By Stephen A Abell
Number of words: 498
Hardings Lodge was my last acquisition and what potential it possessed. For over three hundred years, it stood overlooking a small bay, miles from the nearest towns and villages. Done correctly it could easily fetch a million and half.
Luckily, at the auction only one other was interested. His funds for the project must have been considerably less than mine.
A week later, my builder and I were doing the walkthrough when I noticed an ornately carved wooden box on the top shelf of a bedroom cupboard. Inside was an old piece of parchment, yellowed with age and the weave visable.
Carefully I unfolded the paper and read …
If you’re reAding this, heed My words, you’re already DAMNED
LOw and behold, i was a Repulsive Depraved man. i SAT in judgement ANd I executed those i saw As incoMpitant. YOUng oR old, it didn’t matter. if i deemed them unfit, i SimpLy cut their throAts. better dead than aliVE, i thought.
i now see the error of my ways. YOU see i Awoke to Realise Evil was literarily eating Me awaY froM the inside. AS i wriTE i can feel my muscles teaRing slowly apart. the pain renders me nearly ImmoBilE. anGer helps. with tenacitY and gritted teeth i cOntinUe to WritE. anaL seepage COMEs froM thE rottINg guTs Outwards in a stench THat mirrors my Evil FOrm. i Live to Die an agonising death. this is MY curSe and now it is yOUrs too.
for my eviL saturated blood has written thIS confession. some of which will have soaked through YOUR poreS and inFects yOu as you REad. Verily, within a fEw houRs, your body will start to moan, groan, gurgle and spew. in pain you ‘ll prey to your lord "TAKE ME NOW". but that will never happen for you are truly damned. for by reading this you have made your pact with the devil also.
you see, i sold my soul to lucifer to rid myself of pain. i could only do this by infecting someone else and having their soul promised to the master.
i thank you for your time and my life. i will see you all, very shortly, in hell.
I quickly looked at my hand to see a dark brown smudge seeping into the pad of my thumb. Throwing the dreaded confession at my builder, I spat on the stain and rubbed at it hard with my handkerchief. Did I get it in time?
“Fuckin’ sicko wrote this, didn’t they?” Harry stated as he folded it up and replaced it in the box, with more calm than I showed.
On the way home, the box between us, I felt my stomach rumble. I shot forward as it cramped, screaming in surpise.
“You OK,” Harry asked, and farted loudly, “blood hell, that burnt.”
Up ahead a mother and child stepped off the curb, and Harry hit the accelerator. As they bounced off the bonnet, we drove into the sunset laughing.