#songchallengeseries1

Author’s Note-I decided to try something new for this, so let me know if you guys like this essay style of writing.

The following paper was written by an unnamed student at the Miskatonic University. It was recovered from a small office fire on October 7, 1965. It was confiscated by the Arkham Sanitarium Security Personnel, but has since been declassified and made open to the public.

October 2, 1965

The name Yanus has been repeated countless times throughout history, though very few know anything about the name. Fewer, still, realize that Yanus was, and is, real. Ancient cultures have called Yanus many things; daemon, imp, harpy, siren, changeling, skin-walker, nymph, faerie, djinni, wisps, and many others. But one thing is known for certain: she has never been depicted as a force for good. In every mention of the name Yanus, all that followed was misery, sorrow, pain, and death.

The earliest appearance of Yanus seems to be an ancient cave painting, found in a small cave somewhere in Indonesia. The painting depicts a figure with scars at various points along the body. Drawn behind the scarred figure is another figure. The second one is shown laying on the ground, its body painted in red. In the art of the ancient Maya, Aztec, Olmec, and other early American cultures, a similar scarred woman is depicted. Sometimes she is standing over a skinned human, other times, she is stalking some unsuspecting person. The ancient Egyptians had a similar figure painted on the inside of at least one of the Great Pyramids. The hieroglyphics near the image of the women did not provide a name for the figure, but seemed to imply that, while this person was known and widely feared, she was never spoken of. In fact, some recovered scrolls have stated that saying her name, even just a whisper, was punishable by death; for fear of summoning her.

Ancient Greece and Rome also seemed to be aware of her presence, as there are myths involving their respective pantheons that feature her. In these, she is often described as being from Tarturas, a mistress of Hades, or even a goddess of torture. During the Medieval Ages, fear of Yanus became even more wide spread. The Norse believed that the Yanus was a fallen Valkyrie, exiled from the halls of Valhalla, or even Hela, the goddess of the dead, herself. The Christians of the time believed her to be a witch, a psychopomp, albeit corrupted, or even the Devil in disguise.

However, as the Medieval Ages came to a close, people began to forget about the Yanus. In fact, for centuries, there seemed to have been no deaths that matched the descriptions of those blamed on Yanus; that being skinned and left wherever the body was before, even in public. The skin would never be found. But a few years ago, some odd things began to happen around here. Now granted, weird things have always happened around here. Arkham is a bit of a magnet when it comes to weird things, but rarely has something like this happened. It started with reports from people that apparently had woken up, with a large cut on their body. When examined at a hospital, it was found that these people had not been cut; the skin from that area had been entirely removed. Not long after, bodies began to be found, having been skinned. Now, after I heard this, I began researching everything I could find on the Yanus. I wasn't able to find much at the University, because most of the information on things like this are in a section of the library that is off limits to all but a select few. And I would never get any answers from the Sanitarium's staff, they're to busy experimenting on their patients to pay to attention to anything, so I didn't even bother trying.

But I was able to find a silver lining to the Yanus. In every instance of her appearance anywhere, whether as an image or writing, there is a man shown, seemingly following her. In what I was able to find, every time he turns up, the Yanus disappears. Descriptions of this man vary depending on the source, but he is almost always known as the 'Traitorous One', and is usually mentioned alongside something called the 'Dark Fire', whatever that is. It's my belief that this 'Traitorous One', whatever he is, may be some kind of opponent to the Yanus.

Sir Tristan of Gothenburg felt the fatigue taking over his body. With each swing of his sword, more and more energy left him. The King had proven to be a far stronger opponent than Sir Tristan had expected. Sir Tristan had made it into the throne room alone, leaving his allies to fend off the King's Constructs by themselves.

The Constructs. They were the minions of whoever held the Architect in their possession. The Architect was powered by its owner's imagination; the more evil and imaginative the owner, the more fearsome the Constructs. In the hands of one who is pure of heart, the Architect and its Construct could be used for any number of wonderful things; constructions, defending innocents, anything. But in the hands of someone malevolent, such as the the King, the Architect and its Constructs could be used for the darkest of deeds; murder, conquest, tyranny. At least Sir Tristan was lucky enough that the King was so distracted by maintaining the Constructs outside and his battle with Tristan that he had not created any in the throne room.

