Should I finish this story?

Hi, Splattercore.I wrote a quick chapter, more like half a chapter, today and pulled it out of my head. No plot. No research. No working through characters first. I just wrote it because it was in my brain and held me captive for most of last night. I'd love to know what you guys think of it...

The darkness enveloped her entire being as she trembled through the cold and lonely cemetery, clutching her goose-bumped arms to her chest. The moon was full, but still didn’t provide enough light for her to see, and to make matters worse, her flashlight batteries had died several tombstones ago.
    The crisp fall leaves crunched under her sneakers as she walked through rows and rows of the dead who had met their fates mostly over a hundred years ago. Vaulhurtz Cemetery didn’t take new additions. It was over a century old and the newest grave there was over sixty years old. It had filled up rather quickly when it opened up to the elite and after The Great Depression, it was completely full.
    Most of the stones, she noticed, were upright and had gargoyles and other creepy monstrosities on top of them, as if a grim tombstone would make death a bit easier on the families or something to that nature. Nonetheless, she combed through every single one of them and would continue to do so until she found the right one.
    The stone she was looking for would have the name Margaret Anne Thatcher on it, and it would be one of the oldest ones in the place. The grave, of course, would be completely empty-or so Sarah hoped.
    The story that her grandmother had told her that night, right before she took her last breath, was a very disturbing, if not sweet one.
    Margaret was her grandmother’s grandmother. Right before the turn of the century, Margaret married a plantation owner in South Carolina to ensure that her family’s financial status stayed put. Unfortunately, poor Margaret got more than she bargained for. The plantation owner, William Thatcher was an old, crotchety, cranky, mean, cantankerous and abusive piss-pot of an old man. When slavery was abolished, he kept his plantation running by whatever means necessary, and he worked his new, young bride to the brink of near insanity.
    Finally, as the thoughts of the grizzly story her grandmother had just told her replayed in her head for the umpteenth time, Sarah found a stone marked “William Thatcher.” That meant that his wife’s stone would be close by.
    Feeling sick from thinking of the cruel punishment that Margaret had received all those many years ago, Sarah spat on William Thatcher’s grave, and as she passed, she found Margaret’s stone sticking out of the ground next to it, below a grand oak tree.
    Her stone read “Margaret Thatcher, wife and mother. RIP.” That was it. No dates. Nothing else at all.
    A chill swept over Sarah’s shoulders and she pulled her shovel from her side and began digging as quickly and efficiently as she could without getting caught. Then again, on a night like that with the darkness sweeping through the entire cemetery, no one was likely to be about.
    When she plunked the shovel into hard ground the first time, she barely made a dent in the earth.
    “Shit.” She cursed, resting her shovel against the tombstone for a minute to tie her long dark curls back in a quick ponytail. Then, as quickly as she could, she resumed, pushing the shovel into the ground a bit deeper.
    She didn’t have time to wait on a court order to have the grave exhume, and as long as that body had been dead, if it was even in there, she had no reason to exhume it anyhow. Not from a legal stand point, that is.
    Personally, she had a very big reason to dig her up. Her grave would contain her destiny, according to her grandmother.
What better way to spend the night of your beloved grandmother’s death and your own eighteenth birthday then to go grave robbing? Her thoughts roamed towards sarcasm, but she shrugged it off.
    Margaret, according to the stories, had left strict instructions after she faked her death with the help of a few friends, that only the ninth Thatcher woman born could open that grave. Only the ninth would know what to do with the contents, and only the ninth could make things right again. Then, after leaving her daughter with relatives in Virginia, well hidden from William Thatcher, Margaret had disappeared to England, never to be heard from again.
    Sarah Thatcher was the ninth born daughter after all those years. Most Thatchers were males, though they were all powerful enough in their own as warlocks. It was known that the witches held the most mystique. This, according to Margaret, was why it had to be a daughter, and not a son.
    She pushed the shovel back into the dirt again, after making just a small hole in the earth, and pulled up a gigantic chunk of earth this time. Proudly, she heaved the dirt over her shoulder and kept at it, wondering what on earth was in that grave that was so darned important.
    Whatever it was, she wanted it. It could be money. It could be deeds. It could be jewels that Margaret had stored away. And then again, it could be completely empty. Who really knew...
