Post by dodgesuperbee on Jun 25, 2008 9:28:48 GMT -5
Cross-posted to FF.N. Writing Goosebumps fanfiction at age 30 is a whole new level of nerdiness, but I enjoyed the first book in the series as much as my 5-year-old horror fan. Ever since seeing Night of the Living Dead as a kid, I've always been a sucker for a good living dead story. I haven't abandoned the Cars fandom at all, this is just an attempt to write something non-vehicular for the first time in two years.
Setting: Immediately after the events of Welcome to Dead House, the first Goosebumps book
Author’s Notes: Contains spoilers for WtDH, of course. This is written at a higher reading level than WtDH and contains heavier themes, though nothing terribly adult in nature.
Content: Violence/gore, heavy moral themes, spirituality
Disclaimers: All characters copyright R.L. Stine/Scholastic and no profit is being made from this fanfiction. If anyone wants to take any element of this story and run with it creatively (art, writing, etc.) you have my permission.
Dark Falls, Population: One
The green leaves pressed their coolness against my sweat-streaked face, and I welcomed their embrace as I dug myself deeper under their cover. My fingernails were encrusted with dirt and I was certain the knees of my suit were in tatters, but my only concern lay with reaching the shelter of the innermost branches. My boot struck a thick tree limb, forcing me to slide sideways, crab-like, toward the core of the tree. My leafy hiding place may have blocked the sun, but nothing could filter out the anguished cries of the residents of Dark Falls as they collapsed en masse just feet away from where I hid.
Moments before mayhem had struck, we had been about to partake in our grim but necessary annual ritual. Fresh blood had to be sacrificed to keep the town alive, and myself and old Spangler, the mayor, had been at the forefront of the ampitheater, watching to make sure nobody got ahead of himself and attacked the victims before everyone had arrived. A hapless middle-aged couple sat bound before us, and just as Spangler had given his approval to their deaths, their children had appeared on the hillside. Amanda and Josh had lost no time in flinging themselves at the tree that leaned precariously over our dugout and gave us the shade our very existence depended upon. Spangler and I had stood frozen in shock, until I recognized my own voice snarling sarcastically, “Well, just look who’s come to dinner.” I don’t think Spangler appreciated my dry humor, but moments later he would find himself too busy dying to care.
The sickening crack of the tree’s anchoring roots was followed by the surprised gasps and angered wails of all those around me as they sensed, too late, what was coming. The oak came down fast, and while all the townsfolk sprang to their feet in panicked desperation, heaving their bodies from the ampitheater seats, I was the only one who lunged toward the tree instead of attempting to flee. I saw my lone opportunity to save myself and threw my body onto the grass, staining and ripping my clothes. The thick trunk of the oak barely missed me and I felt my wide-brimmed western hat torn from my head and lost in the crush of branches.
Oh, the screams. They diminished into groans, blended with the sounds of bones dropping to the earth. I was fear-stricken that an errant ray of sun had found its way to my flesh and I, too, was dissolving like the doomed people of my town, but the hissing noise I had heard was only a sympathetic utterance of my own.
“Thank you, Amanda! Thank you!” Those words struck me the deepest. Could that girl Karen possibly have been grateful that her friend had just killed her?
I had much time to contemplate that possibility as I sweltered under the tree. The leaves around me eventually sagged and drooped in the intense heat of an early summer day and my concern for my own fate grew until finally the air around me began to cool, signaling evening’s approach. Gingerly, I extricated myself from under the tree, parting each cluster of leaves with a shaky hand. Once free, I rose stiffly to my feet, my hands running over torn fabric as I brushed twigs from my pant legs. It was twilight, and the horizon was streaked with warm tones of red and orange.
Dust. All around me, only dust, in piles, streaks and heaps. It even hung in the air and I realized with disgust that I was drawing in the essence of my friends with each breath.
I was the only one remaining, though I’d hardly consider myself a survivor. With a trembling hand, I reached between two branches for my crushed hat and pulled it down until it met the jagged tear in my forehead, an injury suffered not long before the massacre.
My eyes narrowed, surveying the ampitheater. A faint breeze scattered dust over my boots, and I distractedly kicked it off. Then a laugh escaped my throat, a bitter chuckle as dry as the dust that surrounded me.