Despite how tired Sir Tristan was, he was evenly matched with his opponent. It had been many years since the King had been in battle, and so the old man was sluggish, having trouble keeping up with his much younger, more agile opponent. Neither the King nor Sir Tristan would relent. Neither would retreat. Neither would be going home to recover from their injuries. One of them would be dieing that day.

Kill the King, end the tyranny, destroy the Architect; those had been the goals of Sir Tristan and his band of knights. Many of Sir Tristan's closest friends and allies had been slain that day, and Sir Tristan was determined to not let their sacrifice be in vain. He swung again, and his sword dug into the King's hand.

The King screamed in pain as his fell to the ground, clutching his injured hand. His sword landed beyond his reach. He looked up as Sir Tristan raised his sword once more. “N-n-no! Please! I surrender!” the King begged helplessly.

“I shall show you, oh gracious King, the same mercy you have shown you adoring kingdom,” Sir Tristan said. He held his sword up high over his shoulder, preparing for his final action. “The revolution has prevailed!” Sir Tristan said as he swung his sword, slicing across the King's chest.

The King's lifeless body fell to the ground, with the Architect, a plain and humble ring, falling from his hand and rolled across the ground. Sir Tristan could hear from outside the loud screech as the Constructs, now without their life source, wither and die. Sir Tristan prepared to strike the Architect and destroy the source of what had been centuries of misery and hardship. Before he did, he heard whispering, from where he did not know.

“Come to me....” the whispering said. “Take this power and reign over your kingdom.... Be the one true eternal king, and rule all the lands the way they should....”

Sir Tristan picked up the Architect and slid it on his finger. He was overwhelmed by what he felt. He felt power, true power. He was so distracted that he had not heard the doors open or hear his fellow knights approach him. “Sir Tristan has done it!” one of the knights cheered. “The King is dead! The tyranny is over!”

James patiently hid in the alley, waiting for the footsteps to pass by. Every night they would come out. James often thought about what his mother had said when he was a child. “Remember, sweetie, there's no reason to be afraid of the dark. It won't hurt you.”

“And you were right,” James thought to himself. The dark would not hurt anyone. No, it was what hides in the dark, just out of sight. Once the footsteps had moved a sufficient distance away, James made a break for it. He ran across the street, into the alley that was on the other side. He waited, listening for anyone that could be nearby. When he heard nothing, he ran across the other street. He continued this for some time, before he finally found what he was looking for.

It cut through the darkness like an angel straight from Heaven. A light, signaling the presence of another human. You see, the beings that hide in the dark, the Scathaforms, despise the light. That is why they stick to the darkness. Shining a light on a Scathaform would be akin to shooting a human with a shotgun. That meant that James, who had been lost for weeks, was now going to be found.

Ignoring all ideas of stealth, James made a mad dash for the light, for his salvation. “Hey! Hey!” James screamed as he ran through the darkness to the light. Just as James reached the light, it went out. “What?!” James said in shock.

Pain then erupted from the back of James' head. He fell to the ground, his forehead striking the curb of the sidewalk. The entire, dark world spun around as James lay on the ground, trying to catch his breath. James could hear several different voices. They were all quiet and gravelly, but sounded no different than guttural mumbles and animal growls.

Author’s Note-Okay, so I know that this story has a bit of a weaker story, I will admit that. But I still think that it has an interesting concept that I’d like to revisit it later on.

The seal hissed as the pod depressurized. As the steam vented out from the air ducts, door, and any space no matter how small, the scientists waited eagerly to see if all of their hard work was for not. The monitors displayed positive results about their works health and vitals; but until the steam cleared, they had no idea how their work came out looking. Granted, it was just a prototype, but it should have looked normal.

After several tense minutes, the steam cleared, and the scientists were able to see their creation. They watched in awe as their creation cautiously poked out of the pod and looked around the room. It carefully stepped out onto the floor of the lab, but quickly pulled itself back inside the pod.

“What's wrong with it?” one scientist asked.

“Why won't it come out?” asked another.

