"A Letter Found In A Tree" (Creeping Horror)

Haironyourchest

Haironyourchest

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There was a couple tyre instead of tire.

Also toilet handbasin. I think you mean bathroom sink? Or toilet bowl? (the part of the toilet poo goes in?)

Few other things but its 0500 and was reading for enjoyment.

Mexicans are still referred to as beaners. I say it jokingly (I'm half Mexican) but it would still be considered racist. I feel like for a white guy working in the industry he uses the word in a normal fashion.
Also I feel, like most of us, this character isn't a super genius but has pockets of knowledge that show at times. I know that I know facts about random things. He seems like a normal guy that has a curious side and it shows by his seemingly random knowledge about certain subjects that he has probably researched in the past due to his curious nature. That also explains why he is so intent on finding out what is going on behind those walls!
Some of the arborist lingo could be lost in translation to some but to be posted on a site like this it fits perfect.
I really like it! It reminds me of Stephen King's short stories. I can't wait to read the rest of it! Great job so far. :rock2:

Good call on the bathroom sink/toilet handbasin! Will change that. Yeah, you pretty much get what I was aiming for in the character's mentality, also, I suppose he had a lot of time to think about things over the years before he decided to write the letter, so he would have done some research and maybe downplayed his past ignorance of certain things, like the meaning of Demesne, and so on. Thanks for reading, made my day, I'll post the final chapter presently, just got a few chores to do before dark
 
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I like the story so far! The only thing I'd like different is the letter in the tree, seems like the story is too long and detailed to be read from a letter?
I would have loved to read this in Irish or the queens english!
 
Haironyourchest

Haironyourchest

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I like the story so far! The only thing I'd like different is the letter in the tree, seems like the story is too long and detailed to be read from a letter?
I would have loved to read this in Irish or the queens english!

I think you're right actually. It should have been an audio recording on a cassette tape. That would work better for an audio story as well... next project, the audio version for youtube.
 
Haironyourchest

Haironyourchest

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(Ok, Part 8)

Out in front of the vestibule was a large, flattish, circular object. It reflected the moonlight like wet or polished stone. Something about this thing made me lock onto it, it was just too weird. It was like a squat column, maybe three feet tall and six across, hard to say. The way the light played over it’s surface showed the top to be gently domed. I checked my watch, it was after midnight. I fished out the camera and tried a couple of shots, but in the darkness I couldn’t see much through the viewfinder. Nor could I see the dials and settings, and cursed that I hadn’t practiced the day before. I put it away and picked up the binoculars again.

There was activity at the door of the chapel, several shadows coming out. Robbed and hooded shadow people, holding flaming torches. More and more filed out and took up positions along the path leading from the door to the circular object. The security were still milling around the chapel back in the deeper darkness.

Then something horrible happened. Presumably by command, each of the torchbearers raised an object in their other hand toward their head. And I heard a distant droning of horns, low and deep. Suddenly my dream came back to me and the terror that had gripped me then, returned, but more acute now in full wakefulness. Sweat beaded and ran down my face - how, I thought - how could I have dreamed this? Am I dreaming now? I was not. Glued to the eyecups of the binoculars I drank in the perverse ritual played out, half a mile away, and far too close.

Four monkish shadows burst from the door carrying a naked human being. Each struggled with an arm or leg as the prisoner convulsed and twisted in their grip. I strained my ears but could hear no screams. Gagged, maybe, I thought. They barrelled toward the alter - for that’s what it was - flanked by the horn blowers, who again winded a mad, droning dirge, and slammed their burden down, spreadeagled on the dome, limbs pulled back unnaturally, and fastened the captive there. Then they melted away into the night and the figure lay still. I squinted to see, but the angle of the light was wrong and the image wobbled too much in my trembling hands. I couldn’t see if a man or woman was tied there, it was all was shadows and flickering orange light. I forced myself to breath. Penetrating through the physical and mental stress I was suffering under, was the ever present need to think logically. I would need to be oxygenated when I split out of here, I remember thinking. I would need my legs to be working. I shifted my weight in my perch, trying to work blood through my muscle. Something new was happening.

