The following story was written purposely for inclusion in the August D//E creative writing section. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
That day had been perfect, myself and some close friends (a couple aged 31; one an artist/painter the other an office assistant) hired a boat up in the lakes at Windermere. We came up there to escape from the every-day bustle of the city. The air feels so pure up there and free of pollution and smog.
We set out at 06:39AM, hitting the roads way early and before any traffic on the motorways. We met up with some more friends up there, the ones who always insisted on being competitive at everything. When we went walking they’d always be the ones who have to beat us there, so when we got to the boats they naturally wanted to beat us on the lake too. This competitiveness was quite fun some of the time, but other times it simply got tedious.
It’d been a long day and we were all tired from all the chatting. We’d all had drinks in a local pub that served a great steak and ale pie. We finally retreated to our cabin in the Forrest. We said farewell to the other friends we’d met there and the three of us headed out into the forest.
My friend had already been into the cabin earlier, because he insisted on doing some painting the following day after our boat trip. He wanted to drop off his paint and canvasses, along with some food and water. So all we needed to do was arrive.
So we approached the cabin, but something felt wrong, along the stone pebble walkway were droplets of red paint, like red rain. The door was open too, but not forced. I asked my best buddy if he’d been there and he replied yes only to drop us off some food and his artist tools. Remarking that everything locked up, neat and tidy.
Nothing had been taken and only the brushes and paints had been moved. But where’d the paint been used? I closed the door after me and we sat down scratching our heads. It soon became obvious to us, that someone was warning us about something. My friend looked up, as though he’s seen a ghost, he pointed with his index finger at the back of the wooden door with his hair standing on end. I looked up from the bed and there was a painting on the inside of the cabin door. The painting depicted an eerie-looking man, in a dark cloak almost like the grim reaper, with a burning fire behind him. His hood up and face obscured by the flames, he looked old or disfigured and with a grey complexion. Above the flames in red paint, read the words:
“It’s coming to us all…soon”
It was chilling and freaked us all out. The fact that someone would go to this much effort to paint a picture, had to mean something. We both stared into the darkness outside for answers.
© 2014 R.S / Destroy//Exist.
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