#bodyhorror

Welcome the Horrify, A Halloween, and October tales. Where monsters roam wilder, and demons pass through. There will be 31 stories to tell. Throughout October. We had begun with the Haunted series. The tale and horror of The Ballerina. Let's begin and enter the shadows of night.

Under gravel and twisting roots there lies an intricate system of life, hundreds of sizes smaller than our species. Like pale, empty veins they stretch out to dig downwards into damp soil. It is dark. Darker than sunless skies. The realm underground is the realm of corpses. They settle between debris like shells pushed under sand by careless ocean waves. Deeper, and deeper. While you walk overhead on solid ground, thinking of the casual facets of life, corpses are clawing overhead themselves,…

There was a sound, once, in Black Hollow that wasn’t made by men. Before the pickaxes and drills, before the coal trains and dead canaries before the mountain was stripped naked and hung with wires there was something else. The old ones called it “The Hollowing,” a word whispered by toothless women by firelight. They said it came when the ground was too deep, the hunger too great. Not a cave-in or gas, not even hell. Something worse.

No word, uttered or inscribed, can claim that all they tell is true to the letter; in every slip and stutter of the human voice, every unspoken detail in fine print, a lie takes root and defiles the same soil that nourishes it, until it burgeons into a carnivorous parasite. Last summer, Rosenthal Manor snatched me away from my life with a bouquet of hopes and walled me into her cold, high corridors, where every step that falls on the marble floor, every voice whispered in its chambers, does so…

When my girlfriend, Ella, recommended we go to the local renaissance faire I absolutely jumped on the idea. I hadn’t been since I was a kid, but I always remembered loving it. The cool vendors, the food, the awesome jousting matches. It was everything a kid could love. My recent hyperfixation on medieval times and fantasy also definitely helped to drive my excitement for the event. I also had been needing a good excuse to get out and be social again. I had found myself too busy with school and…

Ever since the caravan had reached the Unamur Mountains, the climate had become as irksome as the company I kept. Every day, a disgusting heat came with sunrise. Cool days were also rare in Dishare, therefore I hadn't expected it would bother me when I set out on this journey. However, I soon learned that the mountainous stretch of the Cursed Road was plagued by a different kind of heat; dry and draining. The silken canopy of my palanquin could as well not have been there as the little shade it…

It's almost seven. Zoya leans back in her chair, stretching her arms with heavy sighs after a fifteen-page essay. It's due tomorrow, so there's still time for edits - but she's been staring at her screen too long. She peeks out her bedroom window to the right. The last creeping bands of pink and orange sun grow dim across the barren treetops of the forest nearby, bleeding into the horizon beyond her corner of the suburb. The autumn air is cool and fresh, the wind is tame and her work is done…

Content Warning: This story contains graphic depictions of self-harm, suicidal ideation, psychological distress, and body horror. Reader discretion is strongly advised. Art is suffering. Suffering is what fuels creativity. I’m an artist. Not professionally at least. Although some would argue the moment you exchange paint for profit, you’ve already sold your soul.

“Born to be a star” — that’s what my grandma always said, anyway.

There is a fresh, blank page sitting in front of me, and as I stare at it it seems to stare back.

Lainy held her cup of coffee to her chest, tried to trap its warmth inside her body. She should've dressed warmer. Autumn had arrived and it was forcing its chill through her body. Logan was twenty minutes late. She tried not to hold it against him, but her nose was starting to run. They had matched online, exchanged only a few messages before he asked her out on a date. It was bold but he was attractive enough, plus the cafe was filled with people. What could go wrong?

‘Hey, girly! I’ve decided to start selling cosmetics.’ I groaned as I read the text message. When a girl you haven’t spoken to since high school, Kimmy in this case, sends you a message like that, it means they’re trying sell you on some MLM BS. My phone buzzed again, and despite my better judgement, I checked it and braced myself to read the words ‘boss babe’.

'Love.' They say it's the purest form of giving without expecting anything in return. To be unconditional, understanding, and patient. Love can be the sweetest thing of all, but it can also be the most dangerous weapon in the world.

The widow, Laura, walked into the garden. Cracked Stone walls surrounded her, their green vines slithering toward bushes plump with blood-red berries. At the center of the garden stood a rectangular stone basin shaped like an angel. It knelt before the pool as if to deliver water from its mouth. Yet what flowed was bleak black water, filled with sticks and the smal bodies of dying insects. When she was younger, she remembered tossing coins and watching them sink into the water's darkness.…

Everyone on the train was normal. Of course, Stuart didn’t care to notice that they were normal. When something is normal, the brain doesn’t pay it any mind. Why would it? It’s a waste of energy to notice the mundane. If it’s normal, it’s not a threat. It doesn’t need to be taken care of. Doesn’t need to be noticed, thought about, or given an ounce of consideration.

I wake with searing pain in my right arm. My left feels fine. My left hand tightly clutches my bedsheets and duvet. I squint in the silvery moonlight that flows from my white four-paned Georgian bedroom window. I can’t see much. Just the blur of the moon. I blink. My eyes are watery. My internal clock tells me it’s the early hours of the morning, but it isn’t always reliable. I feel pain. But it is feels dull, numb and distant. I breathe in. The air feels clean and pure at least.

I want your sickness. You see, I spend my time here, each hour of the day and night, I sit in the shadows just to watch. I study your every move. I know your routine well, in fact. You wake up each night at 03:00, still shuddering from a nightmare, and drag your tired body to the washroom. It gives me such a thrill, this routine, because what you don’t know is that it’s not a nightmare. I am, in fact, only inches away from you.

By WedgeOverPotato

This is the continued part of The Ballerina. Let's begin. The next day, in school. Davian walked over to Amy and tapped her shoulder. Amy looked at him with surprised eyes. He asked: "Would tonight be a good day to study for the midterm for history?" Amy was so excited that her dark prince was asking her. She had to reply quickly before Davian changed his mind. Amy replied, sweetly: "Sure. Let me ask my dad quick."

It started suddenly. Autumn was coming to an end, the weather was rapidly deteriorating. Busy streets turned into canals filled with icy water and debris. Thin streams ran along the dirty walls and mixed with the long-term patina of rust. An atmosphere of decay, a thick, viscous feeling.