#darlingofthedarkness

By Darling of the Darkness

⚠️ WARNING: Contains vivid descriptions of violence and potentially disgusting and disturbing imagery. ⚠️

—

The sun dips down behind the old houses lining the street as a young boy frantically pedals his bicycle. He peeks behind, searching for his pursuer.

It’s not too far behind him.

He is distracted for a second too long, and the front wheel of his bicycle catches on an uneven, broken edge of the concrete sidewalk. The force launches him forward.

For one second, he is flying. The next second, he extends his arms in front of him, bracing for impact. He crashes into the ground, and he hears his arms crack as his palms and knees scrape against the rough pavement.

The intense pain shoots through his entire body, and when he realizes it hurts too much to move, he bawls without moving his limbs. His arms are broken. Because he can’t wipe away his tears, they spill over his lids and drip onto the ground beneath him.

He hears the plodding slap of footsteps echoing rhythmically behind him. It’s getting closer.

He fights the pain, and attempts to get up on his feet. He gasps at the sight of his bloodied hands and his skinned knees peeking through the newly-ripped holes in his jeans.

He staggers forward and begins running. The adrenaline that rushes through his veins helps him forget about the intense pain, but it still hurts like nothing else he’s ever experienced before.

He looks over his shoulder, and his stomach drops. Whatever it was, it picked up his bike and was pedaling forward, gaining on him. He runs and runs until he feels the intense urge to puke. He could smell it trailing right behind him— the odor of a thousand boiling maggots in a hot soup of rot.

He has to stop abruptly as he projectile vomits the contents of his stomach all around him. He sobs and coughs and chokes, and he feels a cold breath on the back of his neck.

He tries to scramble away, but he’s not fast enough.

