Did He Really Ever Have It?

He couldn’t decide if it’s worse to lose it or to never have had it to begin with. Waking up in a cold sticky sweat he looks in the corner hoping it will still be there. For a year the pulsating sac was there emanating a fear that he could use throughout the day. It was a drug that he hated. The nightmares and paranoia were not worth the words he put on the page. But, now it’s gone and he is afraid that it never existed.

He wanted to be a writer for as long as he could remember. Reading was a passion, but he could never find the story that he wanted, so he decided that he would write it. At first it was stories about love and teenagers, but those never hit the core of what he wanted. Then his stories were about depressing individuals that lived tough lives and could never win. Those stories were closer to what he wanted, and would eventually morph into what he desired, horror stories. It was around then that he noticed the fleshy sac growing on the wall of his bedroom, a color of dead skin left in a swamp for far too long.

Staring at the corner now, he thinks about the night that he discovered the sac. After a long boring day at work and a fight with his wife, his night of sleep was spent tossing and turning, hating the clock for bringing the sun and another day of work. When he got up to go to the bathroom he saw the sickly glow of something in the corner. At first he thought that it might have come from a street light shining through their bedroom window, or something reflected in the mirror on the opposite wall of their room. He turned the bathroom light on and went back into their bedroom to see what was on the wall. The glow came from a sac that was about the size of a quarter and hung low like a pregnant woman ready to give birth. Sticky strands of mucus held it to the wall, but there was no trace of how it got there. Inside the sac something moved, but the skin was too thick for him to see what it was. He felt a twinge of fear and creativity as he stared at the sac and his mind grasped the mixture hungrily and caused him to throw up his first horror story on paper.

The next couple of months were a blur of ignoring everything else in his life except writing. At work, at home, throughout the night, all of it focused on writing stories of horror and fear. He remembers those as good times, before he overdosed on the fear the sac fed him and his life took a terrible turn. Now sitting on his bed in the dark he looks over to the empty space on his bed, just one part of his life that was ruined from his addiction. He barely remembers his wife leaving, telling him he needed to get some help. He was glued to his computer, furiously pounding the keys, didn’t even have the strength to look up as she left. While this happened, the sac kept growing and sending out more waves of fear.

The paranoia and fear started out as simple everyday things. While at work he would fear that his boss would catch him working on his writing more than projects. Or he would worry that the police would pull him over because he was speeding home to get back onto his computer. Holding his head in his hands with his knees up to his chest, he laughs at himself thinking about those little fears and how they were nothing compared to how much his fear grew the last couple of months. He isn’t sure if the paranoia grew the fear or if the fear grew the paranoia, all he knows is that it was harder and harder for him to leave his house. There was some solace in front of his computer screen, but he had to plaster the wall behind the screen with mirrors to make sure nothing would sneak up behind him. Something was always just on the outside of his vision, or just leaving the hallway he was entering. At night he would feel tiny bugs crawling on his skin, and it would take ten minutes of fighting with himself to try to get out of bed to go to the bathroom, afraid something would grab his leg and pull him under the bed. But, his biggest fear was the sac opening and losing his muse.

Those months after his wife left and the fear got worse he was churning out great horror stories that he posted on his website. And as those stories got popular the sac on the wall got bigger. He can’t understand how the sac is gone now. It was such a part of his life, taking those fears and pouring them out in his stories. He can now admit that the paranoia and terror he felt was what he needed to make his stories better. Sweating on his bed, scared to move, he knew that he couldn’t write like that anymore. The only fear he has now is what happened to the sac. It ruined his marriage, and any friendship he had. His only focus was the horror stories, and it’s all gone now.

Slowly, he puts his legs on the ground and walks toward the wall. There is no trace that the sac was ever there. He touches the wall and is truly afraid. Was it ever there? Running to his bedside table he turns on his laptop and opens up the story he was working on. Staring at the text on the screen he sees the rambling of a mad man. It’s just gibberish, a crazy rant on murder and monsters. He doesn’t remember writing any of it. He logs on to his blog and sees that it’s full of the same. Some of his first stories on the blog make sense and are decent, but the later stories are incoherent and are just scenes of senseless violence. No plot, no character development, no conclusion, just a journal of a lunatic. The comments on the stories are either people offering phone numbers to get help or saying they are going to call the police.

Sitting down next to the wall he starts to cry. After what seems like days he feels the caress of a large insectoid creature cradling him and telling him everything will be okay. The creature stings him in the neck and he falls back to sleep to dream about a life he wish he had.

Pushing through everyday

This isn't fiction, more of a note on writing everyday.  

I have a bit of an active imagination that plagues me all the time.  It is a blessing and a curse.  I can come up with a sweet story very easily, but sometimes this pops up when I'm in the middle of a story.  It sucks because I want to jump onto that train to see where that might lead and leave the one I'm currently on.  I currently have about three trains running and this is very frustrating. 

When I started writing, I promised myself that I would finish whatever I'm working on before starting something else.  I have read multiple writing blogs and author's thoughts on writing, and usually one of their main rules is to finish what you start.  I liked this idea and am trying to adopt it.  But, it's hard when the new story idea sounds sweet and you are stuck in the middle of a story that you are not sure what the end will be like. 

I can't give any advice on how to do this.  I'm just like you, a guy trying to capture thoughts squirming in my head and smash them down on paper.  I set a goal of a page a day.  Even if that page sucks, at least it's out on the page where I can later get embarrassed about what I wrote and change it. 

The story I'm working on now is fun, basically my take on a slasher movie.  I'm deep in the story and discovering new things each day.  I like trying to deconstruct a horror movie and filtering it through my head, making it my way.  But, being in the middle of it is hard because I want to get it out to people and get on to my next idea, I think it's going to be about a children's tv show host trapped in the world they created.  It sounds like a great story and I'm ready to see what horrible place I can put them into and torment them with. 

Anyway, if you are writing and are stuck, just remember I'm there with you.  Haunted by words that tease you and then scuttle away before you can get them, hiding in the corners waiting to poke at you when you aren't ready.

Welcome

Hi, I'm Matt and this is going to be blog of my horror fiction.  I have been a closet writer for years, scribbling in notebooks and on Word but never sharing anything.  After getting inspired by multiple famous type people about just doing what you love and making it work, I've decided to try my hand at sharing my stories. 

I am a huge horror fan, ask my wife, friends or my Netflix Que.  I have always been a fan of the genre and feel like I can at least contribute to it.  This blog will collect my little bits of horror fiction that I have been writing down and hopefully give you a little something to think about when in your house in the dark. 

I'm going to do my best to not give you another zombie, werewolf, vampire, apocalypse story, but I can't say those horror tropes won't cross this blog.  They are all apart of horror, no matter if it's a trend now or not.  Stephen King has covered just about all of those topics, yet you don't see teenage girls wearing shirts with Barlow on them, proving that you don't have to be trendy with teenagers to write about them.  But, having been heavily influenced by King as well as Harlan Ellison, Rob Zombie, George Romero, Ray Bradbury, Eli Roth, Ti West, and countless B-movies, I will do my best to give you creepy horror stories that might have you question my mind.

Now, being a blog and just a part time writer guy, these stories might be a little rough.  I'm sorry for that, but am completely open to you giving me writing advice, I'm a military guy I can take it.  I just want to get it out there, forcing me to continue to write, they say you should write every day to make yourself better, well that's what this is.  So, if I have two readers or a 1000, I'm going to just give you what I can.

Thanks and enjoy.