Tag: horror

Beginning Scene in ‘Creeps,’ an Erotic Horror Novel I’m Working On

The tunnel was claustrophobic, stuffy, and pitch black. It smelled of burned corpses. Only their soaking sweat covered their total nakedness as they shuffled through, banging their elbows and knees against the sides of the tunnel. The desperate urge to escape made Petunia LeBar and the man crawling behind her forget their fatigue, as well as the unbearable heat.

“How much longer, do you think?” the man asked in gasps.

“I think…I see a tiny…dot of light…up ahead,” she panted, now crawling faster. “We’re almost there.”

“Thank God,” he said. “We’ll be free…of those bastards.”

“The light…is getting bigger,” she said. “This is it.”

They started crawling faster, in eager anticipation of their soon-to-come freedom.

Then, from behind, they heard the squealing sounds…like a million screeching violins in a crescendo.

“Oh, no,” she said with shaking breaths.

“Let’s hurry…before they get us…Be brave!” he said. Suddenly, though, he felt an army of worm-like things crawling up his legs. “Oh, God! They’re on me!”

“Oh, my God! Frank! No!”

She looked back and saw the short, glowing Creeps, wiggling in colours of blue, yellow, green, and orange, some crawling past him and towards her, others crawling all over his body, aiming for his ass and head.

Before he could close his buttocks in time, one of those things slithered inside his anus. He screamed and jerked his whole body, banging against the walls, roof, and floor of the tunnel, as the Creep slid deep inside his rectum, then into his intestines as fast as mercury. It wiggled inside, tickling him; then other Creeps made their way inside, one in his right ear, one up his left nostril, two in his mouth, and another up his ass.

He kept banging his head and limbs against the walls of the tunnel in all helplessness as he endured the unbearable tickling…so unbearable that he ignored the pain of his bruised and bloody toes and fingers.

Then the first Creep settled in his intestines…

…and the burning began.

“Oh! Oh! It’s hot!” he groaned.

“Frank! Frank! Oh, God, don’t die on me!” she bawled, slowing her crawling, confused over whether to go back and help him or flee the approaching Creeps.

He moaned in pain at first, then the ball of fire he felt inside himself grew, burning holes in his internal organs. He felt the fire cut into his stomach.

“Ah! It’s burning!” he screamed, coughing blood, his body now shaking and writhing with as much violence as that of the burning Creep. Then his body went limp and he lost consciousness, falling on the floor of the tunnel.

So horrified was she by his death, always sobbing and shaking, that she hadn’t noticed the Creeps crawling up her legs.

Then she snapped out of it.

“Oh, God!” she shrieked, trying to close her legs; but one of those things was too fast for her, and it slid inside her vagina.

Her whole body shook. She screamed, putting two fingers inside to try to scoop it out, then two other Creeps slinked in. They got past her flickering fingers and joined the first, deep inside her now. Then one of those wigglers crept inside her anus.

“Oh!”

The three inside her vagina melted. She felt the ooze permeating her body within seconds, passing through the mucous membranes of her internal organs. The other one snaked up her rectum and into her intestines. As she continued shaking all over, banging against the tunnel walls as Frank had, she softly sobbed.

Am I going to die, too? she wondered.

That worm melted inside her, too, in about the same area of her body as the one that killed Frank, and she could feel its substance pass into her bloodstream and spread throughout her body.

But, what was it?

Would it burn her insides, too? If it was going to do that, she figured it would have already begun burning. It had to be something else. But what? Part of her would have preferred the burning and a quick death to her forced life of prostitution in this hell of a house. She trembled as she waited for it to take effect, for she knew these worm-like Creeps were how her enslavers kept her and all the other nude women and men here under their control.

Soon enough, she began to feel the effect of a drug. She grew light-headed, her body swaying left to right. It almost felt like ecstasy, but it was a depressant rather than a stimulant. Her eyes grew heavy, and the glowing multi-colour Creeps surrounding her grew foggier before her eyes. Her limbs and head grew even heavier, and within a minute she slumped onto the floor of the tunnel and passed out.

Hi! Thanks for visiting my blog!

My blog is called ‘Infinite Ocean’ because–apart from my dialectical monist philosophy, which I hope can help people heal from alienation, C-PTSD and the other effects of narcissistic and emotional abuse–I have a (potentially) infinite number of subjects to write about. I have eclectic interests, so I write on a variety of subjects. Here is a brief explanation of all that I do.

