The Bermuda Sky [A Horror Story] Part 2

Read Part 1 here.

“You sure there ain’t anything or anyone in the building?” Ken warned, looking on suspiciously with his sweat dripping from his head. We walked and ran for miles before finding this school, a possible safe place now decrepit and dreadful against a familiar backdrop. Walls still standing up and strong, roof from the front looks fine although yet to be examined. It’s the school that we pass always, on the way home from the Jupiter mall in Mom’s car and on our bikes. Signboard missing, but sure about the Maple International School with the fancy courts that Mom would say on repeat, school for the rich children and their mollycoddling maids. Our 23rd day alive since Bermuda happened, vile giant creatures had arrived and took the towns, animals, families, my parents.. everything sped by fast and gone. We don’t know the nature of these lifeforms, their actual names or where they came from, at least the both of us. All the TVs and radios had wires fried when the circle moon broke into a triangle, its center still moon-like but different and diabolical this time. The neighbour who died saving us a meal and a shelter on our 10th day, only said it was the Bermuda calling out monsters. There must be an explanation somehow on Bermuda. What martian sick shit Bermuda could tear us all apart?

Ken and I saw them black wispy figures with smoky dark hands taking away Mom and Dad when we ran for cover and our fearless and protective parents had thrown us into the sewers, so we were able to make it out. How they died flabbergasted, not gonna say further, or think about it anymore, or overthink and weep silly again. Ken in denial blamed Christ, cried 2 weeks in and still had more grief to settle for grievance. Seeing as I was older, I had to be collected, firm and decisive to act on behalf of us. There’s no way we could ever mend the loss. Taking care of my messy brother after all that we’ve been through is the code I live for now. I’ve kicked his bullies and jailed their gangs before, but this IS the ultimate. Surviving the future ahead without adults, little food, sleeping in turns, the stench, clueless. We didn’t have enough on us on several occasions so both of us passed out walking and hiding and then woke up walking again, a long shot away from home.

“We have to enter, to get food. There might be showers working too.” I told Ken while pushing away barricades blocking the institution’s front porch, some broken and some not, but all the same stained in blood. “We could go in, might be a fortress.” The school’s perimeter fences had a part of it toppled over for us to sneak in so we just needed to push through the main entry where the lock broke but wouldn’t open.

Something was holding those double doors fast behind, so we took a severed section of a barricade and pushed against it. The attempt failed and the door wouldn’t budge. “Go harder and faster, it might work.” Ken murmured, hurrying to grab another long, heavy clunk of steel. Nodding, I held up both hands on the other end to support it at the back. “OK, let’s push it a few times, it might give”. For two kids not even 18 years of age I admit, we were clumsy teens, uncoordinated and cared far less. After the 5th try, our clonk worked a wonder and one door collapsed behind its entrance, the other still standing but splintered. We backed away, puffs of dust and dirt hazing at a distance till we could see the opening at the doorway, clear to get in. Funny, we dashed in like kids. It was a decent sized building, larger than the houses we found earlier, and it had many rooms. Classrooms.

“Hey, should we seal the entry?” I called out to Ken. “Oh yeah, good idea.” Then he took the hammer and some nails we had in our bag (we were lucky to have found them in the home we sought refuge before we got here days ago, packed them in our large backpacks meant for backpacking). Ken rummaged a tiny pouch for the nails, pulled the hammer out, taking out pieces of broken wood he found and lifted them to board it up nicely.

I ran fast to the canteen, Ken ploddingly trailed behind. Pulling the knob and going in, my consciousness sank. I stood wobbly, shaken by damages I couldn’t believe. Dining tables were wrecked, lights fell onto severed floor tiles with pieces of glass shattered all over the left of its side entrance. The ceiling seemed to be ripped at its edges apart, leaving daylight casted over the floors below. I swung open the kitchen doors and the refrigerator was lying horizontal over broken tiles and a pile of debris. “Supplies” was written on one inner door I found. Going through it had bags of flour on a metal shelf. One bag had spilled out its contents over the floor with dirt and slime.

“Don’t touch that opened one”. My brother cautioned to me. “Contaminated yes?” I dragged the spilled flour bag over to one corner. Then I found something else there. At first, I didn’t think it was what it was, when I saw a torn box that had a sticker flipped upside down with handwritten random numbers on it. Didn’t seem like it had anything within. Still, any box could mean stuff we could use, so why not? I flung the box wide open and saw another smaller box in it. That was a box containing 12 smaller packs of Chocolate biscuits, 3 in a pack. 12! Expires a year later, which must be new. Now this was more practical than flour, we might not have water and salt to make bread or an edible. It should taste averagely good and weigh us down on the road.

