The Red Moon

The Red Moon

Status: In Progress

Genre: Horror

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Status: In Progress

Genre: Horror

Houses:

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Summary

The local folklore of the Red Moon, seems to not be as false as people have been led to believe. Mysterious evil effects causing painful sores to break out among the unwary people. Damion Willis, a family man, with a loving wife, becomes victim, when the Devil possesses his body to do his bidding. A war between God and the Devil.
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Summary

The local folklore of the Red Moon, seems to not be as false as people have been led to believe. Mysterious evil effects causing painful sores to break out among the unwary people. Damion Willis, a family man, with a loving wife, becomes victim, when the Devil possesses his body to do his bidding. A war between God and the Devil.

Chapter1 (v.1) - Chapter One

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: February 02, 2017

Reads: 60

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Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: February 02, 2017

A A A

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Afrightening night as the moon glowed a bright red, seemingly dripping blood. Even the clouds appeared to show nervousness towards it and silhouetted its edges. The Kulu tribe; savages of the Amazon Rain forest, believed the gods turned the moon to blood as a sign of anger for their actions.

All the male members of the tribe gathered every night at the passing of dusk when it was said they were under the governance of the night god. Legend has it, that their ancestors were nearly wiped out, like a mice infestation at a pest control company building centuries ago, on a night of the red sun. That night upon their gathering to do a ritualistic cleansing dance and prayer for forgiveness, it happened again...only this time...worse.

Damion Willis sat in his 95' Toyota Corolla, with a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, as his wife, Joanne shouted at him from the opened front door of their duplex townhouse in Queens, New York. A small woman standing at 4'11'' with auburn hair, and enough fiery whim to take down a professional wrestler, like a bag of shit dropped from a sixth-story window.

As he listened to his wife bantering on with her lips flapping, his mind slipped away, slowly blurring her words until they were no more than a muffled noise. As was his trick most anytime she got like this, and according to her, was the reason she got like it in the first place. But he didn't care. He couldn't take to her bantering about stuff he found difficult to remember much less do. So he just sat there and thought about how the Jays beat the Yankees last night. Damn Jays, never wins a game till they play against his team, losing like they are purposefully tantalizing him.

Suddenly realizing she was still mouthing off, he thought this is it. I’m going to stand up on this damn pedal any second if she doesn’t shut up. Somehow clenching his grip on the wheel tighter till his hands hurt. Without even realizing it, still in his anger induced daydream, she opened the car door. His focus snapped back to reality, training his eyes on her, nervously. His anger suddenly subsiding as if in fear of her now having access to him from a standing versus his sitting position giving her the upper hand.

Damion Willis! Are you even listening to me?”

Yeah, she was mad alright. “Yes, honey I’m listening to you.”

I hope so. Listen, I don’t mean to be a bitch to you, you know I love you I just feel like you're becoming distant.”

She wasn’t wrong. He had started feeling that way a few weeks ago. Coming from the club; a small pub on the corner down the street where all the cougars hung around looking for young meat, while they pumped their rent money in the VLT’s while their husbands were off working. Just twenty feet from the doorstep he felt nauseous, puked up blood and wings before his vision went dark to a pinhole, and he kissed the asphalt—hard. A kiss that costed him $6000 in dental bills. Along with a nasty mark on his lower lip, four stitches and three cracked teeth leaving crumbs in his mouth. Whatever gut-wrenching virus that climbed up his ass or down his throat must have changed him from the cells up.

He’s had headaches ever since. A strong aching throb enough to make him stomach sick. The Tylenol in the medicine cabinet got the fright of its soon to be over life. As well as his stomach. All the Tylenol started giving him terrible, heat searing ulcers. Which added to his agitation. Not able to afford to take them—not in a financial sense—and unable to afford to take them. Let’s not even get into the projectile diarrhea.

Giving in, realizing she was right he climbed out of the car and they walked back into the house, her eyes never leaving his. Although he wasn’t looking at her, he could tell. He just collapsed on the couch, and felt his eyes shutting the world out. Unbearably tired, he wasn’t even sure how far he would have drove before crashing into a tree. Interrupting his dozing, Jo spoke up.

Honey I think you should go to the hospital and get that looked into, I’ve never seen you so sick.” Jo said. Her eyebrows contorted to a genuine concern as well as disgust. He hasn’t really smelled like roses the past few days. He hasn’t showered either, because he was too off-balance to stand in the shower, and fearful of shitting in the tub water.

I don’t know Jo. I think those doctor goonies are all in it for the money. Trying to stog pills down your neck so they get a check. I’m not going to the doctor until I got a foot in the grave. Then it doesn’t matter what they do. If they kill me I’m already there and if they save me well then good.”

Jo just rolled her eyes and huffed a sigh, admitting defeat against his stubbornness. They didn’t really have the money for unnecessary visits to the doctor so she let him have this one. “Fine. But the moment you get worse you’re going to the hospital.” Pointing a finger at him, before turning and disappearing into the kitchen. Damion not bothering to respond to her, just went back to what he left off doing. Sleeping.

The sickness, or whatever it was nailed him into deep sleep for almost sixteen hours. After the little tiff, she had left for work, slightly apprehensive in fear that he would get worse and wouldn’t be able to drive himself to the hospital. Damion, reduced to that of a child when he was sick with just the minor cold. This would put him into a vegetable state. A lump of furniture tacked to the floor disguised to look like a human being. But she had decided against it, opting to drive back if the need be, and went to work. She could call on her lunch breaks or during any downtime to see how he was and keep monitoring him like that.

He woke up to a blistering headache, almost as if his brains were going to pop a piston straight out through the sides of his cranium. Perhaps they did, but afraid to open his eyes to find out he searched his way to the bathroom, feeling along the wall.

No son, you gotta hold the gun like this here, or you’ll blow your damn shoulder out of socket. And you don’t want that when your horns grow in, now do we?”

Where in the hell did that come from? Now he’s hearing voices? Suddenly the idea of going to the hospital wasn’t so bad. He normally hated hospitals but that just scared the dickens out of him and he didn’t want to hear that again. Grabbing the Tylenol bottle from the cabinet knocking over several others with his eyes still shut, he dry swallowed three or four. Then went hunting for the phone, which could be anywhere. Damn cordless phone had a way of working itself up your ass when you're not looking, so he wasn’t confident he would find it easily. Not daring to use the page locator on the cradle. That noise would split his head down through the center like a cracked melon. Moving slowly into the living room to search the couch cushions he jammed his toe up against the coffee table leg with a crunch, and collapsed over in pain, striking his knee on the edge and with an elegant grace, and contacted his head off the arm of the sofa. It was padded, but knocked him out cold junk from the swelling pain he already suffered. He found his comfort zone there unconscious on the floor.

There was serenity in it. A blissful state, of unicorns and ice cream. God he loved ice cream, and peanuts... unaware now of the pain, the damn Tylenol was useless and adding to his ulcers...such a waste.


© Copyright 2017 Steve Bursey. All rights reserved.

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