Grave Beckons

Reads: 380  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is a short story that i wrote a while back that I enjoyed writing. It is written in a Poe style, so it is a bit dark. This story tells of a lost and lonely soul, and his journey through death. I would appreciate any feedback the reader can give, as i am sure the grammar is not 100%. Enjoy!

Submitted: March 25, 2015

A A A | A A A

Submitted: March 25, 2015

A A A

A A A


 

Grave Beckons

There the lost soul was lying, waiting for the horseman, the being who would harvest the bounty; but who was this being? The spectral fiend who rides to claim? Perhaps the best way for a human's soul to comprehend, is for it to experience this process first hand. This specific occurrence tells of the end of a man--Edmund Collins-- a man, or rather frankly a boy, who met his maker in the process of life and ultimate death, in which some would deem too be to early, and others would to be too late; however, this is not a debate, or anything that is categorized within this realm, but a narrative of the end.

I'd firstly like to explain the life of Edmund Collins, so as to better put it in perspective of the human essence. Edmund Collins' date of birth is insignificant on the scale of time, or so he believed. He grew up in the big city, surrounded by the machines of life, as they carried out their commands, with no knowledge of their commander. Edmund grew up as an orphan, as for his friends, he had few, and his loves, he had none. He carried out his life like a clock, ticking and tocking, until only reaching the same point at the end of the day. Collins worked in factory, producing many goods to be absorbed by the masses into their pits of insatiable greed, and had no variety or vibrancy in his life.

Edmund Collins was lost, forgotten, and alone, as many are that we see, but do not acknowledge. Every day, working his fingers to the bone tirelessly, until one day, that day, which proves all of us to be just like Collins, clocks, counting down the days until expiration. I am unexplained to myself even, as to why I have found such particular interest in Collins. I find myself waiting for him, until the circumstances of the process in which all life fades, weathers him down. There I sit, feeling an amount of impatience so increasingly foreign to me, watching the clock, but this clock does not count in days, rather in lives, as if they were a crop waiting for the harvest.

I will never forget what transpired that day, as I write a record of the events which eventually led to his reaping. It was a long day, as most were for Collins, and while time kept passing, it seemed to slow down steadily for the factory worker. This day would be his longest, his final day, in which the process claimed his life, but not his soul. There he sat, in front of his fireplace, relaxing, in his one piece of barely functional furniture; an old wooden rocking chair that was as hard as a rock. The stillness in the air at this moment was intense, as he stared into the fiery embers, without knowing that he was staring into the abyss. There wasn't a single secluded sound in his shack of a home, and it was as if the world had stopped spinning, if only for a moment. Edmund Collins died this night, but not by natural means.

He had given up, Edmund Collins, and let the void emptiness rotting behind the hope of life seep in to every pore of his soul. As he sat there rocking he holstered a rope in his hand, tied with a noose at the end, for the intent of selecting his parting from this world. He stood up on his shaking rocking chair, and threw the noose over a banister directly above him. I slowly rose in excitement as I observed this man who was cursed by the emptiness of the world. It was only seconds after I rose, the chair's clock gave way, and Edmund Collins, with first the intent to hang himself, hits his head on a corner whilst falling down, and never again rises. This is not the end however, only the beginning, as a journey lies ahead of Edmund Collins, one that will change his life through death, that the process never could.

With haste I rushed to the home of Edmund Collins. His soul bound to the rubble, and his body laying breathless on the floor of his house. He laid there, but he could not move, no matter how hard he tried. In this moment, he was not sad, or in pain, but simply clueless as to what was occurring to him. Here cometh the entity, the reaper, the fear of life and light itself. Edmund Collins heard the horseman, as he rode steadily closer and closer to his soul, with his horse's mane in his left hand, and his scythe in the right. The hooves pounded, and it felt--with every closing moment between the harvester and the plant--that Edmund Collins could feel his heart pound again, as if every step was taking place of his heartbeat. The world around Collins slowly turned to void, and his body started to fade, he was at this moment, unrecognizable even to himself, and was simply an entity.

Finally he could stand, and when he awoke, he was in a black room, with a blue fireplace behind him and a straight hallway directly in front of him. He ran towards the door at the end of the hallway, but as he ran, the door moved further and further away. Then he suddenly stopped, trembling with fear, as he heard the noise grow louder and louder. He heard shouts, as if the grave was beckoning to him, calling him to the afterlife. “Spare me!” he yelled with a frightened tone. “I was wrong to embrace you! I-I-I am not ready to die!”. Edmund continued, but soon realized his cries fell upon deaf ears. It was perhaps in this moment, that Edmund appreciated life the most, even though he came to this appreciation through the most desperate means. Perhaps if humans could acquit their fear, they would realize the purpose of the process. The process is not meant to generate fear, but to accept fear, and to realize the importance of what moments you have in your petty existence.

Edmund was confused, lost and disoriented. It was then, the noise came to a stop, and he heard a subtle knock at the door, as if the being on the horse was full of wrath and generosity simultaneously, and as if it could see into Edmund's soul. The hallway began to recede, and Edmund traveled to the end of the hallway with a fear in his heart, but this fear was not a cowering fear, rather an awe-inspiring fear; a fear bred through admiration. Edmund slowly opened the door, and saw the horseman standing on the other side. The horseman pointed his finger at Edmund, and he immediately fell to the floor; totally paralyzed. There the lost soul was lying, waiting for the horseman, the being who would harvest the bounty; but who was this being? The spectral fiend who rides to claim? It is me; I am the horseman; I am the reaper; I am death.

Yes it is I, the one who writes this tale. I am the entity riddled with many names, and none of them comparable to the truth, I am death. There I stood over poor Edmund's body with my scythe raised high in the air. With a single swipe all turned to black for Edmund Collins, the soul that was lost in life, and was only truly found in death. Edmund rests now, eternally, within my darkness, with peace and singularity, but he still travels alone on this path, and will remain so forever more.


© Copyright 2019 Hershy Williams. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:

More Horror Short Stories