t̵̢̢̨̧̨̨̨̛̥͔͕̯͈̯̱̬͍̝̠̳͈̗̼̥̘̼̥̼͇̥̘͖̯̞͈̙͒̌̅̈́͑̂͛͒̿́̑͒̿̏̈̏̀́̃͂̇͆̐̂̈́͒̎́̀̕͝͝ͅͅh̵̛̛̗̗̗͍͍͚̝̥͈͍͎̑͑̉̎̓́̅͌̏͛̌̉̑͐̂̾͒̈́̃̌̏̍̅̎̇̋̽̽͠͝ͅe̵͓̜̞̘̞̱̙͖͖̞̣͓̹͔̺̱̻͈̱̺̰̠̙͇̝̙̠̭̰̭̮̹̅̆̇̉̏̅̄̈́̒͐͑̍̌̽͠ ̷̼̂̒̔̋̒͒͑͋͌̔̊̈̇̔̉͗̑̅͒̽̒͘͝ţ̴̧̢̢͕͇̳̗̺̘͓̬͍͓͎̝̦͕̳̟̝̟̰͈͍̭̦̥͚̯͇̠̱̫̹̈͒̽̂̅͑̈̓̕̚͜͝ͅͅȟ̷̢̨̲̣̪̹̘̫̯̳̬̘̇͂͆̾ȉ̵̧̢̧̛̯̥̖͉̥̠̱̳̩̫̳̥̱̩͎̗̳̲̻̺̟͎̖̯̪͂͑͛͒̄̒̋̍̍͆̾̿́́́̉̓̉̉̔͌̂̐͊́͘̚n̶̛͔̻͋̋͊̽͂͑̌͗͒̓̅̉̊͋͋̀̌̓̉̊̆̇̆̓́̐̑̔̃̕̕͘͝͠͠g̸̢̧̡̧̧̨̫̤̜̠̜̙̝̼̤̯̫̹̼̬͈̟̙̫̼̰͍͔̯̪̮͚̘̓̓͂̒̌̀̐́̋̈́͗̄̔̉̐͆͊̏͂̈́̈́̌̿̀̔̇̓͘̕͘͜͜͝͝͝͝ͅ grabs him by one of his broken arms. It grips him so tight, he thought his bones might shatter inside. He screams and screams, but ẗ̸̛̞̭́̈͗̈́̈̅́̑̈́̐͊̾̓̽̕̕̚̕͠h̸̨̧̢̨̢̨̛̛̛̛̙̬̪̩͙̫͓̝̭͓̣͓̯̬̼̳̤͖̙̝̰̥̻̭̯͇͇͍̫͕͚̘͎̜͎̥̮̻͈̺̝͇̳̲͇̠̠̦͉̬̞̪͚̘̜͖̥͙̪͎̱̩̙̼̻̺̝̱̖͈̀̇̓́͒̌͆̅́̽͌̓̀̇̈́̀̓͑̌͒̋͆̂̈́̌̅̏̀̅͋̇̆̑̆́̅̃̆̀͌͗͆̎̉͐̇̒̇̌̌̈́͂͒̈́̅̌̋̈́̐͊͑͘͘̚̚͝͝͝ͅę̵̨̢̧̡̧̧͎̠̠̖̠̬͙͕̟͓̼̰͍͓͔͎̺̱̥̹̗̤̰̹̼͚̰̣̖̗̤̟̟͕̪̺̟͎̫͔̳̤̻̥̭̳̲̬͚̠͙̠̯̲̳̭͙̻͖͔̤̲͔͂̒̈̾͂̄̅̀̑͊͒͗̈́̐̍̿̽́́͛͒̽͒̀̽̏̒͗͊̾́̐̓̓̋̈̑́́͑̏́̈́̎̀͌́̌̓̎̾̉̅̌͗̑̚̚̚͜͜͠͝͝͠͝ ̵̨̨̡̧̢̧̭̦͇̘̪̟̪̦̱̺̣̲̗̤͓̰̤̦̱̬͚̖̻̤̲̪͖͓̪̳͇̭̰͉͖̥̲̟͎̱͈͔̳̫̤̪̤͕̲̥̰̼͓̔̌̚͜ͅt̷̡̛̺̯̠̫̞̦̹̣̞̥͐̈́͐͐̐̿̓̂̆͑́̃̔̃̽̊́̉̔̋̏͆̈́͂͛̿̐̃̾͛̋͑̃̐͆̓̈́̓͒́̈̂͐̑̓̒͊̈́̏̓͂̆̓̾́͛̑́͂̑͋̀̃̀̈̑̉̽̒̕̕͘̕͘͝͠͝͠͠͝ẖ̴̢͈̝͚͍̝̪̱͙̰̫͇̘͉̖̄̾̐͋̉̍̋̆͐̏̓͐̈̊̌̊̆̆̊̈̊͐̈́̓̋̾͠ͅi̵͕͇̘̠̟͍͖͇̞̯̖͒̈́̀̊̃̈́̌̎̋̐̌̋̒͝ņ̶̧̛̛̛̹̘͈͎͍̱̮̬̻̯͖̜̩̯̳̜̺̲̭̍̋͐͐̈́͂̉̀͑̽̈́͆̀͌͋̓͑̓̈̎̇̇͛͌̌̀͐̉̕͘͘͘͝͠͝͠͝ģ̴̢̨̨̡̛̲̯̠͈̥͕̹̙̲͓̣̙͖̪̠̻͔̰̼͎̩͈̪͚̥̳̠̘̭̣̥͇̙̺̯͓̤̰͖̻͚̩̙͇̺̠̰̙͈̻͆̈́͒͗̎͂͆̈́̏̍̑̇̋͐̽̀̊̓̈́̈́͒̈́̏͒̌̑̆̀̎̉̉̽̎̏̏̈̽͛̚̕̚͘̚͜͜͝͝͝ͅ doesn’t let up.

