1342 words - spooky/supernatural right? hope you like.

He - Perfect

He clasped her neck, forcefully throwing her to the ground; his aged, creased fingers showing the folds of water. Moonlight filtered softly onto the brook, creating a heavenly sparkle reminiscent of the stars. The muddy banks in which his feet embedded themselves were sodden, they oozed water with every fidget, every nudge. The bleak winter’s torturous cold gripped everything in its path. The once magnificent tall oak trees that lined the stream were now but the mere skeletons of their former glorious leaf robes. One decaying tree stood nearer than most; its algae green bark peeling slowly, producing such a fowl smell like the rotten egg sulphur. The roots curled, covering a sodden patch of ground. A firm footing.

His arms; obvious to any that they were of great condition, muscles bulging from the soaked t-shirt. Yet his face. Steeped in the look of horror and despair. He thrust again, from the hips, manipulating her face to the side of a rock. His stomach; eight packed; her futile attempts to squander his blows were useless; he was built for defence. Droplets of her tears failed to distinguish themselves from the harsh torrents falling around them. Little glimmers of hope shone from her eyes; yet her face did nothing, it stayed fixed in position.

The wind blew past his neck; sending shivers to his spine; and power to his hands. Once again he plunged her face into the swelling waters, the water that once glistened, stained red. The stench of death was rife. His nostrils flared; his eyes squinted into mere slits shrouded by eyelashes, he became more and more anxious, hectically he began dunking all of her frail scarred body under the enflamed beck.

His face was different the lo

ok of horror now escalated further. Perhaps it was because she was taking to long? Because she cried?

Screams echoed now from the skeletons around him.

He released his stubborn talons from her.

She was pale, her lips blue, her hair blonde, her eyes closed. The skeletons screams stopped. Her body froze, her heart stopped. He arose from the kill, looking at the victim. She was not even 16; her long fair hair stained blood red; her head disfigured; her back scarred; her life was taken. His face of horror had been vanquished. Not an emotion could be drained from his face now. His lips red; his locks the stain of mud brown; his eyes cloaked by hair.

His work undone.

He knelt beside her, a solemn kiss to the victim, the final touch. Then with no notice, he fled, leaving her. No clothes, No dignity, No life.


The sun rose over the crescent at the back of his garden, it was springtime now, 4 months had passed with no more killings, rapes or riots. Things seemed to be getting better for him. The urges had subsided; and the visions had seized almost altogether now. Well; until she turned up.

She had long flowing brown hair, and hazel eyes. She had moved into the flat above, she was his Achilles.
‘Hey,’ she joyfully sounded as she walked past carrying pile after pile of boxes to her new home. He mumbled as she clambered by.

She seemed picturesque, her face had the features of an angel, her skin has tanned yet not dark; she was the embodiment of everything he hated. Why? For 4 months he had managed to suppress any anger, and the hallucinations stopped. Why? What had he done to deserve such torture in life? Why? He is conscience of his actions but it as if an outer force is in within him, telling him to kill, to seek revenge on those who are ‘perfect’. Why?

He tripped her as she stumbled by again; her hopeless look and despair fill him with a forbidden joy at such a pitiful act. She grimaces at him, he smirks back; them swiftly turns, slamming his door within inches to her face.

His flat is a spectacle to behold. A place of order; there is no rubbish on the floor, just a clean carpet. Everything is folded neatly, stowed away, hidden. He leans against the door, one fist is clenched the other holding it down, restraining himself. He threw himself in anger across the room; almost impaling himself on the corner of a bedside table. He starts to mumble inconsistently; the mumbles become louder until a screech ensues. he throws himself again, this time towards the door, he clasps at the handle pulls furiously and sets his sights on the ‘perfect’ she still lays there. To ‘perfect’ to get up; lunge forward with the intent; luckily his lunge was ill-aimed she shot up quickly and scampered out of sight.

He awoke now; on the seven, his eyes glowing fervently, flickering like a candle in the wind. He will never fade when the sun sets. She will.

Barely a week; that’s how long had passed since she arrived, he now lived in agony; hallucinations are now daily for him; the voices return with every thought; he shows his will; keeping his calm around them; he wouldn’t last.


The sun set lowly behind the now naked trees; the red spectrum of night cast its self over the clouds, the light is dim and long shadows cast themselves to the horizon.

He strolled to his kitchen lair, seized a bread knife and made for the door. He made his way towards the old brook.

He clasped her neck; she yelled at the top of her voice, no use. His grip tightened; she coughed violently; the suns high being so low cast beautiful shadows through the trees, her looks distorted by shadows giving her the face of a demon.

Her screams escalated, becoming vigorous; she dug her nails into his bare back; he raised his fist, in one swift action bruised, and scarred her face. Nevertheless, she did not relent. She began kicking out; herself becoming frantic, he remained, a face of pure dread, guilt and horror. Shrubs and brush swayed and whistled in the brisk wind. The wind caught his face. Sending him a thunderbolt of guilt. She became berserk

I walked by.



They he laid; sodden mattress also. The small police holding cell provided few creature comforts. His mattress on a cheap metal frame the only things offered to him as comfort. Light filters softly between the rusted black bars of his cell window; the dust hanging in the area made visible by the softest rays.

As if to twist his fortunes the weather changed; within the 5 minutes the clouds developed and darkened; sunlight stopped, rain started. The bar in his windows offered no cover, the mattress soaked up this downpour. His mood swung. His fist clenched tight and shaking violently, his flung out violently cracking the plaster on the wall, cutting his knuckles wide open. Blood poured freely from his skin; we look to his sodden mattress, lifting it and throwing it to the door;

‘Mr Macmillan?’ The patrolling guard enquired,
‘Not in ‘ere’

As if from nowhere he became anxious, he began flailing himself around the cell, cutting himself on the rough walls. His tore his body from his clothes, he became savage, biting at his own limbs; he wailed on for hours never ceasing. He developed a cold shiver; huddling him up into a corning he began to weep without consideration.

The guards round him did not patrol by often; came as a shock to them as well; seeing him hanging there like that. Guess he thought it the best for the perfects sake. A single severed limb laid separated from the rest; its torn end still leaking blood; that fresh smell of iron seeped from it, the bone pointed from its end; the tibia, so it was from the knee cap down. The guards remained at their distance, not daring to edge near, the crystalline walled stained red.

He was pale, his lips blue, his hair blonde, his eyes closed. His body froze, his heart stopped.