Horror Pictures
Content
Daniel Walus Horrorstories
2011 Engelsk Oure Gymnasie
Looking At Me Looking At You
This morning mother came to my room; her steps were small and swift, circulating, in this hazy state of mind I’m tempted to say orbiting. The look in her eyes were weary, almost mourning. After an eternity she sat down on the edge of the bed. I noticed the unplugged hairdryer shaking in her hands, not much, but enough for me to realize that something was wrong. She never shakes, never shows her insecurity apparantly, people called her a cold woman. However this feature was merely a side-effect of her interests in old roman philosophy: Never show your fascination explicitly, thereby you submit yourself to others. That morning she put my life into perspective. Not because she was sharing some kind of age old wisdom with me, but because she wanted me to my share of his antique leftovers. Actually, all she gave me was a letter telling me to get a picture of an old man with a book. Clouds moved fast above my head the wind was brisk, bending the trees in what seemed like an impossible, constant curve. I wasn’t going to let the wind have its way with me. I was standing in front of his house, I could feel the last beams of winter sun on my skin. I could feel my body aching, that feeling provoked me to embrace the lack of meaning in living. I lit a cigarette, inhaled, my consciousness seemed to clear as I entered the house. I thanked myself for feeding the abnormal amount of nicotine to my receptors in my nerve system. The hall was a circular room. Standing in the hall I noticed the intimidatingly tall, grey walls almost bending over me. I asked myself how long they could still lift the weight of two floors. The narrow hallway wasn’t covering the claustrophobic the wooden shack’s creaking, unwelcoming atmosphere. I could almost hear the house whispering, “you’re not welcome” after each exhale. It made my neck skin crawl. But I wasn’t going to let the house have its way with me. I walked down the dark hallway, running my fingers down the wall, searching for the light. I turned on the light. No matter how hard I told myself it was an irrational phobia it still felt like someone - or something was watching me. Irrational or not it I went into the living room. A square room consisted of four walls covered with red cracked paint which revealed the the rotting wood. It had a fireplace that looked as if it hadn’t been used for years. I could see the dust from the wooden ceiling had fallen onto the cracked, marble hearth which extended into the room. Above the fireplace hung a picture of an old scarfaced, one eyed man sitting on a leather chair in a library holding an open book in his hands. His face had two scars running from his eyebrows down his chin. The skin looked like it was falling apart thus creating a mysterious grin. That was the painting. I walked up to the picture. I looked at it for a while. Suddenly he turned his face towards me and said, “As I am about to tell you this story, there are things you must know in beforehand. I have travelled wide and far, seen things unimaginable to most humans and affected lives on earth with grave force, even though many might have forgotten; it still remains etched upon my mind. My exterior is decaying and I must now pass on to you a story which goes by many names. But I must start at the beginning.” A sudden feeling of vague recognition struck me. He continued. “I found myself situated in an alley. Night had aroused and the moral had fallen, as it always does when darkness consumes our every move. The wind carried with it turmoil, a stench of anger, despair and distress, the night had many faces and so did I. On the right a door opened, a young
1
Daniel Walus Horrorstories
2011 Engelsk Oure Gymnasie
man was taking out the thrash, whistling. I was drawn towards him, like razors to an untrimmed beard. The lucky one was startled by my appearance, but restrained himself, kept his eye on my every move. Little did he know, that soon our bond would strengthen and be made indestructible to everything else than a man and his memory. He tried hard, letting out scrambled pitches in a chaotic, yet structured order, what he said is not relevant. He stopped at the sight of my drawn liberator. But it was too late by now. Everything was too late. As the tip of my blade penetrated his chest, he let out a bereavement shriek of pain. In that crucial moment of life our voices met in song, our eyes reflected our souls, we were stripped, naked. Our bare dancing bodies melted together through mortality. His questioning look was smothered in terror, it didn’t matter whether he was breathing or not. The darkness will come, as it does every day at sunset. I liberated him, forever in my memory to be kept, guarded. I made him immortal. The concept of walking in circles, looping, the movement; a downward spiral, drawing, drilling its way into even the most stabile mind. The psyche can achieve great things, but if one occupy it with a monotonous action for an eternity even the most balanced will tilt, fall off the barrel, into the grasp of the merciless river. This obliterating force of the self cause us to strive, strive towards better times, tones and tools, but with what purpose? What allows this excessive use of words is the same excuse for carrying on, if there ever was one. Everything is made by opposite, fundamental features; the line between different opposites is grey, blurry, hazy, melting together. The differences we experience when we look at an object are just meaningless variations, for in reality everything is one. There are no lines, no borders, that differs us from everything. Between black and white, us and them, me and you, there is no more than coherence. Everything is processes. Near a dumpster I found what seemed like a mystery, little did I know, I was closer to the core of this inevitable request that his distant eyes sent me then I cared about. But his twisted body invited my curiosity, incited my interest. Under the old, dark, skin, that had existed longer than I, simple lines occurred. He had been a handsome man, perhaps a sailor, not that it mattered anyway. For now my speculations were excessive.” He paused for a second. “Don’t you know who I am?”
