Logbook of Terror: Tamerlane’s Tomb!

A fictional representation of a real Cursed Location – Tamerlane’s Tomb

It is a brilliantly sunny Saturday afternoon. Birds are chirping overhead, the sky is a radiant, cloudless blue. A soft breeze carries laughter and conversation of nearby tourists to my ears. It is a beautiful day, and I am scared out of my mind.

I can’t understand how these crowds of people file and shuffle in and out of this grand, horrid mausoleum without a seeming care, visiting the burial ground of a blood-thirsty conqueror, of a state-sanctioned maniac, a psychopathic butcher who brutalized and murdered millions. Yet here they are; the masses, oohing and aahhing in awe and wonder. They don’t know. They can’t hear them, but I can; I can hear the whispers of the deadTimur reconstruction03.jpg

I want to leave but the dead won’t let me. There seems to be an invisible wall or force of some sort keeping me here. Every evening for the past week I’ve followed the train of mindless tourists as they leave to board the shuttles that will take them back to the resorts, and every time I near the property’s edge, I blink and I am back in the tomb. Last night I was able to climb aboard one of the shuttle buses. I didn’t know where it was headed and I didn’t care, as long as it carried me away from this cursed place of blood and murder and damnation. Once I was seated and the bus began to move, my heart was cheered with thoughts that I was able to be gone from this cursed place. About a block away, I was overcome with tremendous weariness and fell into a deep slumber. When I awoke, I was alone on the stone floor of the tomb, my hands pressed fast against the resting place of the bones of Timur the conqueror. I cried aloud into the night and no one heard me or came to my aid. And still the dead, the countless victims of Timur, whispered in my mind, filling me with horror. Their voices swirled around my head, spinning faster and faster. I saw oceans of blood spilling into the tomb. Waves of crimson crashed against the stones. I rose and ran from the oncoming flood. Falling, my head crashed against Timur’s earthly cell and I fell into blackness.

When I came to the sun was high in the sky. I was dressed in clean clothes, in line with a mob of tourists filing into the tomb, with no memory of how I’d gotten there. A tour guide spouted off facts about the dreaded conqueror. My hands shook. Sweat broke on my brow. Immediately, I fetched my pen and pad from my satchel which was slung over my shoulder as usual and began scribbling the words you now read. Please send help immediately, for last night while my mind swirled in the deepest dark, the spirits charged me with a heinous duty which I must carry out for it weighs on me with the weight of immense obsession. I must open Timur’s resting place. I must disturb his bones. I must activate the curse anew and bring chaos, world-wide war, and terror to the earth! The spirits demand their vengeance, I am their servant, and I must obey! Please, for the love of all that is good and holy, please send help now; stop me before it is too late!

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Logbook of Terror: Lake Ronkonkoma

Lake Ronkonkoma by Russell Holbrook

A fictional representation of a real Cursed Location – Lake Ronkonkoma

Watching the sun set over Lake Ronkonkoma, with the streaks of orange and yellow light glistening and reflecting off the water, is a breathtaking experience. On that particular evening, I was so moved by the sight I had tears in my eyes. After several minutes of gazing at this natural wonder, pondering life and the universe, and feeling an enveloping sense of awe at the wonders of our world, I decided to finish rowing across the lake and have dinner at the Light House. Although my friends had all told me that crossing the lake in my rickety craft was a bad idea at best, I’d decided to do it anyway, because, after all, well-intended advice is made to be ignored.

I rowed in silence, easing my boat along with wide, sweeping movements of the oars. My craft glided across the water, sending out ripples in its wake. While passing the center of the lake I peered down into the water. My eyes searched the darkness. I wondered if it could possibly truly be bottomless, as some of the locals claimed. I tried to fathom an endless expanse of water, ebbing and flowing down into eternity. Perhaps there exists a parallel dimension beneath the water’s surface? A watery heaven or a liquid hell, one filled with mermaid angels and another full of demonic denizens of the deep? No one knows and perhaps no one ever will. I stopped my musings and focused on reaching the Lighthouse. The late summer light was fading and my stomach was growling. I rowed faster.

About a hundred or so yards from shore, as I mentally perused the restaurant’s menu, thinkin of what I might order, a loud thud rang out from the bottom of the vessel. My heart jumped into my throat. My eyes shot to the floor of the boat. It was still fully intact. The craft rocked back and forth. I cried out and grabbed the sides. Another crash rocked me from side to side, nearly capsizing me. A third crash lifted the front end before letting it crash back into the water. I screamed and slammed my oars against the water, panicking to speed myself to shore.  Cursing and wailing, I screamed for help, thrashing the oars furiously against the water, fleeing for my life. Closer and closer I came to the sandy shore and hope filled my heart that I would survive.

The Legends of Lake Ronkonkoma-1Mere feet from the water’s edge, she ascended from the water with a shrill, horrifying cry -the lady of the lake, flying through the air before me! Frozen with fear while simultaneously enraptured by the lady’s morbid beauty – her grand, pale curves, her blank eyes, her wet, pitch black hair. She landed in front of me, her bare feet lighting on the floor of my boat, her hands wrapping tight around my throat. Before I could acclimate my mind to the reality of the events that had suddenly turned my life into a living nightmare, I was pulled from my boat and thrust down into the murky depths.