A pale figure was now standing in the open chapel door. A bald headed, ragged, scrawny, naked woman. She moved, slowly, through the gauntlet of robed monks, arms outstretched and staggering. She stumbled and fell, sat for a while and then crawled. Something about her erratic movement puzzled me. Was this a prisoner too? Then suddenly I just knew, with certainty - this person was blind. Blind and intoxicated, or mad. Creeping and tottering, she finally made it to the alter, and began climbing up to straddle the prone body secured there. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t pray. My hands had stopped shaking and the frame was still.

Why I counted, I don’t know, but I did. The murder took all of fifty five seconds to achieve. Mercifully, the shadow of the hunched squatting creeper hid the work from my view. The monks blew their dirge, and the backlit shadow slowly rose to stand, one foot on either side of the body, unsteadily, atop the column, and lifted something glistening high toward the moon, toward me. The strange tableaux seemed stuck in time, the figure was locked in place, arms outstretched, frozen. Finally the creeping figure slowly lowered the offering, her head drooping as if in depression. And then, as if possessed by a sudden spasm, she looked up directly at me, into my binocular lenses…with her blind eyes…and pointed at me.

I don’t actually remember bailing out of the tree. That event is literally missing from my memory, but I do remember rising from the grass and trying to run. My legs were weak and I fell and was crawling for the bushes across the track, then managed to hobble as the circulation returned. Finally I was jogging. I still had my spikes on and I needed to ditch them as soon as possible. Nor was there any use for my harness now, but it would take too long to remove; time was of the essence and my future could be decided by a matter of minutes or seconds. I couldn’t afford to hide, now was the time for purposeful movement. The guards on my side of the wall would have been alerted by now and be swarming the chestnut. I fumbled the buckle straps open and flung the spikes in a direction I wasn’t going, and set off at a good jog back toward the perimeter wall.

I guess my adrenals had become exhausted at some point during the ordeal, because I keenly felt the weight of my body as I pounded through the shadows. I tripped and fell, several times, aware that all I needed was to sprain something and my life would be effectively over. Back in the vast darkness I could hear the occasional shout, flashes of high powered flashlights playing across the greenery. If one of those beams fell on me while I was running…but none did. And then, a sound that brought bile into my mouth: barking.

Dogs, golf carts, lights. They would cross the mile between the inner and outer wall in about five minutes if they used the tracks. The dogs might get to me sooner. But now I could see my ace card, the big fir, coming up ahead, and a mad grandiosity filled me, and I grinned though the pain, burning in my lungs and legs and - I remember clearly - I was laughing as I drop-started my faithful old 038 and set to cutting the notch. Thank God there was no cloud cover and the silver light was just enough to work by. Cut, reposition, cut again and kick out the face chunk, then powered into the back cut…and then the tree set back and pinched the bar. I had forgotten the wedges. I was snookered. I killed the saw and scanned - yes, many, many lights heading my way. And then something whacked into the tree above my head and I heard whizzing in the air. They were shooting in my direction, with suppressed weapons. I wrenched and strained to work my bar out of the timber, but to no avail.

More bullets thudded into the tree and turf around me, they must have been spraying more or less randomly. There was nothing else I could do, so I grabbed the hanging pull rope and ran toward the outer wall, at about a forty five degree angle and pulled. I pulled like my life depended on it, and felt the tree move. I put all the traction I could muster into the edges of my boot soles, digging deep into the grass and sod, and landed on by butt under the big fir as it came crashing down over me, onto the palisade fence.
 
Haironyourchest

Haironyourchest

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(Part 9)

The dogs were rushing me now, not barking, and behind them bobbing lights. I don’t know if the guards actually realised what had happened, because they'd stopped shooting at me, or, maybe orders had come down to take me alive. I clambered up the stem on all fours, over the fence and into the boughs that now crushed the top of the thorn hedge and wall. Manoeuvring though them, I got out over the wall, set my grapple and slid down the line bare handed, burning my palms. Then I was running again, for the bike. I had pinned its location in my mind relative to the big fir and I found it again. It started on the third kick and I was moving, the headlight illuminating the path before me, cleared of obstructions. I hammered the bike in first gear, weaving between the trees, obliterating distance between me and the highway, the deer fence was coming up and I ploughed into it, the front wheel lifting as the duct-taped patch tore loose. Through the fence and onward, out of the forest, across the field and onto the open road. I briefly stopped the bike then and looked back, there were no lights behind me in the woods, or on the logging road. But they were on their way. I raised a middle finger salute, gunned the little motor and sped away down the road.

