There are some places in Texas I advise you to go to: San Antonio. Austin. Poteet. Dallas. La Vernia. Just to name a few if you want to experience real Texas in a breathtaking way.
And then there’s Kosciusko, Texas, a place that I would never bring up in normal conversation. It’s a place you don’t go to. It’s a place you drive far away from when nighttime falls. It’s a place where your car stops and stalls and you feel sweat beading down your neck as you try to jiggle the keys in fear.
You don’t go to Kosciusko. Ever.
Pull up Google maps and try to find the town–here’s a hint. You won’t. You’ll go immediately to a marker labeled “Kosciusko Meat Market” but no indicator that there’s a town anywhere. There’s no street name called Kosciusko Street or Avenue. Just “Kosciusko Meat Market”.
It’s really more or less an abandoned town. Only about ten people reside there and country separates them all in between. There’s a meat market, like I said, and an old dance hall that people used to go to back in the 1970s. There used to be a school who resided there but they merged with Poth ISD way back in the 1970s.…
Around me are the sounds of panic and horror. Gunshots fill the once silence air and people in white lab coats are screaming and running past my room. I know they are because I can see them through the reflective wall that shows my own reflection. How is this possible you might ask? Well, I was once the hope for humanity. This is how it began.
I was thirteen and still had some sort of life stitched together if you could call it that. My father was nonexistent and my mother trying to form a life out of broken pieces scattered all over the floor. I had no social life; I still find it very hard to open up to people and even share my ideas. I was a loner and my only friends were books.
I always knew there was something wrong with me; I never talked to anyone which made people think I was dim-witted, but I’m actually very smart. In seventh grade I was taking Algebra and so on. Next is the fact I hear voices.
I shouldn’t say voices. It’s mostly one voice telling me what will happen. The bombing of 9/11 or a volcano that will bring the deaths of thousands across the globe.…
Mandy watched the girl on the television run.
She was about thirty minutes into Halloween and honestly she was unimpressed. Was this really what she was staying up past her bedtime for? Was this really worth the risk of her mother finding out that she was not in fact really asleep, preparing for the next day in which she would go to school and learn just like the good children?
Mandy was only ten, but scary movies fascinated her enough that she decided, yes, this was worth it. It was worth every minute, of watching the young girls run on the screen. They were usually blonde, with big chests that nearly popped out of their shirts as they frantically tried to escape the guy with the knife. But it was funny to Mandy, because the guy with the knife never seemed to be chasing them. No, he was simply walking after them.
She supposed, that when people were truly afraid of you, you didn’t need to try. They would do something stupid and slip up, and you would catch them. And then after that was Mandy’s favorite part. After that was when the pretty girls got tackled to the ground and the man in the mask would stick his knife right into them.…
To whoever receives this letter, these are the final words of me, Cynthia J. Hill. They will sound like the ramblings of a mad woman, but I swear I am and have been of sound mind. It happened something like this:
Three weeks ago, I was dumped. There is no better way to put it. My boyfriend of two years dropped me like yesterday’s trash on the side of the road. I was taken completely off guard.I moved out of our shared home and found an apartment two days later. It was cheap, and I mean dirt cheap. It was technically the upstairs of some super old farm house out in the middle of nowhere, but it had a kitchen, a bedroom, and a bathroom and that’s all a person really needs,right? As I moved in with my depressingly small amount of personal items, I noticed that there was no one living in the downstairs section of the house. I was all alone.
My troubles started the following day. As I was unpacking my bedroom, I noticed the closet. Well, not the closet exactly, but what was in the back of the closet: a board had been nailed haphazardly to the back wall.…
I knew Susie since she was about three years old.
Me and Emma had been what you might have called childhood sweethearts (even though it never went past holdin’ hands and a peck on the cheek one evenin’ whilst we were sat on her doorstep), and even when we both went our separate ways in our lives, we stayed firm friends, so naturally, when her younger sister said she was havin’ a baby, I was almost as excited as Emma was. Emma’s sister was called Charlie- truth be told, she was never much to look at when she was growin’ up, but by the time she hit about 22, maybe 23, there wasn’t an eye in town that wasn’t lookin’ her way. I can’t even deny it myself. She fell for a local boy, Lou, and they got married the summer after they first met. Whole town turned out to see it, me included. Both of ‘em beautiful and both of ‘em real happy. And they announced they were havin’ a baby a month or two later, and went and called her Susie. But then I guess life plays some pretty mean hands, cos Lou went out in his car one day to watch the game and never came home.…
I hear them every night: the screams.