I gestured over to Ken and pointed to the biscuit box. “Take these, not the flour. We don’t need extra baggage.” As though Ken could read my mind and knew what I was talking about, he rushed over to peek into the box. Right away, he slipped out a lopsided IKEA bag from his backpack and gathered the biscuits for us. I went ahead and pulled open the refrigerator door but it had nothing in it. We sighed together when our eyes met, empty and disheartened. There wasn’t anything else handy we could find there, after all the food cabinets and storage shelves have been checked. Ken popped into a classroom and got out, shaking his head. He did that for the classroom next door too.

Most of the stuff we saw and went through stunk pretty bad, mixed together with our terrible body odour craving to be treated. Not wanting to waste further time, we made our way to the toilets at the hallway and found ourselves a shower stall that still had some clean water coming through, though no heating. The flow of water stopped almost as soon as we had finished washing up, Ken fully dressed while tying his shoelaces. An immediate thump followed, quaking the floors and there was a loud crash coming from the hallway.

“OMG quuick! Get dressed!! Something’s coming!” Ken cried out, grabbing all our things. Loud, accelerated thuds from what seem like colossal footsteps sent shockwaves through the air and our actions hastened with the approach. My head was spinning. Putting on my pants, and reaching for the shirt, a blast came through, ripping walls and toilet bowls and the impact flew us to the back of the room. We huddled against each other, bracing silent and petrified. Tears were flooding away our senses and our bodies were at this moment pinned down by nerves. The black wispy ones appeared, this time raging and bigger than we saw, a monstrous arachnid organism scuttling its limps, rapid prods striking massive holes into the grounds of the toilet, smaller holes around caving in. We clung to the remaining walls, rolling about opposite directions to get away but it was lurching at us. The hairy legs compress a beckoning of dark lingering wisps, separating itself from parent to child, sandy string curling into and wrapping taut around our necks. The choke was impetuous and intense. All struggling and screaming had dissolved into a mute, my windpipe about to explode, body turning blue. I knew I was dying, my brother too.

I love you Ken.. An illuminating bright flash, keen to a sun ray exposure blurred my vision and, a second shot back to reality brought it closer to a sight like it was calling out to me. There I saw the pounding heart of the Bermuda beast.

To be continued.

- Vander

The Bermuda Sky [A Horror Story] Part 1

Disclaimer: All poetry and fiction here are original material written by Vander. Please note that all text references, descriptions and indications are purely fictional (make-believe if you didn’t know what fiction is!) and is in no relation to any actual entities).

On the 3rd of April 2025, there was the Bermuda sky. It was the curse of the night. The ring moon we once knew pelted into a dull triangle, three edges and three vertices in grey overcast and in came the darkest of nights which will last forever, where the sun no longer rose to give light and hope. At the full moon we embraced on midsummer and gloriously basked in the meditation of stargazing, gave birth to an odd, triangular star soaring high above the black night, foreshadowing the annihilation of mankind.

We headed indoors and locked our doors as fast as we could, our hearts racing faster than our bodies understood, as foul “things” looking like black smoky wisps appeared. These things eat men and women and will not hesitate to take your children. At a distance, I could hear two other kids’ screaming cries and upon hearing their hands and legs being pulled out apart by those things I almost broke down in a meltdown panic. Dismembering body parts, no no no no no no no no no. No. Ken, my dear little brother and I, ran as fast as we could into our safe house with a tiny torch we both shared, hustling down into our basement fort all rattled, while bolting up the doors, shuttering reinforced windows and securing gaps with added wood planks that were gathered from the shed. We could still hear the thing’s breath…drawing near. I put my hands over Ken’s mouth and waited in the quiet, not moving a millimetre lift of a feather, not even letting my eyes roam.