Their creation crouched down in the pod, shivering as it tried to make sense of everything. One young assistant, the only woman assigned to the project, opened the door to the lab and quickly walked over to the pod carrying a blanket. She held out the blanket to the pod welcomingly, a bright smile on her face. Their creation responded by pressing itself against the back of the pod, shivering from both the cold and the fear it felt.

“It's okay, honey, I'm not going to hurt you,” she said soothingly. “I'm sorry it's so cold in here. Here, take this,” she said as she held the blanket out to their creation. “My name is Emily.”

Their creation slowly reached out to Emily, feeling the soft, warm fabric of the blanket. Emily knelt down. Still unsure of her motivation, the creature jumped back into the pod. “Oh, I didn't meant to scare you!” she apologized. The creature still would not approach her, so Emily slowly moved her hand out.

The creature cautiously inspected her hand before carefully reached out to touch her. Her skin was warm. Her skin was not as soft as the blanket, but it had an atmosphere of friendliness that the creature could not sense from the blanket. The creature knew very little information, but it knew that she was an ally. That it was sure of.

The creature slowly moved out of the pod, where it allowed Emily to gently wrap it in the blanket. Surrounded by the warmth of the blanket and friendliness of Emily, the creature reverted to its sleep state.

Emily carried the creature out of the lab, where the scientists looked at her in confusion. “How did you gain its trust so quickly?” one asked.

“It's simple, really,” Emily answered. “Treat him like a living person instead of some lab rat, and he'll trust you.”

“Don't get attached to it,” one scientist, Hewitt, snapped. “We're here to do a job, not make glorified kids for you.”

“Jeffrey, you can't make a living creature without giving it the necessities like affection,” the oldest scientist, Kane, responded.

With that, the group entered another one of their frequent arguments. The fighting disrupted the creature's rest, causing it to wake and release a high pitched whistle. “Now look what you've done, Hewitt! You woke him up!” Emily said angrily. She looked down to the creature in her arms and walked out of the room. “I'm sorry mean ol' Hewitt woke you up. We'll go somewhere else for you to sleep.”

Hewitt followed her out of the room. “Get back here!” he ordered. “We have tests to run!”

Hewitt run up to Emily and snatched the creature from her arms. It began squirming in a vain attempt to escape his grip. Hewitt walked into the lab, dropped the creature onto a table, a ripped the blanket out from under it. The creature attempted to crawl off of the table, but Hewitt put a heavy glass dome on the table, leaving the creature trapped underneath.

“You can't just experiment on him!” Emily called from the other side of the door, having been locked outside the lab.

“On the contrary,” Hewitt said, “I can do whatever I damn well please with this thing. It was supposed to come out as the prototype for the perfect soldier, not some dumb blob!”

Over the next few months, the scientists conducted countless tests on the creature that they had created. Instead of attempting to change its genetic structure to create a human, they instead focused on the applications that a gelatinous creature could have for the military. All the while, Emily was powerless to stop Hewitt and the other scientists from running tests on the creature. Emily and Kane did, however, convince Hewitt to allow Emily to have access to the creature when it was not in the lab. During her time with the creature, Emily treated it the same as the child she knew she could never conceive.

Over time, the creature learned how to change its physical form from that of a gelatinous mass to anything it desired. It could maintain a human form for several hours, or it could also take on the form of animal or item. It even learned to take on the form of things such as water, fire, even fog. The processes the creature was put through to learn these forms was quite inhumane. For water, it would be locked inside a room that would slowly fill with water. The creature would not be allowed to leave the room, no matter how much water there was. The creature nearly drowned several times. It was not until the creature could take on and maintain the form of water that this test was ended. Learning to take on the form of fire was similar. It learned to take on the form of fog, however, during its time with Emily. Her gentle encouragement proved to be far superior than the sadistic experiments conducted by Hewitt.

Emily also taught the creature how to speak, read, write, and provided him with information on a number of subjects. But perhaps her greatest contribution to the creature's life was giving him a name. Emily had named the creature Michael, and Michael considered Emily to be his mother.