She had been grateful. Grateful that was finally free of the horrifying cycle of luring in fresh blood, feeding and plotting again. I laughed because I wasn’t sure whether I should have been grateful for being spared or whether I should mourn the fact that I was now damned to live on as the town’s lone resident.
Setting: Immediately after the events of Welcome to Dead House, the first Goosebumps book
Author’s Notes: Contains spoilers for WtDH, of course. This is written at a higher reading level than WtDH and contains heavier themes, though nothing terribly adult in nature.
Content: Violence/gore, heavy moral themes, spirituality
Disclaimers: All characters copyright R.L. Stine/Scholastic and no profit is being made from this fanfiction. If anyone wants to take any element of this story and run with it creatively (art, writing, etc.) you have my permission.
Dark Falls, Population: One
The green leaves pressed their coolness against my sweat-streaked face, and I welcomed their embrace as I dug myself deeper under their cover. My fingernails were encrusted with dirt and I was certain the knees of my suit were in tatters, but my only concern lay with reaching the shelter of the innermost branches. My boot struck a thick tree limb, forcing me to slide sideways, crab-like, toward the core of the tree. My leafy hiding place may have blocked the sun, but nothing could filter out the anguished cries of the residents of Dark Falls as they collapsed en masse just feet away from where I hid.
Moments before mayhem had struck, we had been about to partake in our grim but necessary annual ritual. Fresh blood had to be sacrificed to keep the town alive, and myself and old Spangler, the mayor, had been at the forefront of the ampitheater, watching to make sure nobody got ahead of himself and attacked the victims before everyone had arrived. A hapless middle-aged couple sat bound before us, and just as Spangler had given his approval to their deaths, their children had appeared on the hillside. Amanda and Josh had lost no time in flinging themselves at the tree that leaned precariously over our dugout and gave us the shade our very existence depended upon. Spangler and I had stood frozen in shock, until I recognized my own voice snarling sarcastically, “Well, just look who’s come to dinner.” I don’t think Spangler appreciated my dry humor, but moments later he would find himself too busy dying to care.
The sickening crack of the tree’s anchoring roots was followed by the surprised gasps and angered wails of all those around me as they sensed, too late, what was coming. The oak came down fast, and while all the townsfolk sprang to their feet in panicked desperation, heaving their bodies from the ampitheater seats, I was the only one who lunged toward the tree instead of attempting to flee. I saw my lone opportunity to save myself and threw my body onto the grass, staining and ripping my clothes. The thick trunk of the oak barely missed me and I felt my wide-brimmed western hat torn from my head and lost in the crush of branches.
Oh, the screams. They diminished into groans, blended with the sounds of bones dropping to the earth. I was fear-stricken that an errant ray of sun had found its way to my flesh and I, too, was dissolving like the doomed people of my town, but the hissing noise I had heard was only a sympathetic utterance of my own.
“Thank you, Amanda! Thank you!” Those words struck me the deepest. Could that girl Karen possibly have been grateful that her friend had just killed her?
I had much time to contemplate that possibility as I sweltered under the tree. The leaves around me eventually sagged and drooped in the intense heat of an early summer day and my concern for my own fate grew until finally the air around me began to cool, signaling evening’s approach. Gingerly, I extricated myself from under the tree, parting each cluster of leaves with a shaky hand. Once free, I rose stiffly to my feet, my hands running over torn fabric as I brushed twigs from my pant legs. It was twilight, and the horizon was streaked with warm tones of red and orange.
Dust. All around me, only dust, in piles, streaks and heaps. It even hung in the air and I realized with disgust that I was drawing in the essence of my friends with each breath.
I was the only one remaining, though I’d hardly consider myself a survivor. With a trembling hand, I reached between two branches for my crushed hat and pulled it down until it met the jagged tear in my forehead, an injury suffered not long before the massacre.
My eyes narrowed, surveying the ampitheater. A faint breeze scattered dust over my boots, and I distractedly kicked it off. Then a laugh escaped my throat, a bitter chuckle as dry as the dust that surrounded me.
She had been grateful. Grateful that was finally free of the horrifying cycle of luring in fresh blood, feeding and plotting again. I laughed because I wasn’t sure whether I should have been grateful for being spared or whether I should mourn the fact that I was now damned to live on as the town’s lone resident.