Warning to Horror Writers

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
They watch you from the shadows....

Submitted: July 25, 2016

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Submitted: July 25, 2016



Writing about the occult is a dangerous business. The threat does not come from this world, but from a shadowed pit beyond. When you immerse yourself in the grim power of the macabre in search of ghoulish secrets, you cannot avoid attracting the ill-omened attention of hideous phantasms of darkness and fear. When I took up my pen to compose Bloodstone & Broomcorn: Curse of the W.I.T.C.H., I had no way of knowing that I was opening a door to a laughing chaotic madness which I would not be able to close.
In actuality, I should have suspected the danger, because a serpentine green dragon with ruby red lips and fangs like daggers, blood-soaked in the reek of death, had appeared to me on a wall when I was very young. Late one afternoon shortly before dusk, I inexplicably followed the echo of a haunting, piping melody that lured me down a backwoods trail which wound and twisted its blighted path through ferocious, poisonous briers and brambles into the malefic heart of a slimy, gloomy swamp wherein I saw a wall rise from a noxious quagmire.
Odd seeing a wall in the eerie bog of a miasma shrouded swamp, but nonetheless, there it was, reaching from the stinking, festering mud to high up amid the sagging, barren branches of cancerous cypress that brooded like demonic gargoyles, all but totally obliterating the last crimson spangles of the dying day. I found myself utterly immobilized; panic-stricken in debilitating fright. I was rendered entirely helpless before the towering bulk of a solid wall of writhing skulls, putrescent yellow with the steep of purgatory and smeared grotesquely in foul-smelling, gray-green goo.  In hopeless despair, I worried that my end had surely come.
Amid a nerve-wracking onslaught of doomsday thundering and time-warping lightning the leviathan soothsaying dragon materialized out of toxic vapors that seeped from the agony of tainted skulls. From the rancid effluvium of the fanged abomination’s smoldering breath the words he spoke in guttural dissonance formed before my wide, disbelieving eyes as a whirling tempest of flies gorged to obesity on the decaying flesh of maggot-infested carrion.
"Beware the Witch’s Curse," croaked the portentous dragon, "avoid the unknown abysses of the forbidden occult, young man, for in those night-steeped grottoes of mystery, strange horrors do lurk in merciless gluttony to feast upon the screaming bones of the unwary!"
I should have heeded the warning of that oracle gorgon. A gypsy is a gypsy whether she be clad in multi-colored robes or iridescent scales. I should have chosen to write about flowers and butterflies instead of thorny vines and gangrenous rot, as now every step I take is stalked by dusky, shapeless forms of mocking menace. From the corner of my eye, I see hideous monstrosities abnormal beyond description. I dread to walk around corners for fear that some fiendish beast of gory nightmare is crouched and waiting to rend my spirit from sanctity. I hear sinister unearthly voices whispering my name from dank, cobweb-filled crannies. I cannot enter a room unless the light is turned on. I have barricaded all the closet doors of my abode so that no skulking thing may slink upon me in vile stealth. I cower in stark terror at the setting of the sun. Thunder and lightning have become my Nemesis. I spend my days in sporadic, fitful sleep because I dare not close my eyes after dark.
No matter how many times you walk down the block and see that crack in the sidewalk beneath the dingy glow of the fizzing, weakening streetlamp, do NOT let yourself begin to wonder how that crack got there in the first place. Don’t let yourself fall into the gross error of speculating about what loathsome, unnameable blasphemy is glaring up at you from down in that insidious fissure of sooty mindless pandemonium with unadulterated malice in its vicious, glowing red eyes.
It’s too late for me now, because the diabolical necromancy, of which pagan knowledge I sought mastery, has crawled from the sepulchral depths to engulf my mind and my life in the soul-festering Curse of the W.I.T.C.H.
So for those of you who fancy yourself horror writers and practitioners of the terror tale, I beseech thee, turn away now from such an ill-chosen quest before your book casts upon you the apocalyptic fate that Bloodstone & Broomcorn: Curse of the W.I.T.C.H. has irreversibly hurled upon me.

In the early decades of the twenty-first century, an elusive force as subtle, powerful, and all-pervading as gravity is draining conscious awareness from the human population of Earth. The entity is cunning, insidious, bent on its virulent plot to eat the faculty of free will from the mind of every man, woman, and child of our world. The little girl who cries tears of blood in the mirror is not an illusion. The seance invokes an unhallowed visitant. The old woman who lives alone in the swamp knows the apocryphal secret of the ancient emptiness whose insatiable hunger can never be assuaged. A mediocre fellow ( Dalton T. Broome ) from a Midwest town becomes infected with a consuming obsession to expose the malevolent agency that has the alarming skill of methodically devouring its victims bit by dehumanizing bit while they remain ignorant of its sinister existence. A two-hundred-year-old remote seaside inn with a shadowed history is the core from which the deceitful abomination butchers the naive who are its prey.

W.I.T.C.H. - a cabalistic occult acronym, the meaning of which Broome is destined to learn the hard way - lurks in the rapidly spreading psychological pandemic. Dalton Broome is a man who feels hopelessly lost. The Roofies are out to get him! The course of his life haunts him with failure upon failure. He hears voices inside his head. His awkwardly small feet and his deformed nose rob him of such luxuries as confidence and self esteem.

How does bloodstone relate to broomcorn? Mayans, deep space, human teeth, a deck of cards, ancient secret societies - how can these widely disparate, yet intricately linked, clues guide an urban misfit to a profound revelation which holds the key to restoring his alienated dignity and rescuing our species from annihilation in the oblivion of the gluttonous craving of the vast, unfathomable, abyssal Void?


© Copyright 2018 Sean Terrence Best. All rights reserved.

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