Eventually, Hewitt's experiments became more and more sadistic and ruthless. To Hewitt, Michael was not a person; he was simply a weapon that could be utilized for mass destruction. One day, Hewitt began an experiment that involved nearly killing Michael by electrocuting him. From what Emily could see, this experiment provided no beneficial information other than to satisfy the increasing thirst for blood Hewitt had developed.

“Stop this madness now!” Emily screamed as she attempted to shut down the devices used to electrocute Michael.

“Get away from there!” Hewitt yelled as he hit Emily out of the way. He then shoved her back, causing Emily to hit her forehead against the corner of a table. As soon as she hit the table, Emily's body went limp, and she fell to the ground.

Enraged, Michael threw himself against the glass that held him on the table. “Emily!” he screamed as the glass began to crack. Within seconds, he broke through the glass. He quickly jumped from the table, changing his form into that of a human and ran to where Emily lay. He cradled her in his arms. He looked desperately into her eyes, but the life had already left them. Michael slowly closed her eyes before gently lowering her lifeless body to the ground.

Michael then rose to his feet, but still did not face Hewitt. As he stood, his body began changing form from the normal human to that of a monstrosity. “Well, Hewitt,” Michael said, his voice changing from the soft spoken gentlemen Hewitt had known and becoming more like the growl of an enraged animal, “you wanted a weapon of war. Now you have it!”

Author’s Note-What’s this?! A story that’s on time?! We haven’t had a story on time in a while! Woohoo! This also marks the halfway point for the Song Challenge! This is also one of the darker stories in the challenge. I’m not to thrilled with the ending, because it is so drastically different than what I normally do. But part of the purpose of the challenge is to get me to try not things. All in all, I think that this is a pretty solid story.

"So, do you understand why you are here?" the words rippled through the cold air. That question is posed everyday. Every. Day.

"Because people don't understand that love knows no bounds," Jane answered. She knew that he would not accept that answer, but it was the only answer she had to give.

"I have explained to you many times," the voices replied, "what you feel is not love. It is not natural."

"Yes, it is!" she insisted. "It really i-"

"You just don't understand," the voice interrupted. “What happened to you isn't real love. What happened is cal-”

She could not take anymore. Jane jumped from her seat and ran straight towards him. As always, she was stopped by the metal bars that separated them. She reached out from between the bars, desperately trying to grab therapist.

“You're wrong!” Jane screamed. “You're wrong! It's true love! Why do I have to be in prison for being in love?!”

“You're not in prison,” the therapist, Howard Miller, said calmly. Jane's outbursts were of no shock to him. In fact, trying to attack him was actually one of Jane's calmer reactions. “We have you here for your own safety. We're trying to help you, but you have to let us help you. You keep shutting us out.”

Jane continued her fit until the therapist left. It was love. It was love. She was sure of it. She knew it. That night, as many nights before, Jane sat in the corner of the room, crying from the pain that these people caused her, and how she could not understand why they just would not let her be happy. She would wrap her arms around her knees if not for the dreaded coat. They put the coat on her every night. They just did not understand the ways she dealt with her pain. Her love had always told her that if they had arrested her, that she needed to free herself.

But that dreaded coat kept her arms wrapped tightly around her torso, making it impossible for her to move her arms. Every time she tried to free herself, the doctors and nurses would put the coat on her.

Jane just could not understand why. She never hurt anybody. All she ever did was try to be with the person she loved most in the world. But every opportunity she got, they took it away. Jane only loved him. He was the only person she ever knew growing up. He was the only person she ever needed growing up. He would give her medicine when she needed help.

“This is special medicine,” he would always say. “It's going to make you feel much better.”

Jane had never been scared of needles, so she never was afraid of taking her medicine. When she did not take her medicine, Jane would feel sick. But he would always make sure she got it. But now, she was locked away, and they would not give Jane her medicine.

“What's the medicine called?” Jane had asked so many years ago.

“This medicine is called diacetylmorphine," he had told her. He was always so precise, mixing the white powder until it had changed into brown water.

Jane could never remember what happened after taking her medicine, but he had always promised her that they had loved each other. It did not matter that Jane was so young. She knew that he was the one. He had told her that since the day they met. Jane trusted him with her life.