It is always very quiet before they begin. Silence settles upon every single house and shop and person as all await the psychological plague they know is fast approaching. During this silence, it is as if, for a moment, our whole world comes to an ice-cold standstill. Color and feeling and life leave us behind in a dark, horrifying void. And, just when we think it will never end, the sound of hell is released into the streets. In but a moment, the silence which echoes so loudly in the mind is replaced by shrill, pained cries that rip through the air, the mind, and the soul like a knife.
I used to cry and cover my ears, when I was young and scared and blind. I would try my best to block out the sound, to convince myself that it wasn’t real, to do anything to make the agony stop. However, over the years, I have come to realize that there is no escaping the merciless grip of reality. I now force myself to listen to what I know is the truth. It could save me, after all.
You see, these screams belong to a specific group.…
“BRING THAT ONE UP!”
A blinding light explodes in my eyes and a rough claw nearly rips my arm out of its socket. I am being dragged by my t-shirt over a jagged wooden floor, splinters ripping off into my calves, but I can’t feel them. My vision starts to clear as I lift my hand to my head. I feel around and draw back a hand full of sticky blood. I hear a slam behind me and a voice shout out,
“LOOKS LIKE WE’VE GOT A LIVE ONE!”
The screams and jeers rip through the air as pounding feet and hands on the ground shake the floor beneath me. I open my eyes again to see metal bars surrounding me on all sides. I lift my hand up to one bar and smear blood down it. The cheering blasts in a second wave at the sight of my movement.
“WHO HAS SOMETHING FOR THIS ONE?”
The voice blasts in my ear, feet away from me. Louder shouts resonate all around me as I become more aware of my surroundings. Looking through the bars I see…people everywhere. But they aren’t like people I’ve ever seen before; they look like a mangled idea of what a person should be.…
Growing up my father always told me I was a follower, not a leader. On an almost daily basis he would say to me, “Boy, you have got to forge your own path in life, instead of fooling around with those knuckleheads you call friends.” He was, of course, correct, but when I was a teenager that kind of wisdom went in one ear and out the other. In my mind I was invincible, I knew everything, and I could get away with anything.
I was wrong. My friends and I fucked with the wrong person. I spent two years in a psychiatric facility and am a shell of the person I was before.
In High School I fell in with the wrong group of friends. We were a merry band of burnouts, jocks, and assholes. We all played Junior Varsity football our freshman and sophomore years of school. We clowned around during school, smoked weed before practice, and never saw the field during games. It was no surprise to anyone when we didn’t make the varsity team our junior year of school. We suddenly found ourselves with too much free time on our hands, now that we didn’t have to attend football practice for three hours each day.…
Danny was a necrophiliac, that was no secret to him.
Nightly trips to the graveyard were not uncommon, for lack of a better word, he worked there to begin with. What a deal right? The exact guy who gets his jacks off to dead people got to watch over them every night. Make sure that no one entered the graveyard after hours. No one could see what he was doing. And since he worked so closely with the graveyard, it made his task of cleaning up any messes all the more easy. He had perfected his timing with everything.
Though there was only one issue.
Danny only went for the new bodies. He wanted the ones that still had flesh on them, although, yes they did stink a little more considering they were in the decomposing process.
But recently Danny had not been lucky enough in getting newer bodies.
He shook his head, sending shaggy brown hair falling into his face, as he looked over the graveyard. All old dirt, all completely settled into the ground. Most of them were headstones with the typical writing on them that said ” Loving husband and father” or even “Born too soon and gone too soon” and stuff of the nature.…
Joseph sat slumped on the sofa, staring into the darkness beyond the patio windows. The only light source being a dim lamp on a side table. Any light would have done for him to ease the fear he had of ‘the Bad Man’. He had hurt Joseph’s neck, and when he had awoken the next night, Joseph wanting to do the same to others.
He glanced at the clock on the wall.
Smiling, he knew it would soon be time.
Another few minutes.
Joseph listened to the ticks of the clock counting the seconds away. He knew he should be in bed sleeping, but he couldn’t resist staying up late to see what happened. Also, his stomach was rumbling to be fed. It was getting so bad he was sure it was punching him.
While he waited, Joseph sang to himself, some of the words he had forgotten as every third or fourth word was an attempt, then back to pieces he remembered. Usually his mother sang with him, helping with the words, but she was busy in the kitchen – least that’s what he had come to think.
The singing came to an abrupt stop as the clock chimed the hour he’d been so anxiously waiting for.…