Ha ha. Happy horror to you to. By the way, have you ever been freaked out by Chucky's face? I can't really watch his movies anymore. There's just something with it...
I've always thought it looked kinda stupid. Like Chucky had a birth defect, lol.
Hey man a great story, I'm looking forward to your next one.
Thank you, dude. You don't have to wait long!
Now, here's a little tale of karma I like to call The Sulphur Dive:
The car sped down Nelson Street before finally parallel parking on the side of the road. It was a 1981 Pontiac Turbo Trans-Am with a coat of chipped black paint, and the stereo was blaring Cypress Hill. The protagonist of our story, Donny, exited the car, and crossed the street to enter Harrison's Mini-Mart. I would have called the star of our little story the hero, had he been nearly anyone else. It's best if you learn a little about Donny before we continue.
You see, he is far from being Nelson Mandela. His criminal record is longer than most resumes, with two counts of drug possession, one count of sexual assault, three counts of aggravated assault, and one count of motor vehicle theft, among others. Mind you, these are only crimes Donny has been convicted of. Bar fights are nearly a hobby, and his left arm is riddled with injection marks.
Now, back to our tale. As Donny passed through the automatic doors, he saw a middle-aged man with graying hair behind the counter, a teenage boy, perhaps sixteen, sweeping the floors, and a young boy sitting next to the door, drawing. He went over to the fridge, and grabbed a six-pack of Molson Canadian. Ambling over to the counter, and mumbled, "Pack of Belmonts." The man smiled, but looked almost disheartened as he turned around and grabbed the cigarettes. As he rang up Donny's purchases, he said, "There are better ways."
Donny looked up and said, "What?"
"There are better ways to spend your life."
His voice became sterner. "Look, just because I'm buying beer and cigarettes, that gives you no right to judge me. There's no reason to say you're any better than I am."
"I don't mean it that way. But I know your life story."
He slammed his fist down on the counter, and brought his voice to a shout. "You know nothing about me! Now, shut up and tell me what I have to pay."
His face bore a deep concern, and said, "Please, be careful! If you don't, They will get you!"
Donny reached over the counter, and pulled the man over to him by the collar. "The cops have got me plenty of times already! I don't need to listen to your Jesus crap, or whatever you're bloody trying to preach! Now, tell me what I have to pay for the ruddy Molson and Belmonts." Halfway through this outburst, the boy sweeping the floor dropped his broom and looked on in worry. Donny slowly released the man, who looked to the boy and said, "It's all right, Michael." He turned back to Donny with an expression of shame, and said, "Seventeen eighty-seven." Donny handed him the money, placed the cigarettes in his shirt pocket, and took the six-pack in his left hand.
As he went to leave, the younger boy held up a drawing to him, and smiled. Donny examined it, and was shocked by what he saw. It was a crude depiction of some sort of horned person beating a man engulfed in flames. At the top of the drawing, "DONNY" was scrawled in jagged letters.
With his mouth agape, he quietly said, "Is this some sort of joke?" His expression changed to that of rage, and reached into his right pocket. He pulled out a small knife, pointed it at the boy, and yelled near the top of his lungs, "How do you know my name? You think this is funny?"
He wheeled around, and saw the man was surprised by the scene before him. Donny pointed the knife at him, and firmly said, "I don't know what's wrong with you freaks, but you should all be shot." Still aiming the knife at the man, he stumbled backwards out of the store.
Turning around, he ran towards his car. Opening the door, he placed the knife back in his pocket and dropped the six-pack on the passenger seat. Sitting down in the Pontiac with his eyes wide open, he started it and sped down the road, turning right onto Duncan Street. About a third down the road, he slammed the brakes, and got out of the car. He crossed the street into a short alley, and reached for the pack of cigarettes.
Unwrapping a new pack, he took a cigarette out. Placing it in his mouth, he reached into his left pocket and pulled out a lighter. Just then, he noticed the inside of the pack's lid. In blood red letters were printed the words, "IT'S NOT TOO LATE. YET."
Upon seeing this, he leapt back and launched the pack down the alley. His mouth started shaking, and he leant back against the alley wall. He slowly slid down, and began muttering to himself, "I know. It's just a joke. Some stupid, elaborate prank. Yeah, the schmuck had that pack prepared. Printed it in, then wrapped it up again. Knew which one it was. Besides, probably saw me before, anyway." He brought the lighter to the cigarette, lit it, and began smoking. "That's how he knew my name. Overheard someone talking to me. But how did he know I'd buy a Belmont? ...Of course, he saw me smoking one, too. That's how he knew. Big setup."
Donny placed his head into his hands, and sat there smoking his cigarette. Perhaps a minute later, he felt an earthquake beneath him. He jumped up, and came to the realization that nothing else around him was moving in the slightest. Before he could move out of the way, a wide fissure began opening directly between his feet. This offset his balance, and he began to fall into the pit, but managed to grab a side with both hands. The shaking still going on, smoke rose from the pit, and he heard a low noise. Attempting to pull himself up, the noise got progressively louder, and Donny realized it was... Deep laughter?
While he tried to pull himself from the fissure, he felt something grasp his leg. With an expression of pure terror, he looked down into the pit. The pit was glowing red, and he couldn't see the bottom. But it wasn't the pit that terrified him. Directly beneath him was a cluster of grotesque demons. Resembling large humanoids, they bore bright red flesh, sharp fangs, and curving horns, among other unmentionable features. One was grasping his ankle firmly, and began pulling him down. Donny let out a series of loud screams as the demons pulled him deeper and deeper into the pit and tore at his body.
After he was deep down into the pit, the shaking of the earth died down, and the smoke stopped billowing. Over a period of a few minutes, the pit filled up with sandy earth. The scene bore nothing other than a patch of tar missing from an alley.
Perhaps an hour after this occurrence, the man and the teenage boy from the convenience store walked up to the alley. Both looking down it at the patch of earth, the man spoke in a low voice. "I just wish I could have warned him."
Michael turned his head to face him. "But Father, you did the best you could."
"I know, but I should have done more. If I told him more clearly, he might have listened."
"He wouldn't have, Father. He obviously wasn't going to change no matter what happened."
The man let out a long sigh. "I suppose you're right, boy. Strangers never listen, and now They've got him..."
Michael waited a few moments before speaking again. "Father, we should probably go back to the store now. There's nothing else we can do, and the smell of brimstone is burning my lungs."