The next morning went different than normal. Jane saw the headline of the newspaper that one of the doctors was reading. It read: ERIC BLOOMFIELD RECEIVES LIFE SENTENCE!

That was to much for Jane to bear, and she suffered a total nervous breakdown. When the therapist arrived, he found Jane lying on the floor, the fingers on her right hand twisting through her once bright and vibrant platinum blonde hair. She was wrapping the hair around her fingers so much that she was starting to pull the hair out. Clutched within her right arm was her sole possession: the old, tattered teddy bear; the only thing of Jane's that Bloomfield had taken when he kidnapped Jane. Her left hand was clawing into the floor, tearing apart her fingernails as crimson blood began pooling on the floor.

The therapist knew exactly what to do. He ran up to her, cradling Jane in his arms, ignoring the blood from her hand that was now running down his back. Tears of a pain that Miller would never begin to understand rained down from Jane's eyes.

Jane Doe. No one knew how old she was. No one knew where she was from. No one knew who her family was. No one knew even her real name. No one. Not even Jane. Jane now understood the truth about her life. She understood how she and Bloomfield had 'met'. What her 'medicine' really was. And most of all, she understood just what 'love' she had experienced her whole life.

Jane Doe was a victim. Who would cry for Jane Doe? Who would remember her when she was gone? On that day, Jane Doe died. She was replaced with a cold, empty shell of a young woman. Her age was estimated to be around twenty two years old. She could no longer live in the facility. She was adopted by Miller and his wife, and raised as the sister of their son. There, they raised her as their own child. They allowed her to start over. They gave her the childhood she deserved, the one she had cheated of by Bloomfield all those years ago. It was late, yes. But finally, Jane Doe was given the fresh start she so desperately needed. She changed her name to Jenny Miller.

Author’s Note-Sorry I didn’t post this last night. My power went out, but I hope you enjoy!

Outside the window, the storm rages on. The rain fighting against the old tower as the old bricks stood their ground. A fitting metaphor of the storm raging inside of the young man's head. His desire to be free from the madness that has plagued him for so long, fighting against the madness that was slowly eating away at the little sanity that was left. For some time, he, Adrian Dickinson, had argued back and forth with the old wizard. The wizard would say what could be done to help Dickinson's madness, but Dickinson would always be unwilling to do what he was told. Instead, he would always insist that the crystal ball was the only way to cure his madness.

You see, the old wizard had many different crystal balls, each one with a different purpose. The crystal ball of madness was one of the few that the old wizard had locked away in the lower levels of the tower. For some reason, he had always insisted that the locked away crystals were evil, and that only terrible things would come from their use. But Dickinson was sure that the crystal ball of madness would be able to cure his madness. The wizard had always said that it was never to be used, and made Dickinson promise to never use it. But he was desperate. He wanted to move on in life, wanted to leave the god forsaken tower, wanted to be free of his madness.

That is how he found himself, doing what he had sworn never to do. With a steel sword in his hand, he bashed at the old chain that kept the door locked shut. With each swing, the metal creaked and broke apart. Within minutes, the chain fell to the ground, beaten and broken. Just as Dickinson was about to open the door, he heard the shouts of the old wizard.

“What do you think you're doing?” the wizard demanded. He rushed over to Dickinson, chanting a magical spell that would harm Dickinson, if not kill him. “Exstinguere vita, hujus nefariis spumae!”

Before the wizard could chant anymore, Dickinson swung his sword, digging it into the wizard's chest. As he let go of the sword, he watched as the life drained from the wizard's eyes. He fell to the ground, nearly dead. “You do not know what you will release!” were his last words.

Dickinson grabbed the crystal ball of madness, looking deep into the swirling vortex inside of it. “Yes, I can!” he exclaimed, having made up his mind. He called up the words to access its dark power. “Largire mihi, ut auferat a me virtus insanus arguebam!” Dickinson chanted.

The crystal ball shattered, the many crystals falling through Dickinson's fingers and clattering to the ground. He watched as the swirling vortex that had once been safely inside the crystals be freed to the dark and dingy room where he stood. He could also feel the sanity leaving his mind, once again restoring the clarity he had lost so long ago.