    Three hours later, she hit the top of a very old black onyx casket wrapped in heavy silver chains with a silver name plate on top that had Margaret’s name on it and a number nine. It took her all of twenty minutes to uncover the rest of it, retrieve the set of bolt cutters from her bag, and tear into the heavy silver chains. She hacked at them longer than she thought it would take to get decrepit metal to break, but once they fell to the sides of the casket and she unlatched it, she felt she was ready to proceed.
    With one heavy, deep breath, she pushed the top of the casket open, and to her shock and horror, there was a very fresh body inside. A male body, dressed in turn of the century garb and a gothic top hat. He didn’t look over a hundred years old at all.
    On the contrary, the corpse looked brand new and not a day over thirty, albeit he was a bit dusty.
    Sarah gasped and stood back, waiting for a stench to hit her, but it never did. Just mold and musk. Her heart jumped into her throat.
    Silver-blond locks of shoulder-length hair was draped over the dead guy’s shoulders. White lashes covered the closed eyelids of the corpse’s sleeping face. If it weren’t for the fact that the dead man wasn’t breathing, she would half expect him to jump up and start talking to her.
    Frustrated, Sarah turned around and peered up at the moon and the star-sprinkled night sky. Holding her hands up in the air, she muttered, “Some destiny this is!” Then, she tossed the shovel on the ground and turned around again to face the corpse.
    “Dude, I don’t know who you are or why the hell you’re in my great great great great, a million times great grandmother’s grave, but you are not what I expected, here!”
    She closed her eyes and stood on her knees at the side of the grave. There had to be something in there besides a dead guy!
    Bravely gathering her wits about her, she slid one hand into the side of the casket, past the corps’s chest and into the lining, checking to see if there was a letter or a document in there. Perhaps a key to some kind of other buried treasure with a map?
    She slid her hand down further, closer to the corps’s arm and closed her eyes as she felt around the rock-hard, chilling-cold body.
    She moved her hand to the other side of the body and slid her fingers into the lining of the other side of the casket, right above his chest again, still keeping her eyelids tightly closed.
    Then, she felt cold fingers wrap tightly around her arm and heard a low growl from below her.
    Her knees wobbled around in the fresh dirt that she was sitting in, and snapped her eyelids open.
    With more force and strength than she’d ever felt in her entire life, the corpse animated and pulled her inside, right on top of him. His eyes were a fierce red, his face stone cold, chiseled, and angry.
    There were no words to describe the horror that she felt inching down her spine, nor the cold of death that the corpse spread over her skin when he touched her. Nothing could describe the pain that spread through her neck, either, when he bit into it with a force stronger than death itself. Warmth spread over her neck and into her chin and chest when the fresh blood from her new wound seeped all over her and down her shoulder.
    She couldn’t even scream. It came out of her throat in a gurgling, but no coherant words escaped.
    He held her as tightly as a lover, but gave her not pleasure, but pain and suffering instead. It lasted only a minute or so, but to Sarah, the splintering, dull bite felt as though it was an hour before he finally released her, pushed her off of him and out of the grave, violently, and let himself out to stand next to her.
    “You’re Margaret Thatcher’s granddaughter?” His voice was low and raspy, but he spoke with a brilliant English accent and wiped her blood from his lips with the sleeve of his earth-worn shirt.
    Her head was spinning and she felt weak, but managed to nod in his direction with utter hate in her eyes. “Yes,” She whispered towards him as she pushed herself up from the mound of fresh dirt that she’d shoveled earlier.
    “You’re a witch?” He asked her.
    “Apparently so. That’s what they tell me.” She sassed him, but knew that it was true. She was a witch, but not a very good one. She got her spells mixed up and always managed to ruin them in one way or another. Either that or they simply backfired on her.
    Wiping a bit of blood from her shoulder, she gathered her bag and her shovel. “Well, it’s been horrible meeting you, and I hope I never have the pleasure again! Had I expected a vampire to greet me, I would have left this grave alone.”
    “Ever met a vampire before?” He asked, straightening his clothes, staring at her.
    “No, but there’s always a first time for everything, and hopefully a last!” With that, she spat blood from her mouth and realized that her lip had somehow been busted when he’d thrown her from the casket. “I’m leaving now. Good luck with the whole bloodsucker thing.”
    A sly grin crossed his lips. “You’ll be seeing me again, Sarah Thatcher.”
    “In hell, maybe.” She mumbled, feeling beaten and misinformed as she walked back out of the cemetery, searching for the iron gates she’d climbed over to get in a few hours ago. 

