The Entity
By Wilson Liew
(I copy and pasted this from my Microsoft Word. It is an essay from a year or two ago [now I am only 13, so don't blame me if it sounds cheesy, but I did my best for my first try in a thriller/horror]. If I remember correctly, the theme for the essay was suspense)
Once, I was a freelance journalist. There was this one particular job I received from an occult magazine that heralded the end of my career. Yes. The infamous investigation on Bloody Rose High.
It was November, 1992. A blizzard of a hail was assaulting New Hampshire from the heavens. The mighty tempest accompanying it confined all within the warm shelter of their homes. However, even such weather proved to be of no avail against a journalist’s invincible willpower and thirst for information.
George Maxwell was the multi-billionaire glitzy editor of the ever-successful occult magazine – The Dark Realms; published weekly since a decade before the incident I’m about to relate. Along with a few other freelancers, I was to investigate the rumored Seven Wonders of Bloody Rose High, an abandoned, godforsaken girls’ boarding high school located in the outskirts of the metropolis for a hefty amount of cash.
My crimson Miata careened through heaps of snow covering the highway, the white of it invading my tires’ black. Gradually, the school came into my field of vision. It may not be so for many, but I spotted it with ease. Hence, others often call me as “Hawkeye Collins”. Despite what they say about the place being godforsaken, it seems to have seen better days, and I bet it would have been a grandeur; what with a large garden, a lake, a tower et cetera. I rolled my baby into what seemed to once be a parking lot; its engine steaming. I exhaled white clouds of carbon dioxide, clouding the mirrors. I grabbed my backpack from the dashboard, unzipped the Velcro and took out an argent grey thermos, followed with a few rapid sips of hot cocoa. The surge of heat pouring into my body quickly revitalized my conscience; instilling exuberance. Hastening, I slung the backpack over my shoulders and escaped from the confines of my car the moment I turned off the ignition.
The others were already there. The first to spot and greet me was Shirley Fennes – ex-reporter. She was remarkably young and cute, in particular. Vaclav Jones, an Albanian gourmand snorted at me while shoving Florentines into his Black Hole of a mouth. Norma Beatty was a sophomore at a private school; self-proclaimed “Number One Fan” of the magazine. Senel Coolidge was a novice freelancer, recently graduated from college, and seemed to have taken on the job to prove the rumor wrong. Realistic, yes. Our group’s scientific geek. Last but not least was Chloe Valens, a lady in her forties. Apparently she was a veteran at researching the occult, so she acted as our group’s leader.
“Listen here, you rookies. Master Maxwell is extremely strict on information collecting, so you better be serious!” lectured Chloe, who then stole a glance at Vaclav, “Hey, you glutton! Do you even want the job!?” Jones shook his hairy fists. Shirley giggled.
“What is it, girl!?” the hag snapped. Shirley waved her off then whispered to me, “Her eyes bulge,” and I snickered. Apparently, we will be touring the school over seven of its facilities, all with their respective, so-called “Wonders”. According to Valens, the first one is the Illusionary Pool – it is said that the indoor swimming complex sometimes appear to contain water; and sometimes doesn’t when it had already been dried out when I was still a toddler. I was about to ridicule it when Coolidge did it for me; just to be snapped at by Norma. We shuffled orderly through dark corridors. Something made me feel uneasy. I felt that I was perspiring despite the climate being otherworldly freezing. While on the way there, my Doc Martens tripped and I grazed my left knee, and somehow I felt something was warning me.
Valens kicked wide the complex’s twin doors; its hinges creaking painfully. A whiff of gravely zephyr embraced us. The flooring within the complex was like decayed Wilson Laminart. The pool was easily noticeable, considering the size. Indeed, there was water. The dark abyss of the pool caused profuse perspiration.
“I told you all. This is silly,” scoffed Senel, and it appeared to be directed for Norma. She bit her petite pale lips. How could they not see!? It surely was dark, but their flashlights could surely have showed the water! Senel approached the edge of the pool haughtily. I wanted to shout, “No!” Sadly, I couldn’t. My voice was entrapped within my body. Shirley shouted it out, a second too late. While facing us, a blood-stained rotten arm grabbed Coolidge’s right calf, and tugged inwards; towards the abysmal pool.
It all happened in a split-second which seemed like an eternity. It was as if the whole scene was rendered slow-motion. The novice journalist was flung out, and he screamed, mid-air, all the way into the water, penetrating the surface with a gargantuan splash. Chloe covered her mouth. Norma gasped. Vaclav had his eyes bulging. Shirley fell on her knees with a thud and collapsed as burgundy blood rose in puffy clouds on the surface of the water. I cradled Shirley in my arms and ran. Norma quickly dragged Chloe to come, and Jones plodded to catch up. Surprisingly, Vaclav caught up first, the women close behind. Norma reached us safely, but as Chloe was about to join us, the doors closed on her. She banged on it with her bony fists. Vaclav tried to knock it down, assisted by me as Beatty tended to Shirley instead. As she screamed, we saw, through the glass panes on the doors, an ominous shadow rose from behind Valens. It was feminine; humanoid; bipedal. It had crimson hair shielding her, no, its visage. It donned a white girls’ sailor uniform, stained with blood. With inhumane strength she reached out for Valens’ throat, and sunk her claw-like nails into it and smashed Valens continuously onto the door. My vocabulary calls that total pulverization. Chloe ended up with her head a bloody mess. As the entity looked at us instead, we saw deranged, bloodshot eyeballs.
As it reached for the doors, Vaclav mouthed, “Run.” I did. I wanted to bring him along, but considering his tremendous size, I doubted I could do much trying to carry him. Norma had run on ahead with Shirley in her arms. From behind me, I heard a ghastly wail and felt droplets of glimmering red splattered onto my auburn wool sweater. I closed my eyes as I ran. I knew. I knew about Vaclav’s fate.
