  Horror/Scary
This week: Don't Look Behind You! Edited by: W.D.Wilcox  
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Don't Look Behind You
There is always something following you, right behind, just out of the corner of your eye. There is no way out because what follows has the power to create the shape of things to come, and it snags at every fiber of superstition in the fabric of your soul. If you turn around, you risk the chance of seeing it, and then your adrenal gland will squirt another dose of epinephrine into your bloodstream.
So you run, the icy blade of fear flaying at your nerves, your guts tweaking in a less than pleasant fashion, as though you had walked into the clingy spokes and spirals of a spider's web and you are overwhelmed by revulsion at the hideous crawly sensation.
When you were thirteen, fourteen, you read H. P. Lovecraft and were thrilled by those macabre tales. Now you can't shake the unnerving feeling that perhaps Lovecraft had written more truth than fiction, that perhaps what follows you is something out of a dream--the old jimjams, the whimwhams, the boogeyman biting at your bones--and you lie there as still as the dead with arched eyelids and a horrified expression.
Of course, if you think positive, you can tell yourself that the worst is behind you and it is all nothing more than an overactive imagination. But what lies ahead can be far worse than what we leave behind. The shape of things to come are future events, and if we are created in God's image, then maybe we possess a small measure--a tiny but still useful fraction--of the divine power to shape things. Not matter, in our case, but the future. Maybe with the exercise of willpower, we can shape our destiny, in part if not entirely.
Everything that has happened in your past, that lurks behind you like an anxious dread that shrinks your heart, pales in comparison to what lies ahead in the unknown. Know that we are continuously being swept toward future horrors as surely as a man in a small rowboat on the brink of Niagara is helpless to avoid the falls. If you can conquer your fear, you may still get out of this with your mind intact.
But my advise is, Don't Look Behind You!
Until next time, my brave hearts,
billwilcox
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Stories from the Future Past
The ghost floated a little, and her eyes even seemed to blink sadly, before she disappeared into the wallpaper without a sound. I groaned and pounded my head against the desk almost hard enough to feel the grains digging into the skin of my forehead. Again! This was the third time this week that she had appeared to me, a silent story waiting to be told through the mists of time and memory. But, oh the silence! The unbearable weight of it. The Muses would sing to me, but I could hear only the rustling of the breeze outside and the occasional groan of the pipes.
Suddenly, Anne sat bolt upright in bed, her purple hair falling into eyes that were rolled back, showing only white. Mouth gaping, a strand of saliva hung between her lips like spider silk. It was coming, the shadow that the body so wanted to incubate. It entered through the ear and settled inside Anne’s brain, spreading out gossamer wings and digging in with unimaginably sharp talons. Anne screamed again, trapped inside her own soul, as the dark thing settled its icy presence on everything it touched. She began to fall faster and faster, flailing her arms and legs in a desperate attempt to escape from hell. The dark thing chuckled wetly and swept out its wings, creating a frozen, howling wind that obliterated her shrieks of horror as she was devoured. That done, there were other, more important things to focus on.
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Once inside, Timmy set his book bag on the ground and began sifting around inside. He had a new treasure he wanted to add to his collection. It was very precious and he’d covered it with other objects, just in case anyone went snooping before he had a chance to hide it. Moving the books and magazines out of the way, he pulled his treasure out, a porcelain doll with blond hair and blue eyes. Her lips were ruby red. He stared at those lips, feeling a little funny inside. They reminded him of Jenny Murphy’s lips. She’d kissed him once, at Adam’s birthday party. They’d played Spin the Bottle and the bottle had landed on her. He’d felt funny inside then, when they’d gone into the closet and she kissed him, only it was nothing like when his mother kissed him good night. She’d pushed her tongue in his mouth and her hands had groped at his pants. Then she’d laughed at him and told everyone he was just a little boy. He didn’t know what she meant, but he still felt ashamed.
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The days were always gray. The faces of the people; the cars gliding and crashing down the freeway; the buildings reaching to the sky, praying for a wind to tip them over, putting them out of their misery; all gray. A woman, escaping life, escaping a thoughtless husband, thankless child, bustle of the supermarket, drone of the vacuum, spent her days with young men, thinking she was doing something bad, something unexpected, something her husband would never find out about. All the while, her best friend was doing the same exact thing with a young man who happened to be the other woman's husband. All pitifully the same; all gray. That's what Charlie Parker believed.
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She shot a glance back over to the truck. Brilliant red letters along the sides read: ‘Allah Saves. Free books from The Holy Muslim Alliance.’ She shivered as a cold wind worked its way in the openings of her damp clothes. Through the driver’s window, she saw a dark-skinned man look her way. He pursed his lips and blew her a kiss before baring yellow, misshapen teeth under eyes so dark, they looked like empty holes. A gasp escaped her lips.
Being in the funeral business can be a good thing, after all. Surprising what information is committed to memory without effort over years of background shoptalk. For example, that there’s a release latch inside coffins, placed there to provide reassurance that one would not be buried alive. In case they were just comatose, when they came to, they could get out, or, in case someone trying out a coffin, yes, some do, and happen to get locked in, they could flip a little clasp to get the lid open from the inside. A simple snip with the bolt cutter to remove the clasp – no fiend will rise from this coffin.
There are dreams that hide inside us like bats in a cave. Dreams that know only the night and feed upon the pale glow of the moon. Dreams that have made a vessel of the darkness and sail across the long nights looking for someone they can inhabit. They are terrifying dreams that enter us like a cold wind and dwell there driving the dreamer to despair, madness, or even death. Most of them have never been told because words are unworthy of the task.
This is one of those dreams. You have been warned . . . .
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DEAD LETTERS
rachie 
Chortles:
This is so true...to recognize an oppressor and offer a path to liberation...we have to know the values and the thought process...
-Rachel
So true, Rach, so true...
writetight
Gravely Digs:
Good to have you back, Bill. One question. In your newsletter concerning "motive", you wrote, "He would continue to use them at his leisure, and then extinguish them like a snuffed-out candle." How does one extinguish a snuffed-out candle? 
-Dan
Okay, okay, okay...it should have been, 'snuffing out'...jeez 
LJPC - the tortoise
Screams:
Hi Bill!
I loved the NL on character motivation and serial killers. I'm an avid watcher of true crime documentaries, especially ones about serial killers, and all your info was spot on. Thanks for the great NL! 
~ Laura
Thanks Laura, you can always find a serial killer in every block.
pinkbarbie
Creaks:
Thanks for the important and useful newsletter.
You are so welcome. Thanks for responding to the newsletter! 
BIG BAD WOLF is hopping 
Howls:
Why can't everybody get along? Werewolves and vampires do, when not on the Silver Screen.
"Animals' Afterlife Includes Humans"
Note From The Editor:
I hope you're all having a frightful Spring and I can't wait to see your painful, burning sun tans next time. See ya real soon.
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Horror/Scary: May 15, 2013 Issue [#5665]
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