Instead, t̴̡̧̨̛̠̯̣͔̝͔̹̪̖̪̖̱̺̥͈͉͖͎̳͓͈̮̖͉̜̪̭̙̙̝͕̘̲͆̒͆̐̽̓͊̋̅̿͑̿̐͊͘͜͝ḥ̸̘̲͇̟̭̤͖͈̳̞͎̖̲̇̾̑̌̈́̓̈̑͆̑̄̎̈͋̂̈́̐̌̆͒̿̒́͑͑̅̚͘͜͝͠ę̷̼̮̜̈́͋́̀̐̏͊̕̚ͅ ̵̢̛̰͍̯̝̞̟̺͌͐̓́̀̔͋̊͗̇͋̾͗͋̓͂̽̆̅̾̌̚͠͠ṯ̴̛̛̛̻̭̟͙̹̙̙̫̳͙̥̠̬̪̺̻̥̮͇͓̋̊̅͛͋͆̍̅̌̃̏͆̇͂̂̚͝͝h̸̬͍̏͐̒i̴̢̢̡̧̨̧̜̞̠̙͍̟̺̭̫̟̳̭̻̦̪̟̤͈͙͔̜̻̯̐̓̿͂̃͑͊̀̑̄̓̒̉̚̕͠ͅn̷̨̨̧͍̰͚̬̩̣̤͙̬̻͓̫͓͓͙̳̳̟̱̣̭͎͙͕̞̬̳͎̜̭͎͂̐̿̽͛̍̀̊̐̾͗̋̏̽̔̓͑̀̀̔̆͊͘͝͠͝͝ͅͅģ̸̹̫̠͕̝̱͇̼̹͉̦̹̽̃̃͗͠ͅ screams back, mocking him.

“A̵a̸a̴a̷a̸a̴a̶a̵a̵a̶a̷a̷h̴h̷h̴h̴h̴h̴h̶h̸h̵h̶h̸”

He tries to kick and pull his arm away. t̴̡̧̨̛̠̯̣͔̝͔̹̪̖̪̖̱̺̥͈͉͖͎̳͓͈̮̖͉̜̪̭̙̙̝͕̘̲͆̒͆̐̽̓͊̋̅̿͑̿̐͊͘͜͝ḥ̸̘̲͇̟̭̤͖͈̳̞͎̖̲̇̾̑̌̈́̓̈̑͆̑̄̎̈͋̂̈́̐̌̆͒̿̒́͑͑̅̚͘͜͝͠ę̷̼̮̜̈́͋́̀̐̏͊̕̚ͅ ̵̢̛̰͍̯̝̞̟̺͌͐̓́̀̔͋̊͗̇͋̾͗͋̓͂̽̆̅̾̌̚͠͠ṯ̴̛̛̛̻̭̟͙̹̙̙̫̳͙̥̠̬̪̺̻̥̮͇͓̋̊̅͛͋͆̍̅̌̃̏͆̇͂̂̚͝͝h̸̬͍̏͐̒i̴̢̢̡̧̨̧̜̞̠̙͍̟̺̭̫̟̳̭̻̦̪̟̤͈͙͔̜̻̯̐̓̿͂̃͑͊̀̑̄̓̒̉̚̕͠ͅn̷̨̨̧͍̰͚̬̩̣̤͙̬̻͓̫͓͓͙̳̳̟̱̣̭͎͙͕̞̬̳͎̜̭͎͂̐̿̽͛̍̀̊̐̾͗̋̏̽̔̓͑̀̀̔̆͊͘͝͠͝͝ͅͅģ̸̹̫̠͕̝̱͇̼̹͉̦̹̽̃̃͗͠ͅ’s face is swollen like a cadaver left at the bottom of a lake, so its eyes are sunken in. One side of its face looks as if it was made of wax and someone held it next to an open flame for a few seconds. It is naked, its abdomen is veiny and distended, and its disgusting labia dangles and trembles as it croaks out a sentence.

“̴Y̴o̵u̴ ̷t̷o̵o̵k̸ ̸s̷o̸m̶e̸t̶h̵i̸n̶g̴ ̴f̵r̷o̶m̷ ̷m̵e̸,̶ ̷s̶o̶ ̵n̷o̶w̵ ̵t̶h̷e̶s̷e̶ ̷a̶r̷e̴ ̶m̸i̵n̶e̴.̵”̸