I was approaching a door when Shirley liberated herself from it, into my arms.
“What? What is it?” I inclined. She was shaking. Her index finger pointing to the room. There was a shaft of solemn light from the wide opening Shirley made. Slowly, nervously I made my way in. Shirley asked me not to. However, my instincts were prioritized. I smothered the light. Inside, there was Norma, lying on the cement, lifeless as a marionette. Her throat was slit. The entity was beside her, making its way to gnaw at Beatty’s flesh. I hinted Shirley to run. I started running soon after.
We made our way to the cars. Her station wagon was nearer, so we headed for it. I heard the entity’s moaning. I tossed myself into the car after looking back to see how close the entity is. About a stone’s throw from me, yes. Shirley jammed in the ignition key and drove off in a burst of speed. I was about to sigh when I saw the entity on the back seat through the rearview mirror; and partially, through the semi-clear reflection on the power window.
“Shirley!” I watched in horror as the entity gored Shirley with a chainsaw as she drove. She was whimpering as she was sliced in half from the crotch; upwards. Her guts were sent flying throughout the ride. In a blurry, dazed mixed nausea of fear and fury, I grabbed the steering wheel and with some acrobatics I got my right leg over to the driver’s side and stamped on the accelerator – all the way into an incoming petroleum tanker. I steered and skidded sideways into it, smashing the side of Shirley and the entity’s, crushing my right leg along with it. The entity slithered up; and while preparing to decapitate my unfortunate body parts, the tanker exploded.
I was handicapped after five months comatose, with scars and burns and one missing leg. George Maxwell paid my treatment fees and insurance, just to be never heard of again. I was strapped up in a straitjacket after relating the events to the police and my doctor. To forever spend my life writhing in a rubber room. They said with ever-proud confidence, that I am at my wits' end. They are wrong. The entity still exists. Where, you ask? Who knows...maybe it's behind you?
Amour Vrai - True Love
by Wilson Liew
(ZOMG this is way lamer and cheesier...One thing to note, I am NOT French...so pardon me for any mistakes, I think this is done before The Entity, considering the level of writing...this piece of writing also proves that I can manage several genres of writing...I am yet to pull off my forte, fantasy stories...)
Love, equals mystery; an enigma. One will have to unfold countless layers of it to finally experience the pinnacle; the zenith of love: true love. A phrase so commonly used and expressed, though gaining and experiencing it, isn’t as simple. I came to both realize, and embrace true love in the past.
It was autumn of 1990, London. Walking through a park, I thought of my wife, Magnolia. After a few paces, I arrived at my house’s front porch.
However, it was bizarre. The whole compound was so silent, one might as well describe it as oblivion, or as if time itself had stopped. I rushed to my room. My wife wasn’t there. I ransacked the house, but to no avail. Thankfully I was observant enough to notice a piece of paper on the kitchen counter. It was a song. It read:
“Ici dans la ville des lumières
Au revoir, au revoir
De nouveau à un endroit des mémoires
Au revoir, au revoir
Endroit où les amoureux se réunissent
Au revoir, au revoir
La plus belle avenue du monde
Au revoir, au revoir
Là où on l'interdit d'indiquer
Au revoir, au revoir
Mais plus qu'accueilli pour exprimer
Je t'aime, je t’aime
Là où l'amour jaillit éternel”
Clearly it was a message from my French wife. She might understand her own song, but for me, who hardly speaks French, it was like some secret code that wanted to be deciphered. After some strained translating, it seemed that the first and third lines linked. “Here in the City of Lights…Back to a place of memories…”
Paris. Well, we did spend a lot of time in Paris years ago. No wonder I felt a gush of nostalgia since the moment I flipped open the note.
Stepping out of the airport, I hailed a taxi, headed for the Louvre, where Magnolia and I first met, according to the fifth line of the song, “…Place where lovers meet…”
I went to one particular gallery that houses the Mona Lisa, where I truly met my love.
That was back in the eighties. Magnolia was standing next to me, admiring the art. Her petite, round chartreuse eyes gaze at the Mona Lisa with such comprehension; it was as if she was in a trance, mesmerized. To me, even the beauty of the Mona Lisa was toppled over by hers.
There was not a hint of where my wife could be. I went on with what the seventh line of the song said, “The most beautiful avenue in the world”, which was, undoubtedly, Champs-Élysées. There was really only one memorable moment there.
I brought her there as a date, to a meal at Fouquet’s. After savouring the delightful food, we went to the balcony looking out, where I kneeled like every gentleman in history; proposing. How sweet she was then. I kind of missed her. A lot. Wondered what I did to make her leave so abruptly like this.
Entering the luxurious restaurant, I looked haggard after all the hurry. Lo and behold, there was Magnolia, sitting in the very same spot the night I proposed, fiddling with a glass full of Vouvray.
“My, my, Dawson…look how slow you are!” said she.
“Magnolia dear…why did you leave?” I questioned.
Smiling dearly, she answered, “Well, it just seemed that you indulge too much in your work, you hardly care for me anymore. I left you the message, because it’ll lead you here, where you shall return to your memories, and finally realize how important I am.”
Shaking my head, I said, “No, dear, nothing is more precious than you. You’re the person who set my heart ablaze with passion, and it shall be like that for all eternity.”
As we dined, I asked her, “Magnolia…what did the last line of the song means? You know how poor my French is – do tell me.”
“Have you forgotten?” inclined she, “why, it means ‘Where Love Springs Eternal’, simply because whenever we come here, it’ll make us remember each other.”
I chuckled, and nodded. From that moment on, we’ve been together till this very second. Love, in deed, is enigmatic; peculiar. That was my story.
((You can still criticise the first essay))
