Seven Slightly Sadistic Stories

By Jeremiah Cress

With a mixture of dark humor and creepy storytelling, this collection of bloody and disturbing tales is both entertaining and downright chilling. Each story, with its creepy tone and terrifying set of events, exposes a real and terrifying fact; that no one is ever safe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeremiah Cress
• Release date: Jan 9, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301971770

Jeremiah Cress

Jeremiah Cress is a writer and filmmaker whose tastes are a bit on the dark side. His twisted sense of humor and uncanny ability to sense the dangers in society shine through in his writing, creating a work that is both entertaining and very creepy. He also has a strong urge to expose these threats through documentary filmmaking, a task that is currently in the development phase.

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Seven Slightly Sadistic Stories

or Fables for the Sick and Twisted

by Jeremiah Cress

"Seven Slightly Sadistic Stories"

Copyright © 2013 Jeremiah Cress

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved worldwide.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to everyone who has stood by me, who never abandoned me while I tried to find these words. To my family for all the second chances. To all the people who believed in me. To the online fans who encouraged me by devouring every twisted story I gave them and always coming back for more. To everyone involved with playwithdeath.com. To those who have helped me become a better writer. And to Natalia, my kitty cupcake.

Table of Contents

Hide and Seek

Stalking

Silence is Golden

Captive

Journaling

Just Say No

Zen

Hide and seek

Whoever wishes to keep a secret must hide the fact that he possesses one. -Goethe

She noticed a pause in the destruction, bringing silence. Her face was pressed against the crumbling concrete, her arms wrapped awkwardly around the rusted pipes that occupied the narrow space around her. Every inch was filled with cast iron and knees and elbows, and the darkness and her fear made the space seem to shrink smaller by the minute. Each breath brought chunks of brick and dirt into her mouth and the taste of abandoned decay along with it. Her tongue had dried up a long time ago and without any moisture she was left with no way to clear her mouth of the debris. Something began to crawl up her leg and she twitched, shaking it loose and hearing a heavy plunking sound as it hit the floor beside her thigh. The sound seemed to ring in these small confines, a heavy and threatening sound. She must have been holding her breath for some reason, because the silence was broken again by the rushing exhale of her lungs and then by a cough as she tried to inhale but received the usual collection of dust and dirt and wall.

She forced herself to relax her throat, to resist another cough, and was soon able to breathe again. This was the moment she became aware of the dripping from above her, a steady tap, tap, tap on her neck, which up until now she had either been too scared or too focused on other things to notice. But now, with the pounding in her ears beginning to subside and her focus coming to rest on her immediate surroundings, she was becoming very much aware of it.

She struggled to move her arm and wipe away the water that was trickling down her neck. She was pinned in place, unable to move forward or backward, her body bent this way and that to conform to the maze of pipes that were now blocking all but the slightest of movements. Now here she was, stuck with her face against a decaying wall in some bug infested recess while tiny beads of water dropped repeatedly on her neck from above. If it wasn't for the man pulling the house apart room by room, whos efforts had just begun again and were bringing forth a new wave of smashing sounds from above, she'd most certainly scream until her throat was raw.

Her thoughts brought her no reassurance, but she knew that her lack of mobility would at least ensure some silence on her part. The urge to wipe away the water from her neck, for instance, no matter how unbearable, would have to be denied for the time being.

As she sat there, completely still, she began to think of options, of which she had few. How long could she last in here, she wondered? Who would even know where to find her? She didn't dare risk using her phone to call anyone, and wasn't even sure if she could reach it. There was no time to call for help once she made her way out the first floor window at the boathouse. Her only thoughts were of running, of putting distance between her and the slaughter taking place inside. She never had a chance to dial 911, never thought to scream for help. She could only run, and when she came across the abandoned house at the end of the road with the man not far behind, she immediately searched for a place to hide and chose silence over reaching out for help.

It had all just happened so fast. One minute all her friends were gathered together, smiling and beginning her birthday celebration, and what felt like minutes later all of them were screaming. Nothing made sense. She had no idea who was safe and who was dead; no idea why anyone would want to hurt them. The only thing she knew for sure was that evil did exist, and it visited them that night when the chains were wrapped around