It was then, as his sanity returned and the vortex left the tower, that Dickinson truly understood just what he had done. He had cured his sanity, at the expense of everyone else. He now knew what the wizard had forbid him from ever using the crystal ball of madness. While it would cure Dickinson's madness, it would then bestow that madness upon everyone in the kingdom. Dickinson climbed to the door out of the tower and watched as the vortex withered away, having released its full power upon the kingdom.

Across the land, Dickinson could see as anarchy swallowed the kingdom. He ran back to the tower, to try and use the other crystals to stop this chaos. He was shocked to find them all shattered, the contents extinguished. Dickinson set out to find another way to stop this chaos.

Author’s Note-Sorry it’s so late, but here is this week’s Song Challenge story! And there is light at the end of the tunnel, since I’m almost done school, so hopefully stories should come out at a much more consistent rate!

“Scream.”

That one, lone word was all the sound that pierced through the silence. That, and the pain and fear ridden breathing of both people. One person, the soon to be victim, was on his knees. His hands were against the back of his head, and he looked terrible. He had been beaten senseless, and tears were streaming down his face; he was going to die.

The other man, Paul Graves, Jr, stood behind him, on his feet, gun in hand. It was aimed directly at the back of the victims head. “I said scream!” Graves yelled again. He was the most despicable of killers. He did not kill out of revenge, or even for some sick twisted form of enjoyment. The victim let out one final, ear piercing scream. As soon as he finished, Graves pulled the trigger. The sound of the gun firing rippled throughout the alley, and the victim's body launched away from Graves and slammed into the ground, a red cloud spraying through the air.

And with that, Graves turned to leave the alley, dropping the gun into a dumpster. Normally, that would be all the evidence the police would need. But Graves did not have to worry about the police. They would never find the gun. A weapon of some sort would turn up eventually, when Graves would need it. It always did, that was one of the terms of the agreement.

Graves left the alley and returned to his 'home'. Hopefully, the street would be empty. Graves rode the subway to the street he needed. As he had expected, the street was crowded. But the sun had set, and the people were quickly leaving. Graves made his way through the crowd and into the park. After nearly an hour, the park was all but abandoned. With everyone gone, Graves found his makeshift bed and attempted to sleep. But he had taken to long, and the blockade had started to fade. They all started coming back, every last one of them. The screams. Every one of them. The screams from each and every person Graves had killed. Each scream was followed by another scream, each one louder than the one before.

Hours passed, and Graves lay in his bed, attempting to find the sleep that always alluded him. The screams had gotten so loud that Graves' head ached, and yet they kept getting louder.

“Help me! Please!” called out one voice.

“Someone stop him!” cried out another.

“I've been hit! He's headi-” wailed the voice of a police officer that Graves had once ran into.

“Why are you doing this?!” wailed a woman, of the few he had killed.

“Please, I have a family!”

“Don't do this!”

Then came the screams of those who had truly left an impression on Graves; those had faced the end with dignity. Yes, they felt fear, but they unwavering in the face of death.

“I have raised seven children into adulthood,” one voice said, “and I have helped care for my grandchildren and the people I love. I have lived through the things that would make you soil yourself!” Graves had doubted this, but he was never one to argue with a dieing man. “I have the comfort of knowing that I'm leaving this world a better place. But you! You're gonna rot in hell!”

“Go on, you little bastard!” yelled another. “I ain't afraid of you! Gimme your best shot!”

The final straw was the most heart wrenching scream he had ever heard. One that caused him more pain than anything that snot-face with the overgrown fork could even begin to fathom.

“Sweetie, what's wrong?”

“What's happening?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Please stop!”

“Please!”

Graves jumped from his bed and ran out of the park. He quickly made his way to the subway station. Once there, his heart sank when he saw it was empty. One last scan before leaving revealed it. One lone woman, waiting for the train. Graves always did his best to restrict his killings to men. He believed that not killing a woman would keep him from being the total monster that he sadly knew he had become long before. Every now and again, he was forced to break his rule. He did not like it, but desperate times....