In one fluid motion, t̵̢̢̨̧̨̨̨̛̥͔͕̯͈̯̱̬͍̝̠̳͈̗̼̥̘̼̥̼͇̥̘͖̯̞͈̙͒̌̅̈́͑̂͛͒̿́̑͒̿̏̈̏̀́̃͂̇͆̐̂̈́͒̎́̀̕͝͝ͅͅh̵̛̛̗̗̗͍͍͚̝̥͈͍͎̑͑̉̎̓́̅͌̏͛̌̉̑͐̂̾͒̈́̃̌̏̍̅̎̇̋̽̽͠͝ͅe̵͓̜̞̘̞̱̙͖͖̞̣͓̹͔̺̱̻͈̱̺̰̠̙͇̝̙̠̭̰̭̮̹̅̆̇̉̏̅̄̈́̒͐͑̍̌̽͠ ̷̼̂̒̔̋̒͒͑͋͌̔̊̈̇̔̉͗̑̅͒̽̒͘͝ţ̴̧̢̢͕͇̳̗̺̘͓̬͍͓͎̝̦͕̳̟̝̟̰͈͍̭̦̥͚̯͇̠̱̫̹̈͒̽̂̅͑̈̓̕̚͜͝ͅͅȟ̷̢̨̲̣̪̹̘̫̯̳̬̘̇͂͆̾ȉ̵̧̢̧̛̯̥̖͉̥̠̱̳̩̫̳̥̱̩͎̗̳̲̻̺̟͎̖̯̪͂͑͛͒̄̒̋̍̍͆̾̿́́́̉̓̉̉̔͌̂̐͊́͘̚n̶̛͔̻͋̋͊̽͂͑̌͗͒̓̅̉̊͋͋̀̌̓̉̊̆̇̆̓́̐̑̔̃̕̕͘͝͠͠g̸̢̧̡̧̧̨̫̤̜̠̜̙̝̼̤̯̫̹̼̬͈̟̙̫̼̰͍͔̯̪̮͚̘̓̓͂̒̌̀̐́̋̈́͗̄̔̉̐͆͊̏͂̈́̈́̌̿̀̔̇̓͘̕͘͜͜͝͝͝͝ͅ twists and snaps off the boy’s left forearm. His muscles tear and the bleeding broken bone is exposed to the world, while a spray of blood colors the sidewalk. The boy’s desperate squeals and cries for help go unanswered, except for cackles from t̵̢̢̨̧̨̨̨̛̥͔͕̯͈̯̱̬͍̝̠̳͈̗̼̥̘̼̥̼͇̥̘͖̯̞͈̙͒̌̅̈́͑̂͛͒̿́̑͒̿̏̈̏̀́̃͂̇͆̐̂̈́͒̎́̀̕͝͝ͅͅh̵̛̛̗̗̗͍͍͚̝̥͈͍͎̑͑̉̎̓́̅͌̏͛̌̉̑͐̂̾͒̈́̃̌̏̍̅̎̇̋̽̽͠͝ͅe̵͓̜̞̘̞̱̙͖͖̞̣͓̹͔̺̱̻͈̱̺̰̠̙͇̝̙̠̭̰̭̮̹̅̆̇̉̏̅̄̈́̒͐͑̍̌̽͠ ̷̼̂̒̔̋̒͒͑͋͌̔̊̈̇̔̉͗̑̅͒̽̒͘͝ţ̴̧̢̢͕͇̳̗̺̘͓̬͍͓͎̝̦͕̳̟̝̟̰͈͍̭̦̥͚̯͇̠̱̫̹̈͒̽̂̅͑̈̓̕̚͜͝ͅͅȟ̷̢̨̲̣̪̹̘̫̯̳̬̘̇͂͆̾ȉ̵̧̢̧̛̯̥̖͉̥̠̱̳̩̫̳̥̱̩͎̗̳̲̻̺̟͎̖̯̪͂͑͛͒̄̒̋̍̍͆̾̿́́́̉̓̉̉̔͌̂̐͊́͘̚n̶̛͔̻͋̋͊̽͂͑̌͗͒̓̅̉̊͋͋̀̌̓̉̊̆̇̆̓́̐̑̔̃̕̕͘͝͠͠g̸̢̧̡̧̧̨̫̤̜̠̜̙̝̼̤̯̫̹̼̬͈̟̙̫̼̰͍͔̯̪̮͚̘̓̓͂̒̌̀̐́̋̈́͗̄̔̉̐͆͊̏͂̈́̈́̌̿̀̔̇̓͘̕͘͜͜͝͝͝͝ͅ.