Now, Dear Reader, beware: while I write a lot about such topics as narcissistic abuse, I want to emphasize that I am no expert. I have no formal training in psychiatry or psychology whatsoever; I merely dabble in psychoanalysis, and even that comes only from reading a lot–I’ve never been trained in that field. I say this to prevent any misunderstandings about the efficacy of what I have to say in an attempt to help people heal from psychological trauma; indeed, I myself am healing, and so my writing is just my personal journey, my attempt to heal myself. So feel free to accept or reject whatever I write about here in terms of its worth as advice.

One of the annoyances of doing research is how difficult it is to find appropriate source material from a Google search. Sometimes, the sources I give links to that back up my arguments are passages that are, unfortunately, hard to find within a sea of text. What can I say? I try my best with what little I have; so please, if you choose to read what I write, take it with a generous dose of salt, and if you have serious issues of psychological trauma, seek a qualified expert. My scribblings are no substitute: they’re just me pouring out my feelings, and if they–for what they’re worth–can give you validation or inspiration of some kind, then they’ve done what I meant for them to do, no more.

In addition to the above, I write about anarchism, socialism, libertarian-leaning Marxism, and psychoanalysis, as well as writing literary and film analyses (again, with the same lacunae of authority as there are in my writings on narcissistic abuse). I also write fiction–horror and erotic horror, mostly. Here are links to some of my short stories, as well as to works-in-progress. Here are some poems I’ve written.

Then, there are a few novels I’ve written and self-published on Amazon. (If you’re a sufferer of complex trauma and find horror triggering, I’ll more than understand if you want to skip past the next few paragraphs.)

My Kindle e-book, Sweet, is about a woman who has a disturbing habit: she likes to have men get her pregnant, then a few months after the baby is born, she kills it, cooks it, and eats it. Her latest lover wants to be involved with their baby’s life–how will he stop the mother from ending its life?

…and here are links to my other two Kindle e-books, Vamps, and Wolfgang.

Vamps is a vampire erotic horror novel, about three groups of vampiress strippers/prostitutes who lure lustful men in, then suck…their blood. Vampire hunters, however, are out to get them, and have been exposing them to the lethal sunlight. Someone is helping the hunters find the vamps…is it one of the vamps?

Wolfgang is about a German billionaire who happens to be a werewolf. Racked with guilt over his killings (particularly those of his own parents), he has a young prostitute whip and beat him, in sort of an S & M style, in an attempt to assuage his guilt. She has her own agenda (a lycanthrope fetish!), though, as does his butler (to use the billionaire’s money in ways the butler deems fit). A love triangle develops between the three: who will get control of the money, which two will remain lovers, and who will be the next werewolf?

My next erotic horror novel, Creeps, is a work-in-progress as of the writing of this update. It’s about a prostitution ring that uses small tech put inside worm-like ‘creeps’ that slither into the body, so the tech can take control of the bodies of the people forced into “consenting” prostitution. Two people, a young man and his older sister, discover that a woman friend of theirs is trapped in one of the legalized brothels, and they have to figure out a way to get her out of there. If the mafia ring (protected by a corrupt government) catches the woman’s two friends, though, creeps may be used on them to keep them quiet…permanently.

Anyway, I hope you have fun looking around at all of the different topics I’ve been writing about, and I hope you find some that interest you enough to make you want to follow me. Cheers!

Bury Larry

The following is another excerpt from my upcoming horror novel, ‘Sweet’.  This scene comes immediately after the other excerpt from ‘Sweet’ that I posted two nights ago.  

Larry woke up in a hot, confined space, pitch black.  He bumped his head, arms, and feet against what felt like wood.  He could barely move his limbs more than a a few centimetres; his head no more than a few millimetres.  Bits of dirt fell on his face and hands.  He spat out the dirt that had fallen on his mouth, then agitatedly reached for a pen light in his pants pocket.  His sore back rubbed abrasively against a flat wooden surface.

In such a small space, it was hard to get his hand in and out of the pocket, but he managed.  He switched it on with a trembling hand and tried to make out where he was: he had been put in some kind of small, rectangular box, his legs bent uncomfortably so he’d fit.  His body was forcibly curled into a tight fetal position; and there were thin slits between the boards of wood that the box was made of, with dirt falling through the slits and onto his body.

He’d been buried alive!

He gasped, then screamed and shuffled in the box, but more dirt fell on his face, silencing him.  Not wanting any more dirt to fall on him, he just sat still, and started to sob in despair.

Connie, you crazy bitch, he thought; What have you done to me?

Already, the air was getting thin.