Graves carefully and slowly snuck up behind the woman, hiding behind a large display until he could hear the train. After several minutes, the distinct sound of the train began to fill the station. Now was his moment. Graves moved from behind the display and up to the woman. In one quick, blurred moment, Graves ripped her purse from off of her shoulder and pushed her over the edge. She landed on the train tracks just before the train arrived. She screamed in horror as the train moved closer to her. She was soon silenced by the sound of bone crunching and flesh tearing.

Graves pulled the woman's wallet from her purse and found her driver's license. He was ready to leave it on the ground so that the body, or at least what was left of it, could be identified. He was stopped by a scream. Not a scream of fear, panic, desperation, anger, pain, or of any emotion. No, this was different. This was a unique scream. Only one thing in all of creation could scream like that. It was the scream of true, pure innocence.

It was the screams of a child.

Graves turned to see a stroller not far from where the woman had been standing. He had been so blinded by his own desires that he had not noticed it. Perhaps he could....

“No,” Graves said firmly. “Never.”

Graves pushed the stroller outside of the station and made his way across the city. Even in the middle of the night, the streets were crowded. Eventually Graves arrived at the police station. They would not be able to take him in, but the child was no part of the deal. Graves sat the stroller right out the front doors of the station, leaving the woman's driver's license and a note with the child.

The note read, “My name is Paul Graves, Jr. I have just murdered this child's mother. Her remains are in the subway station on the rails. See to it that this child is cared for.”

Once he left the station, Graves knew exactly where he was going next. To where it all began. It was a difficult process to get there, one which must never be spoken of, lest one would wish to experience insufferable torment. After the process was done, Graves found himself in the exact same spot he had stood in so many years before.

Graves stood, ready and waiting, at the crossroads. A single street sign decorated the road, a symbol representing infinity on the sign. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them, a large rock sat in front of the sign. Sitting on top of the rock was him, if you can assign something like that a gender. It looked like some kind of imp. It was hunched over, sitting on a rock. And it was truly ugly. In the middle of it's face was a large snout, with nostrils so large that John could clearly see up it's nose. It's head was covered in short, spindly hair that was filthy and coated in grease. Protruding from it's mouth were four long, thin fangs, two from the lower jaw, two from the top. The teeth were so long that they made it impossible for the imp to close it's mouth. Through that open hung out a thin, forked tongue. The only clothes it wore was one tattered loincloth. It's body, arms, and legs were unnaturally thin, like it was malnourished. It's skin was an extremely pale red, with it's finger and toenails being several inches long and a dull, sickly yellow. It's eyes were entirely black, with two tiny, red dots glaring into Graves' soul. In his left hand was an old rusted pitchfork. It, was Darius.

“It'th thertainly been awhile,” Darius commented. “Do you remember who I am?”

“Of course I remember you,” Graves responded. “You made my life a living hell.”

“No, you did that,” Darius said, “I jutht made it happen. And let'th not forget that you wanted me to do it, anyway.”

“Yeeaaahhhh, about that,” Graves mumbled.

“Hold on there, ya little twit,”Darius growled angrily. “You don't wanna go back on the deal, do ya?”

“Yes, yes I do,” Graves answered.

“I'm guething that you don't remember what will happen then,” Darius said.

“I remember full well what will happen,” Graves responded. “I simply don't care.”

“Well then, my old, thtupid, naive, little pathetic excuthe for a human being,” Darius began. “You may think you're coming off ath bold and brave, but you're really coming off ath a wuth and an idiot. You sure you thtill wanna do thith?”

“Yes,” Graves answered. “Do it.”

“Very well,” Darius conceded. He turned the pitchfork upside down and drove it into the ground. A swirling line of black spun around Graves' feet, a black mist rising from the circle. It rose up to surround Graves. Once it covered him, it grew thicker until it blocked Graves from view. All the while, Graves' cries of pain escaped through the black cloud. The only person who would ever hear them was Darius, and he did not care about the pain Graves would feel.

“And remember,” Darius called to the vanishing cloud, “when you meet your new both, don't pith'im off!”

