Résultats de "Mace Styx" dans Toutes les catégories

Becca was not allowed to be touched by other men, not even the tip of her fingers nor a strand of her hair. The very first time I witnessed this issue was when a male customer shook Becca’s hand when he made a hefty purchase of her designs. Anybody would have known that it was a mere form of polite gesture, but I noticed that her husband was staring at them until the customer walked out of the shop.

Short Stories by Mace Styx: "The hour was so late (or early, depending on how you looked at it) that she barely saw anyone as she padded silently from the castle, through the winding cobbled streets. The letter she had was burning in her hand and she still had the blade she had used to slit the King’s throat. If a member of the city watch found her, she was worse than dead. Still, she felt oddly calm".

Short stories by Mace Styx: "The grave keeper opened the door, stepping awkwardly outside at such an unbearably slow pace Jonah wanted to scream. “Where is it, this grave you saw?” he asked, vaguely, as though Jonah had informed him that he’d left the kettle on. “Over there, near the tree.” Jonah told him, pointing. “I dropped my lantern right next to it.” “I’ll take a look,” he said, still speaking as if finding the earth broken open was a mild, everyday inconvenience. “You wait right here".

How Sharaign met her end is not recorded. Whether some hero did eventually succeed in bringing her to heel we shall never know. Though there are complimentary legends about the crozier of St. Dunstan, a saint already famed for his battles with the devil, being used to strike her dead. What is recorded, is what was done with her remains. For those who don’t know, a "cairn" is a roughly assembled pile of loose rocks. They usually consist of larger rocks at the bottom with smaller fragments balanced precariously on top the higher it becomes.

I called for Archie then, shouting at the top of my lungs and hoping that perhaps she had escaped to the outside, or was on her way to my house. I lifted my phone to call her and saw a video clip she had sent. Feeling the tension drain from my body as relief washed over me like a wave, I sighed, assuming that this message would tell me exactly where she was, that she was safe and that the worst I would then be faced with was an embarrassing conversation with the police. As it turned out, only the last of these was true.

Mayor Wilfred was not the kind of person that would willingly accept interviews, but for some reason, he needed the aid of our service to send alarming news. Apparently, the mayor’s daughter, Elsa Elborne, suddenly went missing. Officer Warren was the first face I saw when I went to the town hall. This newly recruited police just also moved in to the island a few months ago, and he was still in the process of trying to impress the chief and earn a permanent position. Although I didn’t bother to ask, my guess was he probably volunteered himself to solve this serious case.

Standing against the trunk of the oak tree was a man. His hair was silver, but not in a way that made him look old - it glinted faintly in the patches of light that punch through the crown of branches above. For a moment, Tansy wondered if maybe her eyes were playing tricks on her. That often happened when she was tired; she’d see something out of the corner of her eye and think it was something entirely different. When she blinked, though, he was still standing there, with a concerned look on his face.

It was a Monday. Monday was the day grandma got her medicine. She took some pill that some white-coated doctor told us would keep her alive, if only for a little while. I walked to the pharmacy, a couple of blocks away, through the rain. Careful to avoid the divots and dips in the beat-up sidewalk where puddles were beginning to form. There’s an old store that sells rugs and carpets between Grandma’s and the pharmacy.

I had to admit it to myself. I am lost. ''What should I do now?'', I said. I did the only thing I could think of at the moment. I started yelling. ''Daaaaad. Dad where are you?'' No response. Just a sound of the wind and cracking branches. I had a choice to make. I can keep going, or turn around and get back to my car. The second choice sounded better, but how can I leave my father. He is probably in pain, still waiting for me, and probably worrying sick about me.

Further examination revealed that the "model" was in fact an actual human body - stripped of its skin and preserved by a process very similar to that used by Dr. Van Hagens. Reading of this singular event, I decided to do some digging and upon examining the list of special effects artists on the film in question, stumbled across a name that struck me as familiar. Familiar, because its owner, one Rene Toubain, had also worked on a film, in which large sections of the action took place in the catacombs of Paris and in particular, in the section with the additional skulls.

Ms. Warner could not help thinking of the burnt streaks that ran down the sides of the tiny carcass she had disposed of that day. The scalded paths that seemed to have seared through the fur and flesh of the poor animal. She had almost gagged at the unpalatable similarity between that vision and this highly detailed effigy. The story was fantastical. One that I knew would be embellished and exaggerated and probably be recycled with alternative names as a spook story to scare children for years to come.

Of course he hadn’t, you would tell yourself. He was pinned in place, the same place, forever. Still you’d have to check. Perhaps, because for every second you tried not to look at him, you’d feel him looking at you. Then you’d look up, and it would be too late. Mr. Adderly’s scarecrow, nicknamed "Black eyed Jack" was around the size of an average man, but was of a curiously lifelike composition.

“You mean…you’re not coming in with me?” Hayley asked, feeling something in her stomach drop, though she didn’t know what she’d been expecting. Amber flashed Hayley a smile that was half-regret, half pitying.

We passed in front of the men, some of whom gave me angry stares. I laughed inwardly. How easy it was for them to blame another for their own misfortune. I knew some had their eyes on my navigator, while others affixed theirs on me. I had often been the subject of many an attention, but I hardly indulged in such subtle fantasies. Only once in my very long life have I had anyone who could afford me the pleasures I desired. Others had only managed to while away my time. A commodity I possess in excess.

Upon the occasion of her own demise, Mary Seacomb was buried, as was her wish, between the roots of the tree - despite the malevolent elements of her work and the fact that she was expressly forbidden from entering any of the church buildings within the surrounding areas. Accounts and parish records from the time reveal that she was regarded as something of an asset to the local area. This was particularly on account of her apparent ability to shield the town and a number of local villages from the effects of the black death.

Darryl stared at her, wanting to tell her to knock it off, that the joke wasn’t funny. But Crystal stared back at him blankly, watching him struggling to even form basic questions. He knew she wasn’t kidding. It was an animalistic instinct that words didn’t have the hope of matching. Logic and reason had left the building.

"Bob, you need to get here as soon as possible. I think someone broke in last night." "What? Don't you think you should have started with that?" "I thought it was you. That is why I called you," I said, already panicking. "I am on my way. Call the police and get out of there now. Someone could still be in there." He ended the call, and I just stood there, looking around, trying to find the courage to pick up the phone and call them. I don't know why but I thought it would be a good idea to look around first. To see if there was any money or stuff missing.

With the children of the village, "Greenfinger Tom" was not only a suspect, but irrefutably guilty of any number of crimes. A neighborhood boogeyman for decades, he was used by older kids to taunt their siblings and frighten them into obedience. “If you get out of that bed again, Greenfinger Tom will get you,” seems to have been a common threat used by mothers and fathers who had themselves sprinted past Greenfinger’s garden if they were forced to pass after dusk.

A few hours later, wafting into the room with the supercilious air of confidence peculiar to those who know they are to speak on a subject upon which they are unlikely to be challenged came Mavis Clay, adorned in a flowing white dress that seemed to be more ruffles than stitching and sat herself like Christ in Da Vinci’s painting of the Last Supper in the center of the long table, whilst historians, experts, and the duke himself flanked her like apostles, on either side.

I ran back on the bed and cowered under the sheets once again. “It’s just a dream. It’s just a dream.” I kept on repeating this line inside my head to convince myself that what I saw wasn’t true. Even though I cannot make out what this person looked like from afar, those glowing red eyes was more than enough to terrify me for years. The sequence between the hoots gradually grew longer, but every single one drew closer and closer.