2
2011 Engelsk Oure Gymnasie
Looking At Me Looking At You
This morning mother came to my room; her steps were small and swift, circulating, in this hazy state of mind I’m tempted to say orbiting. The look in her eyes were weary, almost mourning. After an eternity she sat down on the edge of the bed. I noticed the unplugged hairdryer shaking in her hands, not much, but enough for me to realize that something was wrong. She never shakes, never shows her insecurity apparantly, people called her a cold woman. However this feature was merely a side-effect of her interests in old roman philosophy: Never show your fascination explicitly, thereby you submit yourself to others. That morning she put my life into perspective. Not because she was sharing some kind of age old wisdom with me, but because she wanted me to my share of his antique leftovers. Actually, all she gave me was a letter telling me to get a picture of an old man with a book. Clouds moved fast above my head the wind was brisk, bending the trees in what seemed like an impossible, constant curve. I wasn’t going to let the wind have its way with me. I was standing in front of his house, I could feel the last beams of winter sun on my skin. I could feel my body aching, that feeling provoked me to embrace the lack of meaning in living. I lit a cigarette, inhaled, my consciousness seemed to clear as I entered the house. I thanked myself for feeding the abnormal amount of nicotine to my receptors in my nerve system. The hall was a circular room. Standing in the hall I noticed the intimidatingly tall, grey walls almost bending over me. I asked myself how long they could still lift the weight of two floors. The narrow hallway wasn’t covering the claustrophobic the wooden shack’s creaking, unwelcoming atmosphere. I could almost hear the house whispering, “you’re not welcome” after each exhale. It made my neck skin crawl. But I wasn’t going to let the house have its way with me. I walked down the dark hallway, running my fingers down the wall, searching for the light. I turned on the light. No matter how hard I told myself it was an irrational phobia it still felt like someone - or something was watching me. Irrational or not it I went into the living room. A square room consisted of four walls covered with red cracked paint which revealed the the rotting wood. It had a fireplace that looked as if it hadn’t been used for years. I could see the dust from the wooden ceiling had fallen onto the cracked, marble hearth which extended into the room. Above the fireplace hung a picture of an old scarfaced, one eyed man sitting on a leather chair in a library holding an open book in his hands. His face had two scars running from his eyebrows down his chin. The skin looked like it was falling apart thus creating a mysterious grin. That was the painting. I walked up to the picture. I looked at it for a while. Suddenly he turned his face towards me and said, “As I am about to tell you this story, there are things you must know in beforehand. I have travelled wide and far, seen things unimaginable to most humans and affected lives on earth with grave force, even though many might have forgotten; it still remains etched upon my mind. My exterior is decaying and I must now pass on to you a story which goes by many names. But I must start at the beginning.” A sudden feeling of vague recognition struck me. He continued. “I found myself situated in an alley. Night had aroused and the moral had fallen, as it always does when darkness consumes our every move. The wind carried with it turmoil, a stench of anger, despair and distress, the night had many faces and so did I. On the right a door opened, a young
1
Daniel Walus Horrorstories
2011 Engelsk Oure Gymnasie
man was taking out the thrash, whistling. I was drawn towards him, like razors to an untrimmed beard. The lucky one was startled by my appearance, but restrained himself, kept his eye on my every move. Little did he know, that soon our bond would strengthen and be made indestructible to everything else than a man and his memory. He tried hard, letting out scrambled pitches in a chaotic, yet structured order, what he said is not relevant. He stopped at the sight of my drawn liberator. But it was too late by now. Everything was too late. As the tip of my blade penetrated his chest, he let out a bereavement shriek of pain. In that crucial moment of life our voices met in song, our eyes reflected our souls, we were stripped, naked. Our bare dancing bodies melted together through mortality. His questioning look was smothered in terror, it didn’t matter whether he was breathing or not. The darkness will come, as it does every day at sunset. I liberated him, forever in my memory to be kept, guarded. I made him immortal. The concept of walking in circles, looping, the movement; a downward spiral, drawing, drilling its way into even the most stabile mind. The psyche can achieve great things, but if one occupy it with a monotonous action for an eternity even the most balanced will tilt, fall off the barrel, into the grasp of the merciless river. This obliterating force of the self cause us to strive, strive towards better times, tones and tools, but with what purpose? What allows this excessive use of words is the same excuse for carrying on, if there ever was one. Everything is made by opposite, fundamental features; the line between different opposites is grey, blurry, hazy, melting together. The differences we experience when we look at an object are just meaningless variations, for in reality everything is one. There are no lines, no borders, that differs us from everything. Between black and white, us and them, me and you, there is no more than coherence. Everything is processes. Near a dumpster I found what seemed like a mystery, little did I know, I was closer to the core of this inevitable request that his distant eyes sent me then I cared about. But his twisted body invited my curiosity, incited my interest. Under the old, dark, skin, that had existed longer than I, simple lines occurred. He had been a handsome man, perhaps a sailor, not that it mattered anyway. For now my speculations were excessive.” He paused for a second. “Don’t you know who I am?”
2
