ICE

SHORT STORY: PSYCHOLOGICAL HORROR | SUPERNATURAL TERROR | IDENTITY DISSOLUTION | INESCAPABLE FATE | SURREAL DAMNATION

ICE

— A SHORT STORY —

By: JARMAGIC

PSYCHOLOGICAL HORROR | SUPERNATURAL TERROR | IDENTITY DISSOLUTION | INESCAPABLE FATE | SURREAL DAMNATION

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The wind blew differently. It was bitter. It was evil. The sound of a scream so drenched in Winter that it could stop time itself. It spoke of cold promises, of a worse life than death.

I had not meant to be here—at the edge of this wasteland. It was not supposed to have ended this way. I should have paid attention. I should have gone back the minute I caught sight of the spot in the distance.

Oh, that symmetry... fallen victim to corruption. I should have gone back the minute the smell of rot reached my nose. But like a fool, I did not.

I never do.

The scream. The blackness. It was a sound I'd heard before, but no solid memory serves me right. This was not a scream of anger or of terror. It was the scream of one lost in agony, and it was calling for me.

⟁⟁⟁

A shape was in the clearing ahead, made visible under the cast of moonlight. The blood was indistinguishable; splattered everywhere, like a madman had been here just before.

But this was all too familiar.

This was not ‘some monster.’ This was Him—the man who haunted my nightmares for as long as I'd known. His name was a blessing on the tongues of those daring enough to speak it.

He now stood before me in the flesh.

"Run!" A voice said from within me—from the very center of my being.

That must be what it was!

It attempted to instruct my body to depart, but that would not be accomplished. That body could not move. I was stuck in the filthy, wet soil.

He appeared before me like a predator just wary of a chase.

He spoke, "You should have done this not." His voice is not soothing. "This place is meant for men of my kind."

My legs wouldn't budge. I fought to keep him back. I tried to scream, to move out of the way, to do anything that would allow me to hide from His eyes, but even my voice was stuck…

I do know the feeling of icy glass, the distasteful, disgusting crunch of glistening tears. I had the thought to shove it in, to lock it away in hiding, never allowing it to be set free again, for all I could do was stand. And ‘stand’ I did. Immobilized.

Outcome has not a need for instigation by one of consciousness in order to come to pass.

‘Outcome’ simpy is.

And so, this moment serves as proof that even paralysis has its restrictions. As does the One who brought darkness with Him.

I knew without warning, He was attacking. His power was unnatural. Every swing of His blade seemed about to cut me in half. I was a broken mirror—splintering reflections of reality. I was dripping my body red. I paid not a spec of mind beyond that discovery, not so much as a glance back, for my loyalty bid exclusively on an undivided investment. An investment aiming to maintain my attention. To my self-loyalty: rebellious was I.

To my regard: devoted was I. My own perpetual, stubborn fixation set on a holder, an unexpected gift I’d received. Sent by a magician bold. Known for His performance without illusion.

He’d shown to me his face, defying the laws of truth before my very desires. He who controlled the state of which matter itself existed.

The magician spoke, "Ice.” His single-spoken word, slanted, with no definition. No emphasis of a question. No blaze of command.

My palm materialized. A place to lay the frozen rock. It held no bite of pain. It melted not. The rock, it rose. The levitation was no surprise.

The holder—my gift—became its home, begging for flames to knock at its door. The heat arrived in the blink of an eye—in the spark of ignition—bringing with it not a fight, for heat and ice were friends. Polite.

A cloud of pain that shown no harm. I inhaled a loss of control, willingly. His sleeve held no tricks, my eyes were sure, but my wiser cells had clearly heard.

I sound so wicked.

⟁⟁⟁

That shape was corpses. The clearing a graveyard. A striking resemblance of my nightmares. Their lifeless eyes. Their bodies broken. They weren't zombies. They were hungry. They were brainless.

But it was not hunger that had sent them to my door. No. It was the need to punish. To claim. To drag me down into the pit with them.

My hands just fell too late, beating in my own head. I could sense the blood—goopy blood—sticking to my skin.

I tried to sit up but my body would refuse to obey. The demons and the monsters had been sent to take me, but none of them were the worst to come.

It was Him. He was there, too. The man from the graveyard, deformed was he.

The man who haunted me.

I felt His hand on my shoulder, aware that wasn't the end.

He said, "Welcome to Hell."

Yes, that was it—those are the words all too familiar.

He was the monster.

The demons cheered with him, spewing the words, "Welcome to Hell!"

There was no way out. I was in the chains forever. The nightmares will never end. The screaming will never end.

The magician peeled the skin from my face, replacing his mask with the one He'd erased.

I was one of them.

I was one of them.

I was one of them…

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