HOME
WHAT'S NEW
THE GAMES
CHARACTERS
TRIVIA
MUSIC
ARTWORK
FAN FICTION
MISCELLANEOUS
EMULATION
FAQ's
CREDITS
LINK TO WM
FORUM
HELP WANTED
ABOUT WM

Fan Fiction


Slaughterhouse
by John Roberts

We know, the mask and me. We know what lies beyond vision, under the floorboards of this house. But even as we looked into that shallow place I felt cold and afraid. My heart was bleeding and I cared not. It was all tress and curl now, smiling. Amber, pink and gold all at once. I dared not to look with open eyes at it. I dared not.

In that room, a screaming and a bleeding all at once. The serenade of pierced skin and open wounds.

Too look is a mystery, to feel is to touch damp breath. Dead breath. In dead eyes it is reflected, the fear it exudes. In it's window eyes you can see. It feeds on flesh.

Bile in my throat, vanilla in my lungs. The scent burns.

Unbearable scars reopened. Bonded to flesh by flesh. Lost in the house. Milky white from torso to top, bled red from the waist down. Boreworms and maggots will feed on each other and then on her organs. Not before the smell of blade rape, of sharp things between her thighs.

Yes we are familiar with the feeling of long sticky fingers running up and down my spine, of the taste of my own breath filtered through this Mask, of the scent of blood, of the mask's whispers.

Soundless are my footsteps.

I am afraid. We are not. And so, though she was already broken, we struck her. She begged, but still we struck again and again until, bloody to the elbows, her gurgling ceased.

We walked away.

The wind is as black as the rain in that place. The trees moan and things beyond the trees cry like children as they sharpen their teeth. It takes trebling hands to peel away the darkness and bloodshot eyes to see their faces. A boulevard of broken necks and bagged heads. Horrors strung so high. The Mask doesn't take the fear away; it takes away your choices.

I closed my eyes and saw a simple cross on wet ground. I opened them and saw christ inverted and a gallery of severed heads. On the floor was a body, headless it was but its stomach was bloated and writhing. The ripples on the dead flesh. The stinging smell of vanilla and almonds and rot. The sound of feeding and decaying organs bursting between powerful jaws. The boreworm slithers into maturity.

The house is the heart and stomach and mind. It feeds on flesh and pain. It grows and swells in obscene and horrifying ways. It cannot be understood.

I vomit as we burst the stomach and crush the deformed parasite inside. As we look down upon the spilt sides and twitching bowel of the still squirming thing writhing beneath my foot, my bitter discharge flows from the holes in the face of the mask, streaking down it's white surface. A raspy hiss reaches my ears. I think it likes the taste.

I look up into the face of the head that hovers before me. I look at its slack eyes and split lips and ropes of spit and flesh that hang from it's mouth and neck. Somewhere I hear a baby screaming. Somewhere, I know, a rope is curled around that infants neck.