Day 62 Writing Short Stories

Ghostly Hand

I have seen the dark abyss that awaits us all when we die. I kid you not. Despair lives among us. There is no salvation, no kindness in death.

The hollow eyes still follow me. Their cheeks pressed deep into their bones. I fear those gray-skinned creatures and the emptiness they emit. Their mouths move without sound, speaking with a great urgency of emptiness while their faces are molded of rigid wax. The grays are removed, unattached, bound to their spots. Their thin fingers move in the wind, searching for me.

The ghostly hand pressed into mine urges me to follow. I cannot see to whom it belongs, but there is a great attachment. It’s the only light I know. But it is weighed down by the hungry abyss that draws me deeper into its darkness. I fear I cannot escape.

Beyond the grays, the path is paved with hungry mouths stitched shut. Those thick, coarse threads that keep their lips sealed carry my feet. The mushy faces that had seen terror beyond mind move their tangled mouths, pushing me forward. Their eyes break my soul, and I weep. The ghostly hand ties its fingers around mine; the solace is there, I need to find it.

When the mouths end, and the tears stop, I see the mountains of flesh. They have all that one could ever want attached to their red, sticky, fattened skins. They carry all that I have ever dreamed, moving slowly towards the dark tower that looms over the desolate landscape. They moan from their weight, complain about their existence. They eat the forbidden fruit from the scorched trees that pierce the slated ground, moving from one fruit to another.

I squeeze myself between the mountains. Their flesh embrace me, and I move quickly not to get myself tangled with them. Despite my efforts, I get sucked in, their skin drowning me deeper inside their flesh, forcing my breath out of my body, tightening around my ribs. I suffocate.

But the ghostly hand is there; it pulls me out and tugs me away from the mountains. We stand together at the root of the tower without a door. I cannot escape.

I look back to where we have come, and I see his ghostly face. He looks at me with kindness I have never afforded to myself.

“I’m sorry,” I say to make up for all I have put him through. His familiar eyes stay as they are, never judging me as I judge myself.

His hands press against mine, and I understand what he is saying. He has seen the grays, the hungry, and the mountains. He has been there with me the whole way here, yet he has not lost hope. He sees no despair; he sees the sorrow, and, without saying a word, he, with his kindness, sweeps it away.

I wake up in my bed to the feeling of that hand in mine.

—

I had fun writing this one. It was more about finding the right words and imagery, drawing inspiration from Dante’s Inferno and John Milton’s Paradise Lost. What I got today was a voice-driven horror with voyage-and-return written in the first person.

There will be a short break after this story. I’m leaving up north tomorrow, and I’m spending a long weekend there. See you when I get back.

Thank you for reading! Have a wonderful weekend with your ghostly hand ❤