we can live a world with abundantly less of these abominations. If anything were to cause the freeing of these demons, we would all be damned."     As the man who claimed to be a jailer seeking a holy hand in assisting Jack Addams to potentially see the light once more revealed the true story of Jack Addams I had only one question, "Why me?"     "You are his descendant. Only one of his blood would be able to see the truth, would be able to ensure his safety."     So many thoughts raced through my mind, but all I could do was nod. Accepting my duty.     He handed me a key, "This will grant you access to a safe house, one with an easy and secret access to this prison. Your new home." Then turned and walked away.     But one more question came to me, and I called out to him, "Why like this?" Referring to the strange conditions of the imprisonment whereby the world above shone down on him.     "It was his dying wish. To be able to torture the demons with the taste of freedom being so close, but to be forever denied it." I nodded, understanding.     I drove to my new home that night with sadness in my heart. Jack Addams is a hero, and the world will never know. A nameless hero, masked by the deeds the demons forced him to do. Masked forever by the face the demons had turned him into. The End. © 2017 by Zoe LeCraw

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Welcome to Hell: A Horror Story by Zoe LeCraw

Journal entry of October.30/1996 -Jacob Littleton    I remember when she first came to us; I would sit and stare at her for hours. Hours became days, days became weeks, and weeks became months. It has now been one year to the day since she came into my care and I still can't quite figure her out.    Somewhere along the line I became distracted by her face; her perfect flawless face. By her piercing blue eyes that shine through beautiful blonde hair; even with the evident madness swimming in them she was perfect, astonishingly perfect. Sometimes I dream of what her voice might sound like. Her unwillingness, or inability, to speak had slowly turned from a professional nuisance to an insatiable desire that needed fulfilling. So here I sit, day in and day out, watching her. Hoping beyond hope that she'll speak to me.    I try to talk to her sometimes, but she always ignores me, tending to her ritualistic behaviors. Every morning she wakes in a panic, as though some shocking noise has interrupted her sleep. But there's never a sound to be heard. She will walk over to a makeshift cradle, that she built by breaking apart a chair, then lift from it a tightly wrapped bundle of linen and hold it to her breast. Whenever she does this a look of pure love and devotion shines from her face, the likes of which I've never seen before.    But as of late these actions of caring for a make-believe babe have altered to something... well, demonic. She will sit cross-legged in the middle of the room, her face contorting into painful looking mannerisms, clutching the bundle so tight, and for so long, that the skin on her knuckles with split and bleed.  Many of our men have tried to stop her from doing this but it is as though an other-worldly force keeps her in place. When the episodes end she backs herself into the corner of the room, weeping uncontrollably and rocking back and forth.    I have dealt with many different personalities throughout my career: general psychosis, babbling madmen who had gone off the deep end, serial killers, and off the charts total psychos. But I always knew their background; had some insight as to when, where and how their behaviors began or developed. But with her, it's different. It's as though she appeared out of the mists with nothing and no one to connect her to the sane world - like some sort of mistress of insanity. Every day I sit outside her room, watching, hoping that this might be the day she finally opens up and-.

   "Aaron! Aaron! Aaron!"    Jacob's head shot up from his journal, the woman was screaming a man's name over and over from her cross-legged position in the middle of the room. He quickly unlocked the door and rushed into the room, and as he bent down to grab ahold of the girl he noticed something. Something awful. Blood was oozing out of wounds on her arms, but there was nothing around that could cause that kind of injury. As Jacob looked at the pools of blood he noticed something more. The way it was pooling. It was spelling something out.    'Claire' and 'Aaron'    "Claire?" Jacob asked.    Suddenly she went eerily silent, twisting her head around to look at Jacob.    "Who is Aaron, Claire?"    The feral expression on her face softened, and she was once again the flawless faced girl.    "Aaron...Aaron is...Aaron." There was so much pain in her voice.    "It's okay Claire. You're safe here. I promise."    Tears welled in Clare's eyes as looked deep into Jacob's.    "Aaron is my son."    All at once everything clicked into place; the nurturing for a false babe, the manner in which she woke, it all made sense. But it was too late. As she said the words, Claire slid a knife up and under Jacob's ribcage, puncturing his heart.    Claire scooted backward, pushing herself with her feet and hands frantically. She wailed, muttering her son's name over and over, as she watched Jacob's body fall to the floor and bleed out.    A large and heavy hand, accompanied by a deep and grating voice, appeared out of the shadows to rest on Claire's trembling shoulder.    "That's enough girl."    Claire looked up, eyes bright with tears, into the face of the man who had ruined her world. He was easily twice her height, with eyes as black as night, and had large curved horns protruding from his skull. His skin was appeared hard, almost scaly, and his muscles were defined like rocks. But as deeply terrifying as his existence was, it paled in comparison to the putrid smell that accompanied his rotten presence.    "Please give him back, please. You promised."    The man stood and watched her, twisted amusement etching lines into his face.    "I did what you wanted now please! Give me my son back!"    His hand dug into the flesh of her shoulder, and she cried out in pain, as he lifted her from the ground and spun her to face the other side of the room, only it wasn't the room she had grown to know anymore. Claire looked upon a desolate wasteland, black towers twisting and rising up from a sea of blood. Fires sparking and flickering all across the land in a frenzied dance, and maddened cackles that sent shivers down Claire’s spine echoed through the hot air.    The man let out a short laugh, "I merely offered you the opportunity to find your son, dear Claire." The words grated out of his mouth as he spoke into her ear, his hot breath making her sweat in terror.    "But-" Claire stuttered, every ounce of fear displayed on her face.    "Welcome to Hell, Claire." The devil laughed as he pushed her into his kingdom.

The End. © 2017 by Zoe LeCraw