Author’s Note-So I know the last two stories were rather dark, so I decided to shake things up a little and try a happier story. A cheesy story for a cheesy song! Also, I mistakenly listed Deadly Nightshade as the fifth story, when it is actually the sixth. My bad. And now, for something completely different!

Ralph sat on the chair, staring at the clock, eagerly waiting for it to do whatever weird magic it did. Everyday, the clock would make mommy disappear all day. Then, it would let mommy come home. His stomach gurgled from hunger, but he did not care. Food was not important. Dinner could wait, for Ralph had something far more important in mind. He had to show mommy how much he loved her. He had so much to be thankful for, since she had done so much to help him. Before mommy adopted him, Ralph never knew just how great his life could be.

Before mommy had adopted him, Ralph had stuck around with Mr Blankets. Ralph had fun with Mr Blankets, everyday was a adventure. They would travel everywhere, and they would sleep under the stars. But one day, Mr Blankets had told Ralph that he was going to take a nap. He must have been really tired, because Mr Blankets did not wake up. He slept for an entire week, and he started to smell even worse than he normally did. After that, some nice men in green shirts took Ralph to a hotel with all these other people. That is when mommy had adopted him.

Ralph was getting tired of sitting on the chair, so he got up, stretched, and walked over to his water. It was nice a cool, and refreshed his parched mouth. Mommy always gave him the nice cold water, and sometimes, she gave Ralph milk. The cold water and milk tasted a lot better than the bubbly water that Mr Blankets had. They also did not give Ralph that weird headache the bubbly water did. He looked at the refridgerator, then to the over, the toaster, and to the empty bowl patiently waiting for food. The food mommy gave Ralph was also a lot tastier. Before mommy had adopted him, Ralph had no idea that things like steak and gravy tasted so good. They tasted a lot better than the food that Mr Blankets got from the big green boxes.

Ralph walked over to his best friend, well, best friend after mommy, of course. His best friend was a monkey named Charlie. Charlie was bright orange and fuzzy. Not only that, but Charlie would squeak when you squeezed him! He was sitting next to Freddy, another one of friend of Ralph's. Freddy was a purple, fuzzy bunny, and he squeak too! When Ralph hung out with Mr Blankets, he did not have many toys. Usually, the toys he did have were from the big green boxes too. They were also a lot older, and they would be missing some of their fuzz and they never squeaked, so they did not last to long. But all of the toys mommy got were fuzzy and squeaked!

Ralph played with Charlie and Freddy for a while. When he was done, he decided to go look out the window to the backyard. When he looked out the window, he saw to more people he knew. The small orange-brown guy with the big, bushy tail and the blue guy with the flying arms. Ralph would always try to play and be friends with them, but they would always run and fly away. Ralph could see his reflection in the window. When he first went to live with mommy, he had always thought that is was someone else looking at him, so mommy had to explain to Ralph that he was just seeing himself. Mommy was always so nice to Ralph. Whenever he had a bad dream or was cold, she would let him cuddle up with her in her bed. She would help him get to sleep by scratching that spot behind his ears and back that he could not reach.

It was then that it caught his eye. It was back. Poking out from behind Ralph was the tentacle. Ralph never knew what it wanted, but he did not like it. Ralph waited for a few moments, and then he struck. For some reason, the tentacle was always one step ahead of him. Ralph ran in circles, chasing after the dreadful thing. After a few minutes, the tentacle disappeared. Ralph stumbled about in a dizzy state, trying to find the tentacle.

Before Ralph could find it, his attention was caught by one of his favorite sounds. The sound of a key entering a lock. Mommy was finally home! Ralph let out a cry of excitement, running over to the door. His heart was racing and his mind could only focus one thing: that mommy was home.

“Just a minute sweetie!” mommy called from the other side of the door. After what seemed like hours, Ralph's wish came true! Mommy opened the door, and Ralph jumped up to her, waiting for her to set her purse down so he could show just how much he loved her. She sat on the chair, and Ralph joined her.

Mommy was greeted with licks across her face and sniffing her face. “Okay, okay,” mommy said. “How about some dinner?”

Ralph jumped down, ready for his growling stomach to be filled. After greedily devouring his dinner, mommy walked up behind him with his leash. “How about a walk?”