Let me know what you think through comments here. If it sucks, please tell me so. You won't be doing me any favors by telling me that the beginning of this story is great when it's really not. Go ahead. Take your best shot. I'm a big girl. I can deal with some criticism. :)

~Rhiannon Mills 


Man is His Own Worst Enemy

Sometimes, the worst of the gore comes from real life. Well, at least what could be real life, or could have been. Through movies and story, we are forced to accept the atrocities of man in various form. His violence. His anger. His hatred. His self-loathing. His frustration. All of these things walk out of the shell of what we deem sane and swim in the sea of insane.

These are nothing more than the truth of man. Maybe his desire. Hidden. Or not. Some reflect history, some symbolize it. But make no mistake, when it comes to gore, man is the greatest inventor of dastardly ways to make a presentation.

So today, we explore man on his journey. Where has he been? Where did he come from? Where will he go? If history has taught us anything, the answers are to the pits of hell, from the pits of hell and to the pits of hell respectively.

Ex#1: A Gun Isn't Enough.

It amazes me how often man uses weapons as a psychological means to something more grizzly. So often we see or hear a story about how someone pulled a gun on someone to get them to do something that ended up with their death, not related to the gun, irregardless of what they thought would be the outcome. And in these cases, I think I'd choose the bullet to the torture.

I can't think of a worse way to die. You think that if you just do what the crazy man says, he will let you go- then BAM! Your jaw cracks like a lobster claw at the hands of a high-dollar patron at some fancy seafood restaurant. What manner of man could even do such a thing? How does he sleep at night? This is probably the most vulgar of examples I can provide- and oddly the least graphic.

Ex#2 Hell Hath No Fury Like a Woman Scorned:

It is often said that a woman provoked wreaks Hell upon her antagonist. This ancient Greek play by Euripides is perhaps one of the best examples. In the short version of the story, Medea and Jason fall in love and have kids. Jason later obtains an offer to take the King's daughter as a prize or a bride.... Well Jason, Medea didn't like that too much so she:

Now, I first learned of this play taking a drama class in college. The version I watched showed Medea coming to greet Jason outside her home with blood all over her- which was later revealed to be from her having murdered her kids. I think that is a bit PG rated compared to the version I linked above. In one instance, the older son expedites the death process of the younger son- then goes on to expedite his own death... How sad.

Ex#3: Are You a Faggot? Bullshit!:

Eventually, the cruel nature of man can get to you. Your once happy thoughts, innocent and carefree in nature, turn into bitter lemons of vindication and dramatics. You seek to let the shitty world know just what they can do with themselves and the following is the result:

Well, to be honest, those assholes had it coming to them. The military, in this story, should have done a better job of filtering people out who clearly would not mesh with their hostile ways. And that drill sergeant was a prick.

Ex#4: They're All Going to Laugh at You....

The hell they are! Put pigs blood on me and I am going to decimate you like one of those comic books... you know like Jean from X-Men, when she discovers her phoenix thing. Yeah, screw you, you adamant little self-righteous bastards!

Before there was Columbine, there was telekinesis. Just like above, Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned...

Look, the point is that mankind is mean and violent to mankind. All of the above are stories that are fiction. But as almost anyone in fiction writing or anthropology will tell you, almost all stories are based on some kind of fact. In fact, some gruesome stories are buried in our history books even if, likeLizzy Borden (OJ anyone?) they were never proven.

So before you go out to strange neighborhoods, or join the Marines, or send your religiously dysfunctional reared child off to school, or decide to screw over your kids' part of the will, you'd better make certain they aren't some crazy ax-wielding, telekinetic psychopath waiting for their fifteen minutes of infamy... AT YOUR EXPENSE!

Aaaahhh! What the heck was that?

I don't know why I put this here. It has nothing to do with this post...but I just really like it and I'm allowed to do erratic things when I've just seen a ghost.
So, today, I have another real live ghost story for ya. 

I was minding my own damned business at my computer, working on some emails that need to be read and returned, and the dryer stopped in the laundry room. 


So, I get up out of my comfy chair and push it under my desk, hot foot it to the laundry room, open the dryer, grab an arm load of clean, dry, hot laundry and begin to carry it through the bedroom and into the kitchen so I can fold it on the kitchen table. 

Only, I never made it to the kitchen. Hell, I didn't even make it out of the bedroom. I got to the first step between the laundry room and master bedroom, seen the most horrible thing I've ever seen in my history of ghostie sightings, dropped the clean, dry, hot laundry on my bare feet, and lost my breath completely and stood frozen in that doorway for about five minutes.

So, what is it that I saw today, do you ask? 

Again, it was the most horrible thing I've ever seen and I've seen a lot of dead folks. Or, their spirits. However you wanna put it.

I saw the graying, nearly rotten, standing straight upward corpse (only she was completely animated) of a lady standing straight up next to my bed. She was covered in blood, though I'm not sure it was hers and its really hard to see details when you're looking at ghosts because their forms are sort of shadowy and graying. 

Yes, I know that was a run-on sentence. Sue me.

She looked to be a bit older than me, though not much. She had long-ish dark hair and wore a long dress with full-ish skirts. In  one of her hands she held out the severed head of another woman. Or it could have been a very long haired man. I don't know. I couldn't tell because it was so damned grizzly. 

And in my bedroom. In. My. BEDROOM!

It's one thing to see a perfectly harmless ghost, one that doesn't wish to hurt you. But, when you see one like this who is clutching someone's head by the roots of their hair, it's a different ballgame altogether. Wanna know how I know she didn't like me?

It could probably be because she was practically growling, though there was no sound. I could just see her doing it with her mouth and facial expressions. 

And this all happened after my husband left for work and the kids were outside playing with the neighbor's kids and I was in here all by myself. 

I had to share this with Splattercore because I'm still pretty damn shaken up by it. And in case you're wondering, I folded the laundry and put it away, rather than leaving it in my apparently haunted bedroom.