I flailed my arms and legs, I wrestled with the water maiden’s hands, but it was no use, for her strength could not be overcome. Down, down I went, further and further into uncharted depths. The pressure on my frail human frame was so intense that I passed from pain into ecstasy. Seeing that my life was fleeting, the lady released her grip on my throat. She took my hands in hers. I watched her bare breasts sway in the water’s ebb. Tiny fish and creatures of the deep eased past, observing our descent. The lady ran a soft, silky finger over my cheek, and, just before my skull imploded, I thought I saw her smile.

Logbook of Terror: Suicide Forrest

Suicide Forest by Russell Holbrook

A fictional representation of a real Cursed Location – Aokigahara Forest

I’m in a forest, all alone. I came here to die, because it was time. I’d heard it on the wind, the soft whisper of my destiny. I saw my path carved out in rivulets of blood that flowed in meandering streams over the bark of the towering trees; The trees that blocked out the cursed sun with their looming, wooden arms.

This is my new, eternal home. I spread out my favorite blanket in a tiny clearing. I swallow twenty-three morphine pills. I wait. I quickly consume seven shots of whiskey. I smoke a cigarette. I wait. The pills and the alcohol stir within. My body weighs me down. When I turn toward a sudden sound of snapping twigs, the motion makes me feel like I am underwater. I nearly tip over. I light another cigarette and drop it in my lap on the third drag. I watch the cherry burn a hole in my favorite green cargo pants. When I feel the lit tobacco burning the flesh of my thigh, I stop staring at the cigarette, pick it back up, and take another drag. The sharp burning sensation in my thigh congeals into a dull throb. I hear a bird above me. I smile.

Life seems so perfect and serene right now. I ask myself why I would want to leave something so nice. I don’t get an answer. I ask again. Still, no answer, no reason, just a knowing that I need to take my own life. I yawn. Now is the time, before I lose all consciousness and control of my motor functions. I pull the small, black pocket knife from my satchel. It is the same knife my father used to slit his wrists, and the same tool used by his father before him. The blade is caked with rust and dried blood.

“No matter what, it can never, ever be washed,” my father had said when he passed the knife down to me. The crust made the knife difficult to open but, after a momentary struggle, the blade was extended. I am staring into the blade’s filthy surface, seeing no reflection, no light, only dark and hopeless, bleak serenity. The wooden handle is black. It is worn smooth from being jostled around in the pockets of three generations of Tessier men, three generations of killers. I think about the knife, about all that it has seen, and about all that it has done: all the flesh it has carved, all the screams and agony it has evoked, all the wonderful horror it has created. I think of the anguish of my victims’ families, and that of my father’s victims, and those of his father before him as well. In my mind I hear their tortured cries. I giggle with nostalgic glee. I sway and nearly topple over. Then I plunge the blade into the center of my left arm. With inebriated determination, I move the knife through my skin and meat, from the crook of my elbow to my wrist. I stare at my arm, watching the blood bubble and ebb and flow from my skin. And then, unexpectedly, I no longer wish to die. I still have so much to do, so much beauty to create. I wish I could take it back, fold the knife back up, put it back in my pocket, and go home. Live a few minutes in reverse to change the course of destiny. I wish and I wish and I wish. Then:

Suddenly I stop: I know it’s too late. My father taught me that we all have expiration dates, both personally and professionally, and that we need to know when to bow out. I remember that this is my time. I lay back and listen to the soft sounds of the forest. I let go.

I’m dead in a forest, all alone. I don’t know how long I’ve been here. I watched beasts take apart my carcass. Birds pecked out my eyes. It felt magnificent to be melding back into nature, becoming one with all life, becoming food, giving comfort and nourishment to creatures in the wild. As I once used my body to take life, now I use it to give life. And I am in the forest and the forest is in me, and forever and ever and ever we shall be.

David’s Haunted Library: Lucy Furr

The city of Mable Town is ruled over by Valkos Enterprises government, they force their rule over all of their citizens and they demand conformity. Not all people are unhappy with the system though. Mary, Joseph, and their cat, Lucy Furr, love their mundane existence and other people seem happier around them. Unfortunately, there is a  gang of teenagers who are jealous of them and have decided to make them pay.

The group captures the feline and takes it on a ride which jump starts a horrifying chain of events. One evil act leads to another and no one’s life will ever be the same. In this strange society that has very different rules than our own, revenge is still the way that some people right wrongs.  Lucy Furr by Russell Holbrook is a bizzaro gruesome thrill ride that you will never forget.

This is a hard book to describe, it’s very different and unlike most horror stories that I’ve read. When I heard the book promoted as an odd Dystopian fairy tale they weren’t kidding. Anything goes in this book, sometimes it felt like I was watching a slasher movie, but a very creative slasher movie. It also felt like the author was trying to make some points about what society would be like if everything was run by a corporation. The corporation is looked at as a god and at certain times you have to say the pledge of allegiance and if you don’t do what you’re supposed to you get shocked.

One thing I thought was interesting in this society was that they even have paid alcoholics. Lucy Furr is one strange trip and even though I didn’t fully understand the point of it, it held my interest. Remember, though, if you decide to get this book you need to have a strong stomach because this book is not for the squeamish. Even the good guys suffer in this one.