#horror please

(just fuck me up)

A small crackling of shards of glass mixed with broken tile scraped against the floor; five streaks of thin red lines being added to the various colors of muck that stained the ground already. The tips of Ben’s fingers bled as he sluggishly felt around as he laid on that broken tile and glass. The sting of cold was not of the temperature, but the cuts on his cheek as he was planted in place. A cough and then a groan as he tried to recognize where he was. Even if his sight had not been blurry, the darkness in the area wouldn’t allow for proper sight. “Where …arh–” Ben wasn’t sure what it was that made him choke on his words: the smell of something rotting; garbage; bad perfume and something burnt all in one scent, the sharp pain traveling through his entire form; the feeling of invisible weight on him, or the stabbing of his heart against his chest as he realized he couldn’t make out any shapes within this blackness? Normally he could see a little in the dark, as he dabbled in shadows daily, but something was different—a lot of things were different. The fear of the dark. He was scared of the dark, and no matter how much every centimeter of his body ached, it was that fear that was able to pull him up off the ground. “Sh-Shi–” Ben panted hard as he skidded back, the bits of glass creating more cuts on his palms of his hands.

It was the sound that reached her first, one unlike any other she'd heard before, followed by a pulse of force she could only liken to the kick from the shotgun she'd shot on only one previous occasion that remained safely tucked away on the top shelf of her father's closet. Face controted in pain at the simultaneous assault to her senses, Thatcher brought her hands up to cover her ears. Her fingers dug desperately into light blonde locks, searching for a hold and gripping it tightly once she'd found it. Ears ringing, heading pounding, and body mostly in shock, it took her at least ten seconds to realize exactly what had happened. Explosion. Up. Boys? Ignoring the rush of pain that accompanied getting to her feet, Thatcher pushed herself to stand and rush as quickly as she could manage up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson had gone out earlier in the day so she didn't bother stopping on the ground floor before beginning up the next set. The sitting room was practically unrecognizable, either in pieces or bathed in flames. When she found her voice again, it was much shriller than usual thanks to the panic that was settling in. ❝John? John?! Where are you??❞ 

May similar blogs shout out to me. I want your creepiness and horror. Or things in jars, give me all you got.