Convoluted Contortions

I fear the more I breathe the more I become.
The more I think the more I be.
The more I stir the more I shall turn.

I find myself seeing nothing in the horizon of my life, only Pitch Black, Tar. I can see my skin transforming into something...else.

The Abyss is pulsing through my veins.
Cannot think straight.
Never could.
Cannot live.
Never can.
Caged monsters eventually spear themselves upon their own bars.

His Curse

Walter was one of many pains, many hurts. It made his very veins, his curse. He would see the Abyss as night, and become listless when it became light. It made perfect logic that I would change what made him tick.
Walter went to sleep this time with his toys lining his walls. I observed his slumber, and like all little boys, made him wake when he heard a toy fall. His eyes darted to and fro, looking for me. He searched high and low, but couldn't even see. Deciding to go back to sleep, Walter confirmed there was no crook. I smelt his fear seep, however, and made his toys creak and made them look. Their plastic eyes didst pierce, their grins did form. I made his delicious fear most fierce, yet was only a calm before the storm.
Walter saw the event before him, and shuddered. With his hope now most dim, I moved his toys, they cluttered. I made them my own, I made them talk. I performed what I wished to be shown, I made them walk. I made them dance around this boy, I made them bicker. I made the innocent my toy, I made his playthings snicker.
My crescendo was in play, I rose before his paralyzed face a simple mirror. It had to be this way, the highpoint of his fear was growing nearer! I showed him everything in the Abyss. Showed him what he was running from. If Walter had any fluids, I would be smelling piss. The time for Poor Walter, has come.
My rotted fingers turned Walter's head as I matched his eyes. He realized his pursuer was already dead, and that not all that ceases to live, dies. I reached into his mind, showed him the pain within. Slowly coiled Realization would unwind.
For he saw that he had become a boy of Porcelain.

His Stare

William woke to the sound of the floorboards creaking, a sound not so as alarming, but as intruiging. He called out for his parents with his voice. Upon the recieving of no answer, decided to investigate: he had no choice! With his Joker slippers fastened and Batman flashlight in his grip, he set out to see what made the sound, but heard the drip. He turned on his heels and questioned the noise. Immediately did his head make up reasonings, just like all young boys. Yet rapidly his confidence did slip, was only hastened once more when he heard, again, the drip. Quivering with fear, William realized the sound to be from the cieling.

When he racked up the courage to shine his light, he was sent back reeling. Slowly did the feet of his parents dangle, the severity of the ropes causing the bleeding. Intricate was the bloody web weaving, each Fly placed so precisely. To a sadist or one of a disturbed mind, they might compliment it quite nicely. Yet it was nothing of the sort to the poor boy. Traumatized by disbelief and shock, he had become His toy. Well placed was his ploy, to place images of His victims family in a suicidal manner above his bed! Brilliantly crafted, He had said. To lock his bedroom door, leaving him to stare at his parents and siblings, now dead. Thus forcing him to hide in his closet for an escape, where He'd be waiting with the tape.

Like a fly to a spider, William ran to the safety of his closet, shaking with fear. It took him until he had stopped screaming, to notice someone was near. As William turned, he succumbed to the Bogeyman's Leer.

As policeman searched Williams room, searched, teared and ripped, all they could find was the message in blood: Drip Drip Drip