“H̵m̷m̶…̴ ̵I̴ ̸f̸e̴e̸l̷ ̷g̶e̸n̶e̶r̴o̴u̶s̵ ̵t̶o̴d̶a̸y̷.̵ ̷G̸o̴ ̷o̸n̷,̴ ̵t̷a̶k̴e̵ ̵a̶ ̶b̶i̸t̴e̸.̵”

As boy opens his mouth to beg and shriek, t̵̢̢̨̧̨̨̨̛̥͔͕̯͈̯̱̬͍̝̠̳͈̗̼̥̘̼̥̼͇̥̘͖̯̞͈̙͒̌̅̈́͑̂͛͒̿́̑͒̿̏̈̏̀́̃͂̇͆̐̂̈́͒̎́̀̕͝͝ͅͅh̵̛̛̗̗̗͍͍͚̝̥͈͍͎̑͑̉̎̓́̅͌̏͛̌̉̑͐̂̾͒̈́̃̌̏̍̅̎̇̋̽̽͠͝ͅe̵͓̜̞̘̞̱̙͖͖̞̣͓̹͔̺̱̻͈̱̺̰̠̙͇̝̙̠̭̰̭̮̹̅̆̇̉̏̅̄̈́̒͐͑̍̌̽͠ ̷̼̂̒̔̋̒͒͑͋͌̔̊̈̇̔̉͗̑̅͒̽̒͘͝ţ̴̧̢̢͕͇̳̗̺̘͓̬͍͓͎̝̦͕̳̟̝̟̰͈͍̭̦̥͚̯͇̠̱̫̹̈͒̽̂̅͑̈̓̕̚͜͝ͅͅȟ̷̢̨̲̣̪̹̘̫̯̳̬̘̇͂͆̾ȉ̵̧̢̧̛̯̥̖͉̥̠̱̳̩̫̳̥̱̩͎̗̳̲̻̺̟͎̖̯̪͂͑͛͒̄̒̋̍̍͆̾̿́́́̉̓̉̉̔͌̂̐͊́͘̚n̶̛͔̻͋̋͊̽͂͑̌͗͒̓̅̉̊͋͋̀̌̓̉̊̆̇̆̓́̐̑̔̃̕̕͘͝͠͠g̸̢̧̡̧̧̨̫̤̜̠̜̙̝̼̤̯̫̹̼̬͈̟̙̫̼̰͍͔̯̪̮͚̘̓̓͂̒̌̀̐́̋̈́͗̄̔̉̐͆͊̏͂̈́̈́̌̿̀̔̇̓͘̕͘͜͜͝͝͝͝ͅ pushes the severed forearm into his mouth. He can feel the jagged broken edge of his ulna scrape against his lips.

“H̵a̷h̶a̵h̴a̷h̵a̷h̵a̴,̷ ̷g̴o̶o̵d̴ ̷b̸o̵y̸!”