Many lives were taken, including our parents, but we were not done living yet. Right now, as we sip leftover dirt rain water sitting with our soiled pants on rusty chairs in this hyper-catastrophe dystopia, we continue to fight with the last of our might. And, although young and clueless to most things as we should at this juncture, we know that tomorrow is the future and it still belongs to any of us who wants it badly. If Mom was here, she would indefinitely give her very best to keep us alive even when her body is no longer able to, so this is what we are doing, doing what Mom does best, for us. Gawd, I had to cry every time when I think of Mom and Dad. No longer just about missing them and having them around. Not only were they the best parents in the world, they loved us to bits. Ken and I. It just wasn't fair - Bermuda and these foul things got to them fast, ripping their bodies with the audacity to spit out our mom and dad’s brains on the sofa as we hid behind a bookshelf a meter across, staring straight into a sight so gross it had to be the ultimate symbol of parental death. This was the final end leaving us both abandoned and devastated in the middle of the woods where our home was. We walked for 22 days before we could find a safe house built on fortified walls, something we could at least count on in the meantime scavenging for food.

To be continued.

Disclaimer: All poetry and fiction here are original material written by Vander. Please note that all text references, descriptions and indications are purely fictional (make-believe if you didn’t know what fiction is!) and is in no relation to any actual entities).

Dead At 40 Part 2 [Thriller Story]

Part 2 written by Vander of Lifebly (All references and descriptions are fictional.)

Today’s October 21, 2021. As of now, I am currently working as a bartender in Oasis, a local pub in town. Last year, I’ve spent plenty of vacation time in Paris, and in so returning to normalcy sends me back home to work again. There are lots of time on my hands even as I wait on tables and customers at this time, being overstaffed today and our waiters puttering about across the floor. I pick up the used coasters, cleaned it on the counter and placed it back on the rack. It is about 9.00 pm and my shift ends in one more hour. The after-work group of white collar workers are grouping up and occupying more spaces in the outdoor area. My eyes seem to fixate on the new lot of Merlot bottles in a crate and my attentiveness stupefied into a blank gaze on the fermented red. My suicide plan to take my own life on 26 December 2022 still stands, slowly being prepared and my life, pushed into alarming brevity, active and taken into perspective as it draws closer to its last breathing months.

These days, it is all about tying up loose ends, all the ones that should be taken care of, with cautious care. They can leave you a little sad sometimes, if not, disoriented from your true directive, posing extra questions and creating stirs of distractions to leave you kind of rattled with minute regrets. I made sure the finances were in check first, going through my bank accounts and services I’ve used, settling the remaining debts to be paid before October 2022, and writing will papers that will be used for insurance. Unusually, my insured policy allows death claims from suicide. Ah, insurance. Who gets the money when I’m gone? Well, I suppose in this case it is my parents, whom I presume might take the cash out for a casino run. Also, I went through all my belongings and have decided to donate most pieces away to a few friends and neighbours, including furniture, appliances, clothes and any other household items. A rather short list of my vintage possessions will be given away to the local thrift store, delivery date and timings arranged. Some other personalised letters will be written to my grandmother, two best friends of mine, and to a lady at the Paris hotel whom I’ve chatted with for hours.

On the day of my actual suicide attempt, only one backpack will be left behind to hold all the important tools in carrying out the intended act of self-death. Snap! My thoughts were interrupted when one customer hollered for an extra shot of gin. So I took out an empty glass, poured it from a bottle and brought it out on a tray to his table. Then I scooted over to the old, black walnut bar counter, cleaning the surface with a rag, sure to wipe the corners and fronts to prevent stains. Quickly checking the tabs of customers, I scribbled some notes onto the sides of the sheets so that the next shift’s bartenders would notice. Then Ragle, the old man, owner of Oasis told me, “Hey, you can go. I’ve got this.” Glad in relief, I said, “Ok, I’ve did the tabs. Is there anything else you need before I leave?” Old man picked up the menu and faced me for a while before going on, “Nothing, Doris is right behind you, she’s at the kitchen and will be here.” Oh, Doris. That midget Ariana Grande-wannabe with the big lips. She takes on the next shift, I recalled in my head. “Right, I’ll be out, bye Ragle.” Gently, I removed my apron, folded it neatly and placed it on the shelf below the counter. Ragle went on to the back to speak to the house chefs.

Disclaimer: All poetry and fiction here are original material written by Vander. Please note that all text references, descriptions and indications are purely fictional (make-believe if you didn’t know what fiction is!) and is in no relation to any actual entities.

Wall Of Hands Part 1 [A Horror Story]

Part 1  written by Vander of Lifebly (All references and descriptions are fictional.)