I put forty miles or so behind me before pulling off the road to vomit, refuel the bike and change the gillie suit for waterproofs. I was headed out of state now, on the backroads. I was going to ride until my gas supply ran out, then take cover until morning. As I was pouring the last of the gallon can into the tank, headlights came up the road behind. A vehicle had been trailing me with the lights off. I had no plan now, no story and no weapon. I prayed it was highway patrol and tried to act casual as a white pickup truck pulled off the road and parked beside me. The engine stopped and the lights went off. The driver window came down, it was Quinton.

“Relax” he told me “We’re not going to do anything.” I approached the truck, it was too late to run anyway. I noticed the Mexicans were there too.

“Why’d you follow me?” I asked him. I couldn’t think what else to say. Quinton pulled a smoke out and lit it, offered me one. He didn’t say anything for a while. I mounted the bike again, not to try and flee but simply because my legs were sore and I didn’t want to stand anymore. Quinton spoke again, he sounded a million miles away, in some other time and place.

“Look..its complicated. I was actually born here. Me and the gang…we’re leaving, never coming back. Dude, I need to know exactly what you saw in there. I just really need to know.”

“At the church?”

“Yeah.”

I told him, just as I have told you. The Mexicans understood English better than I had thought. They all crossed themselves and started muttering prayers and didn’t stop. Quinton didn’t show any obvious sign of surprise or distress, although it was dark inside the cab. He smoked in silence. “Ok,” he said at last “You need to get out of the country too. Leave by land and not through a border checkpoint. Disappear off the map and never come back…or at least not for twenty or thirty years. He fumbled in the darkness and handed me a roll of bills out the window. “I kinda feel bad for ruining your life dude. But….I had to know for sure.”

I took the money and he wound up the window without another word and drove off, the way I was headed. I followed, after a while. I don’t remember much of the next few weeks, but I slept in fields under a poly tarp and put a lot of miles on that bike. I stuck to the backroads and was not pulled by the law. At some point I crossed the Mexican border and then the next stage of my life began. Life has not been easy for me, after what happened. People seem to avoid me, and sometimes I hear things, at night. I guess I’m writing this just to get some kind of closure, if you know what I mean. And let me say again, if you wrecked your chain on the cannister, I’m sorry. There’s fifty bucks in there as well, buy a new one, on me.

END
 
tilenick

tilenick

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Thanks for the story. I thought it was great fun, although the ending was a little abrupt. I would have liked to hear more about quinton's leaving as I had expected him to be in the middle of the bad guys. But, it does leave plenty for the imagination as it is. Nice work.
 
unclemoustache

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Whups - I missed commenting on parts 5 and 6. Here it goes:

Whups - another tyre instead of tire
three-strand fence - I don't know that - maybe you mean barbed wire fence.
motel toilet handbasin - say rather motel sink.
Ghille suit, reducing profile..... this character needs to have some military background.
Spiking up the trees would leave signs, and those signs would tell a lot about the trespasser. Maybe you should have him climbing up less, or using ropes more. And what a disgrace for a climber to spike up a perfectly sound tree!!
Don't refer to a motorcycle as a machine - too British.
Ah - now he knows about Greek mythology and Sisyphus! Yes, you'll have to make him much better educated. No typical American knows so much.

Well, all in all, a very fine story! It starts at a medium slow pace and gets more and more interesting as you go until the end.
It does end a bit abruptly, though. Maybe play out that ending some more, and extend the clean up of it all. You could also draw out the grisly details of the murder and all that.

Very good! I give it two moustaches up!
 
Haironyourchest

Haironyourchest

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Very Stephen kingish ending as well lol I did enjoy it though but like others I would have loved to hear more.

Thanks for the likes guys, I'm delighted you enjoyed it. Unfortunately I had to get back to work after sitting on the couch for a week writing all day. Yes, it could be stretched a bit more, but I'll pass. If anyone wants to pen a sequel - "The Further Adventures Of G..K" - feel free!
 
Haironyourchest

Haironyourchest

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P.S Don't work about typo's and wording, that is what proof readers are for, it takes away from your train of thought if you do.

Thanks, I'm not too worried about it, it was more the British vs American idioms and phrasing that I needed feedback on. Bloody exhausting to write, bit of an emotional ordeal actually. Don't know if I could do it on a regular basis, tree work is easier!
 
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