The disfigured creature uses the boy’s hand to pat his shoulder. t̵̢̢̨̧̨̨̨̛̥͔͕̯͈̯̱̬͍̝̠̳͈̗̼̥̘̼̥̼͇̥̘͖̯̞͈̙͒̌̅̈́͑̂͛͒̿́̑͒̿̏̈̏̀́̃͂̇͆̐̂̈́͒̎́̀̕͝͝ͅͅh̵̛̛̗̗̗͍͍͚̝̥͈͍͎̑͑̉̎̓́̅͌̏͛̌̉̑͐̂̾͒̈́̃̌̏̍̅̎̇̋̽̽͠͝ͅe̵͓̜̞̘̞̱̙͖͖̞̣͓̹͔̺̱̻͈̱̺̰̠̙͇̝̙̠̭̰̭̮̹̅̆̇̉̏̅̄̈́̒͐͑̍̌̽͠ ̷̼̂̒̔̋̒͒͑͋͌̔̊̈̇̔̉͗̑̅͒̽̒͘͝ţ̴̧̢̢͕͇̳̗̺̘͓̬͍͓͎̝̦͕̳̟̝̟̰͈͍̭̦̥͚̯͇̠̱̫̹̈͒̽̂̅͑̈̓̕̚͜͝ͅͅȟ̷̢̨̲̣̪̹̘̫̯̳̬̘̇͂͆̾ȉ̵̧̢̧̛̯̥̖͉̥̠̱̳̩̫̳̥̱̩͎̗̳̲̻̺̟͎̖̯̪͂͑͛͒̄̒̋̍̍͆̾̿́́́̉̓̉̉̔͌̂̐͊́͘̚n̶̛͔̻͋̋͊̽͂͑̌͗͒̓̅̉̊͋͋̀̌̓̉̊̆̇̆̓́̐̑̔̃̕̕͘͝͠͠g̸̢̧̡̧̧̨̫̤̜̠̜̙̝̼̤̯̫̹̼̬͈̟̙̫̼̰͍͔̯̪̮͚̘̓̓͂̒̌̀̐́̋̈́͗̄̔̉̐͆͊̏͂̈́̈́̌̿̀̔̇̓͘̕͘͜͜͝͝͝͝ͅ turns away, smiling at its new appendage and its new mode of transportation.

It walks a few steps before it pauses and turns, using the boy’s hand to wave goodbye. It picks up the fallen bicycle and pedals away.

“̸̜͆S̴̨̈w̵͖̓e̵̙̋e̶̱͒ť̸̲ ̵̧̏d̸͙̚r̶̨̾e̷͖̚á̶̡m̴͓͌s̷̪̅ ❦”

Weak from the blood loss and shock, the boy falls over and blacks out.

[End of Part 1]

————

Hyperlinks to be created with updates:

[Part 2] [Part 3] …

Author’s Note:

This isn’t the end! It will all make sense with time.

So horror has this way of being campy at times, and I wanted to play it up a bit here. I’m telling myself it’s ok to be silly and feel like I’m writing absolute trash. I know someone out there will enjoy it! I certainly had fun writing it.

This is so much darker and wackier than my last post, The Witching Hour, but I wanted to let out the gore and nasty stuff this time. It’s so horrible that I didn’t have the heart to name the brutalized boy in this story.

The inspiration for this story comes from my mother. Yesterday, she told me about one of her nightmares, so I embellished it a little bit and added the beginnings of a plot. She told me that her dream was about a little boy biking. He fell and broke his arm. Then a monster came and snapped his arm completely before he ripped it off. The monster offered the arm to my mom, peeled off the skin, and threatened her by saying, “Partake in this, or we’ll feast on you!”

My story is reminiscent of the “Who took my [insert body part here]?” ghost stories you might have heard as a kid. This time, you actually get to witness what happens to the young thief. Also, I know that certain countries punish thieves with hand amputations! Crazy stuff.

I created the monster in this story— or rather, my mind spontaneously generated it at 2am.

It’s goofy yet creepy? Personally, it’s like I want to laugh at how ridiculous it is but also not be anywhere near it.

I’m always a fan of combining absurdity and humor in scary things. Sometimes, it lightens up the situation. Other times, it makes the situation worse. Does this monster riding a bike make you more afraid or less afraid? Personally, I’d be more afraid because:

1. Who taught it how to ride a bike??

2. If no one taught it, is it just an exceptionally fast learner?

3. If it can learn how to bike in 3 seconds, what else can it do?

4. The creature can now move much faster.

5. Its disgusting vulva flaps make contact with the seat. Yuck.

Anyway, how did I create it? I was peacefully playing my latest game obsession on my phone while leaning against the door to my room. All of a sudden, I thought I heard some type of moaning… and in my mind I see the flash of an image of this thing walking down the hallway toward my door. I tell you, I popped up, locked my door, and ran to my bed. (That’s the only popping and locking that I know how to do.)

It’s pretty annoying when unwelcome images just kind of show up in my brain, so I drew it for you guys. You can experience my unease below. I’m not much of an artist (YET!) but I’m beginning my art journey by translating my horrible brain images to real life.

Ehh… it looked a bit different in my head, but close enough.

Hope you enjoyed the nightmare fuel! 😴