At 4 am, I saw a ghost of the past on a chair. It had the slightest grey tint of a shadow with white hands resting on the armrest. Completely still, it bore an air of ill displacement and sad misfortune. It’s frayed old attire suggested someone from the 1930s or 40s period, but I couldn’t even tell for what decade the dress code was as a person dropping out and having flung history lessons. I narrowed my eyes, fixated but drew it back as I got tired identifying the clothing’s era on that apparition. Learning and remembering history was mundane pain in class even as a college freshman who bothered to pen notes on paper on the side. Yes, call me dumb in my head, but truthfully honest and innocent at heart. You may perceive me as pure, I don’t know. And oh, by the way. I hate ghosts. Not because I fear them, but I see them all the time. Most days, they just have a little unfinished business and keep a distance. This one though, had a grieving darkness I could not quite grapple and understand. Something like a thicker fog, which never clears the path but grows heavier till it wolfs down everything. It had an overwhelming tenacious weight that could suck you in instantly, like a magnet being pulled into the unknown which likely kills in a second without warning, if one may imagine. 

Now, you may ask me. Why the hell am I looking at this ghost right now? Well, I was, working on my term assignment. It was homework at the ungodly hour, burning the midnight oil away. I had troubles sleeping so I got up to work on it two days before the deadline was due. I needed to get it done now, so I could use the extra time for a new part-time job at the ice cream store that just opened two weeks ago. I’ve nailed the interview for that, and it starts tomorrow, after class. Jolly great. Saving more money to move out of my step-parents’ home. Right, my current mom and dad are not my real parents. Just my parents’ friends who had indulged in collective sympathy, adopting me home into their household one day after the car accident that left everyone in my family dead, including my baby brother, here I solely survived. I was not at the scene, and I wasn’t really crying my balls out even then. Staring at the ceiling for almost a year and remaining practically mute throughout wherever I went was all I did, basically, for mourning. 

Gawd, this ghost looked a gruesome dead. It reeked of a peculiar sour stench, like a decayed dumpster of overexpired carcasses and all foul things in a morose. As I sniffed and unassumingly let out a leaky outlet of nasal sounding, the ghostly figure turned its face at me as though it heard. That thing revealed its eyes in a split second, parts of its eyelids exposed in convulsing flesh while registering my presence. Stunned to the bone in sobriety, I let out a scream. Bolting across the living area, tripping over my sleeping dog (this one’s absolutely too stoney for it’s own good) albeit balancing my fall with sturdy arms aligned to a pivot crawl up the stairs, I darted straight to my room, ducking right away into the covers of my bed. Trembling and fumbling at any pillow to hide my head properly well, to brace contact if it arises. That…….that, that, tttthhhh, that…that was a hideous, Machiavellian face of resentment and rancorous destruction which lost the whole damn darn way, possibly a hell’s league from anything quite remotely good. Or should I say already tarnished the sacred? I panicked, heart racing in action for a fight or flight. The whole night I quivered in fear and did not shut either eye for an hour. By morning, my drained energy drove me quite insane but I picked myself up for school anyway. Shit, I’ve actually hustled to school on time. On both numb, jellied feet.

The event of a ghastly encounter last night kept me awake all the way till lunch. It made me irrationally pacing back and forth, destabilised and frightened than ever at the mere thought of it where our eyes met, discharging a repulsive terror none the least anticipated or preferred. My lunch tray which was a sandwich and a milk carton was left untouched as I huddled alone in a corner at the noisy canteen. That memory of a creepy insidious face compelled my turtle-shell life to end ruptured in chaos to confront and vouch if whatever that entity was in any, anyyy bit normal. Sure didn’t look like Halloween rehearsal! Hours later, when classes ended, I rang up the ice cream store with the best excuse of being sick in period pains, scoring the day’s off successfully, the smartsy bailed part-timer. I must investigate that nightmare of a figure I saw. Now, my curiosity is leading the madness in my head. Going towards the school hallway and into the library doors, I removed my laptop from my tote swiftly turning it on and sweatily start looking up on that evil with monstrous white hands. Mentally hungry for clues, I banged in the keywords that came to my mind and a pool of related search results appeared. A linked article caught my eye instinctively at interest, insinuating me to select a news headline which said, “Scientist, dead in hill’s house found with collection of murdered hands”. As I begin to read on hastily, an intense wave of fatigue caught on, snapped me off and before long, my body caved in as I collapsed on the floor of the library.

Disclaimer: All poetry and fiction here are original material written by Vander. Please note that all text references, descriptions and indications are purely fictional (make-believe if you didn’t know what fiction is!) and is in no relation to any actual entities.