Sod the Demonic Story, this is a more ambitious storyline but a less ambitiouss amount of work. A thriller from a mind of the fantastical. PLEASE feedback


Thor smashed his heavy hammer into the gradually waking head of Terry. The Whiskey troll had begun his early morning river dance and the milk ceiling began to gurgle and hurdle into focus. He was sweltering, there was moisture, viscous and glutinous splattered over his creased forehead. One blink, two. Hands to his head for a temporary (very temporary) relief from the vociferous and pulsing pain.

The sweat on his hands felt slimy and heavy as his hands slid awkwardly from his face and into his matted knotted hair.

“Take the ashes from the floor, bury them to just make sure that nothing more is left of me” his phone sang its mournful reminder that sleep was only temporary, and his vivid rainbow dreams were already to become a forgotten ember in a fleeting pyre.

Terry took his hands from his head and brought them to his side swiftly, frustrated and angry with the rudeness of his predicted awakening and huffed a putrid breath into the air. The flash of red from his hands took a moment to register.

“We get so complicated. This fingers for our memories.” The alarm continued to tell it’s daily story to his Spartan magnolia room.

Terry raised his hands to his face. No better alarm there was than sudden horror and revulsion. His eyes widened as slick blackening scarlet snaked its way down his wrist heading down gravities chosen route to the creased pit of his elbow.

“There’s nothing left to say.” But Terry no longer heard his phone to even remind himself he hated be awoken.

A sudden wracking panic gripped his throat asphyxiating him with tendrils of confusion and apprehension. Focus rapidly gaining on his senses Terry violently recoiled into a seated foetal position before convulsively scanning his room. It would occur to him momentarily that despite the obvious fatal amount of blood soaking into the mattress beside him that he felt no pain. No sting or ache to accompany the carnage. No wound was evident to him as moved his head and body around the bed. No injury other than a substantial hangover.

Maybe death was painless, maybe he was dead, maybe he was still dreaming and some macabre thoughts had crept into his oblivious mind as he slept off the frivolities of sociable activity.

“Rip my pictures from your wall, tear them down and burn them all.” Was his alarm piercing him from the other side of consciousness? Was the oily claret just a sick fiction, and overture to some nasty thought that suddenly he was going to sit up screaming from? Was his bedroom door really open? It must be a dream, Terry never left his door unlocked and open during the night. Being in a shared house in a shady area of his Northamptonshire town afforded him no such luxury.

He only realised the front door was being hammered viciously when the barrage of forceful battering had ceased to be replaced by a gruff muddle of baritone alien uttering. Thundering up wooden stairs and then his door flung opened wider.

The piercing flood of light left him temporarily blinded as Terry made out the words ‘Terrance Michael Sandford…arrested…of murder.’

The End

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