Suddenly, he thought he heard faint digging sounds, which grew louder.  Was somebody digging him out?

Soon, he heard the sound of a shovel knocking against the wood and causing more dirt to slip through the cracks and onto his face.  No matter: someone was saving his life!

Is it Connie? he wondered; Did she only briefly bury me alive to scare me away?  No, that’s ridiculous: she murdered her own son; murdering me would have been all the easier for her conscience, assuming she even has one.

When pretty much all the dirt was dug off, a hand started pulling on the wood to rip it off.  Larry tried to kick and punch the wood, but still he could barely move at all.  He pushed up with his hands and feet, and with the help of his unknown helper, finally the top board was ripped off.

Larry saw a hoary man, in his sixties, it seemed.  The man reached down to help Larry up.

Larry came out of the box, shaking and with trauma beaming from his agape eyes.  He spastically walked a few steps toward the old man’s nearby truck.

“You OK?” the old man asked.  “Stupid question, I know, but I don’t know what else to say.”

“I-I’m better than a few m-minutes ago, anyway,” Larry stammered.  “Thank you.”

“I’m amazed I had the strength to dig you outta there,” the old man said.  Then he put out his hand to shake Larry’s.  “I’m Joe, Joe Hill.”

“Larry Goodman,” Larry said, not able to tell if his hand was shaking from shaking Joe’s, or from his continued state of shock.  “And I am more pleased to meet you…than anyone else ever has been…and ever will be, I can confidently say.”

“Yeah, that was a close call, all right,” Joe said.  “I got here right after that woman drove away, down that road.”  Joe pointed in the direction he’d seen her car go.

“Connie.”

“You know her.”

“Of course,” Larry said, finally beginning to calm down.  We had a…disagreement about what our baby’s future sh-should be like.”

“She’s your wife?”

“No, a one-night stand…gone psychotically wrong.”

“I can see that,” Joe said.  “How old’s your baby?”

“Not born yet.  Connie’s about a month pregnant, and she has plans…for that baby, plans she knows…I won’t ever accept.”

“What plans?”

Larry looked Joe hard in the face, took a deep breath, and said, “She wants to wait…till the baby’s about…a month or two old, I suppose.”  He leaned closer to Joe.  “Then she’ll kill it, cook it, and eat it.”

“Jesus Christ, what a sick bitch.”

‘I’ve gotta stop her.  Look, I hate to impose on you after all you’ve done, but can you please drive me to Toronto, to the police?”

“I can drive you there tomorrow,” Joe said.  “Right now, I can barely stand, I’m so exhausted.”

“Same here.  I understand.”

“Let’s come up to my house, and you can sleep there for the night.  I have a spare bedroom with your name on it.  You hungry?”

“No, she fed me well at her house earlier tonight.  Normal food, of course,” Larry said as they got into the truck.  “She drugged my wine, though, then took me here.”

Joe put his key in the ignition switch.  “This may take a while,” Joe said as he started the ignition.  “This beat-up old truck takes forever…” The truck started immediately.  “Well, thank you!  Goddamn piece of shit.  Why couldn’t you start this quickly before?  I could’ve gotten Larry out sooner.”

“Truck’s seen better days, eh?”

“Everything on my damn farm has seen better days.  I don’t even have a decently functioning cell-phone or computer.”  They started going back to his house.

Larry checked his own phone, for he was eager to call the police.  “Oh, dammit.  My phone’s battery just ran out.  I’ll have to inform the police tomorrow.”

“Let’s just go up to my house and get a good night’s sleep, OK?” Joe said.

“OK, but after what just happened, I’m not sure if I will sleep at all tonight, or any night.”

***************

Larry saw black all around him.  He was hot, and cramped in, barely able to move more than fidgeting.  Dirt was falling on his face.  He spat the dirt out, found the air getting thinner and thinner, his life slowly leaving him…

“Unh!” he gasped, waking up with a jerk.  He looked around his dark surroundings nervously: under him, a soft, comfy bed; to his left, white curtains around a large window that let in just a little moonlight; in front, across from the foot of the bed was a mirror over a dresser drawer, allowing him to see the shadow of a reflection of himself; and to his right, a closet with folding doors.  Immediately to the right of the head of the bed was a bedside table with an old Mickey Mouse telephone on it.  A clock radio was beside the phone: it was about 4:25 am.

Larry remembered: old farmer Joe’s spare bedroom.  Larry let out a big sigh of relief, let his head drop down on the pillow, and tried to relax.  After an hour or so of fidgeting fearfully, he fell asleep.

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