The Artist and Other Stories - Demo
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
British (General) North American (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
The nightmares continue in this third instalment of short horrors from PJ Blakey novice, the artists and other storeys contains a terrifying mix of serial killers, sirens, ghosts, claustrophobia, supernatural powers and revenge guaranteed to get your heart racing and set your nerves on edge. I wish he would go away, I told Miss Starlite. If only he would break a leg or something. Anything to keep him away from here for a while, the teacher stayed silent for a moment. Are you okay? Walking home? I don't want any trouble outside of school if Matthew is still about. There are two exits from the school and I take the one to the left, which leads on to the new build housing estate that I live on. But something pulled me in the other direction that day, a sound of commotion, the flickering of blue lights reflected in the windows of parked cars. So I made my way towards the growing group of teenagers and passes by. At the back of the crowd, I spotted Claire and asked her what was going on. Matthew got run over, she whispered a little too excitedly. He's not dead or anything, but his leg looks pretty mashed up. It snapped the wrong way at the knee. I felt sick. I knew my face had gone pale and my legs felt odd. I didn't reply, declare, just turned and headed towards home. If only he would break a leg or something. My words came back to haunt me. Coincidence, I told myself, hypocrites, every *******, one of them. That's the way I saw it anyway, on the way anyone with any sense should be able to see it. I used to think that religion had its place. I used to think that it provided a crutch for people when times became tough. That was my youthful naivety. Before I really started to think about things deeply enough. The looks of condescension from people who seem to only lived but others dine would make my blood boil divorced. You're after Hale had sex or, worse. Still, a baby out of wedlock. Off to ****, got a tattoo said in the office, where word had a beer on a Saturday night. No help for you. Only if she went to place the items back in the cupboard. Did she feel it? Feel him gently touching her arm. She flinched at the cold touch, but the familiarity of it was undeniable. Hill, she whispered, trembling and feeling a little silly for even thinking he could still be around. The Scrabble set moved. MEREDITH cautiously bent down to pick it up, but an unseen force knocked it from her hand, scattering the letter tiles across the carpet. Feeling faint, MEREDITH sat back in her chair, staring at the floor as the tiles began to move first, and I took its place in front of her at her feet before being joined by more letters. MEREDITH eyes widened as the words formed. I didn't leave Mary. I tried to sit up quickly, unable to see the same rough surface barely six inches above me, and graze my forehead in the process. Fear had dilated my pupils, but the darkness remained Impenetrable. I pressed the light on my watch. It's meagre glow, providing little assistance. Tentatively, I reached behind me to find the same surface. I slipped down to what should have been the foot of my bed, my heels striking the end of my coffin, for this was surely where I wass entombed in wood. This is the part I had been looking forward to a chance to see how I felt, how I had been wrong without them being able to argue back or walk away. And so I did. I reminded each of them how they had lied about me, how they had tried in every way imaginable to destroy my life, how they had made me feel. Their fate was apparent to them now, and their expressions appeared to alternate between defiant, remorseful and confused. But I had said my piece, and it felt as though a weight had been lifted. In fact, I almost considered releasing them at this point almost.