's 2014 Horror Write-off:

" Messorem "

Submitted by Millien

You awake to find yourself on the floor. You remember nothing.

As the throbbing in your skull subsides you look around. You are in a plain room; there is a pile of rags in the corner, and a table with a sheet of paper and a knife on it. One wall has a large wooden door in the centre. You manage to get to your feet and stumble over to the table. The sheet of paper is yellowed with age, but crisp. On it, in neatly printed letters, it says:


The instruction slips into your head, and you feel yourself walking over to the pile of rags. You rummage through it until you find something black and shapeless. You slip into it easily. It covers you completely, and feels comforting; as if it is hiding you from an unseen presence. You walk over to the table again. The message has changed. It now reads:


You look at the knife. It is small and ordinary, yet it seems to have a sinister quality about it. It reflects the dim light that fills the room. It doesn't feel right; this is not the correct tool. You have a faint memory of something else. As your hand touches the handle, you feel your thoughts run into the blade. It warps and twists to accomodate your memory. It seems right now, but no less sinister. Grabbing the new tool, you look to the sheet of paper once more.


You do as it says.


The door swings open. You cannot see what is on the other side of the door, yet you know you must walk through. You push through the strange light, and find yourself on a street corner in a busy city. You look to the paper for guidance, but all it has for you is a name. Looking around you, you see the person who you know to be the owner of the name. They are crossing the street. There is a car approaching them. The driver has not seen them. As the car draws closer, time appears to slow. The car is now a moment away from them, but nothing appears to move. You walk over to the person. You circle them as if looking at a display in a museum. They have begun to flinch away from the car, and their face is twisted into a look of horrible surprise. You look at the paper.


You refuse. You cannot do this.


You feel defiance rising up from within you, but before you can say a single word the paper begins to burn. The flame sweeps over the sheet, yet it does not burn your hand. As the last faded corner is consumed, the command surges through your body. You cannot refuse it. The world will end. As your swing gets closer, time begins to speed up. As the vehicle tears through their body, your blow tears through their soul. You begin to hear screams. They cannot see you, but they can see what you have done. You stop to watch the scene unfold. The car comes to a stop, but not before throwing the mangled person forward. Passer-byes run over to the remains, and you can see the hopeless fear in their eyes. They can not save him. No one can. Because of you.

You take a step back and drop your scythe. It clatters to the ground, and returns to its original shape. You bring your hands to your face, but recoil at the feel of your empty eye sockets. The cloak that once offered sanctuary feels as if it is suffocating you, so you rip it off. This is a mistake, as the sight of your exposed ribs makes you collapse in revulsion. If you had a stomach, you would throw up. As you fall to the ground with a clattering noise, all you can see laid out in front of you is the 27 bones that make up your hand and wrist. The sight of your skeletal hand brings up terrible memories. This has happened before. Many, many times before. Your mind is wracked by the memory of a hundred billion deaths. Each soul was claimed by your hand; each life extinguished was your doing. You know what they call you. You know how they depict you. You know the fear and anger that they feel towards you. You remember what you are. Eventually the disgust claims you, and you fall unconscious.

You awake to find yourself on the floor. You remember nothing.