Sup. In addition to writing poetry, I also write short stories. I'm inspired heavily by H.P. Lovecraft, Edgar Allan Poe, and horror and gothic stuff in general. For the most part my stories are dark. Enjoy, and leave a comment, or critique, or even a like!

Table of Contents:

The Archaeologists - this post.
Beached Soldier - Post #4
Everlong - Post #5
The Dark Poet - Post #6
The Darkness In Light - Post #9
2020 - Post #10
Whispering Wizard - Post #11
A Modern Diogenes - Post #12
The Planet of Blood - Post #14
People Are Strange - Post #18
Lacy Banston - Post #21
The Watchmaker - Post #23
Day at the Buffet - Post #27
The Pursuit of Happiness - Post #30
Homely - Post #31
Planet Hayrot's Antique Emporium - Post #33
The Blood Lord - Post #36
My Beloved - Post #38
Survival - Post #43
All Hallow's Eve - Post #44
All Hallow's Eve (part two) - Post #45
Pawn Shop - Post #46
Bedroom Blues - Post #47











The Archaeologists




Yeah, so, I suppose my childhood was pretty average. I mean, compared to the other kids in my school I had it pretty good. My mom worked as a dentist's secretary. However, that's not where our money came from. Father was an archaeologist. Well, that's what mom would tell me. I didn't see him as often as I would have liked. He was pretty well known and he'd always be away for months at a time on excursions in South America. He made good money, but he wasn't around much.

Everyone in town knew and loved my dad, so it came with its benefits. Teachers would always know who I was and usually would cut me some slack. Other times I got into fights with other kids, usually the ones who were in poverty. I figured they were jealous of my good financial situation. Luckily, this was almost like a ritual. Ever since elementary school I've had to defend myself, so I learned to fight. I Even enrolled in some mixed martial arts classes for awhile. Needless to say the fights always ended in victory for me.

Dad himself was interesting to say the least. While he was a friendly guy, I noticed he tended to be awkward in conversation. No doubt a small side effect from being away from civilization for so long. But that's not the weird part. The weird part was that he would keep some of the oddest artifacts for his own collection. I don't think I could even properly describe some of the grotesque idols and paintings we had hung in our house. I recall a painting of a strange, almost bat-like creature descending on tribesfolk and tearing one of their arms off. And then there were these little figurines he'd have of some sort of horrors you'd expect to see in a child's nightmare. Tentacles, and claws, and sharp teeth, and wings, and their faces. The faces. I'll spare you the details on the faces, but I will tell you this: those faces plagued my dreams for weeks after seeing them. Even if it was just a split-second glance. My friends would tell me that they saw the faces in their dreams too.

Other than my father's strange obsession with these relics, he'd often distance himself from me and my mother. Maybe it was work related stress, or distraught in their marriage. I don't know. They fought a lot and it always ended with my father locking himself in his study. With those paintings and idols and the faces. It was as if he cared more about his precious little artifacts than his own family.

But it got worse.

It was my thirteenth birthday party and my mom wanted to celebrate it at my house. I had plenty of friends at that point and they all wanted to be at the rich kid's birthday party. Who wouldn't? We had a Piñata, a magician, a clown, good catering, and games. Typical party. We were all having a blast. My friends, though, they didn't really know what to get me. Some gifts were money. Some gave me video games or card games that I already had. Still, others didn't even get me anything. Not that I can blame them. I didn't ask for anything, and honestly, I couldn't care less.

So there I was. Thirteenth birthday, surrounded by friends, my mom, and some extended family I hardly knew. Dad was off on an expedition again. He always managed to miss the rather important events in my life. I don't know whether I'd consider it a blessing or a curse that he wasn't here for this one.

They began singing the happy birthday song to me when suddenly it was halted by a loud shriek coming from the house. Not a second later my friend Tomie comes bolting out into the backyard. He ran to his mother and embraced her. We all stared, wondering what was going on. She softly caressed him while asking in that sweet motherly tone, "Tomie... it's okay. Tell mommy what happened."

He whispered something in her ear. Immediately her face turned into one of disgust and anger. She stormed out, Tomie in hand, and didn't say a word. I didn't know what to do. Mom rolled her eyes and told everyone to head home. It was abrupt, and unexpected. No one protested. Within minutes it was just me and mom again. She told me to go to my room and keep myself busy. So I went and played upstairs.


Fast forward two years. Fifteen now. Dad was out of the country once again. Tomie, however, moved. Not too long after the incident, actually. Didn't even say a word. Next thing we knew, their house was for sale and all traces of them were gone.

I truly regret that fateful Friday night. God, I wish I went out that night. Mom was over at her friend's house. She hardly left, so this was rare occasion. While she was gone, I was just watching some 'toons, and then I had this curious urge. Maybe it was the curiosity building up over the years, but I wanted to see what was in that study. Why would my father always lock himself in there? Why did Tomie run out screaming? What the **** was in there?

I finished my Dorito and licked the crisp cheese it left on my finger. I was nervous and excited at the same time. I reached the study in only ten or fifteen seconds. It wasn't too far from my room. Sometimes at night I would hear noises from within.

Ah, the familiar Gothic door. It architecture made it even creepier than it already was. It was incredibly weird on its own, but, Dad was always in South America. So why Gothic? Well, it didn't matter. I opened the door slowly - as it was always unlocked - and peered inside. A black abyss. I don't even remember the light behind me penetrating the veil. Regardless, I reached for a light switch, or perhaps a flashlight, any source of light. I finally found a light switch, but the light it turned on didn't help much. It created a very dim light, kind of like the ones you see in a fancy restaurant.

Then, three things happened. The door quickly slammed shut behind me. The gust of wind knocked the breath out of me. Finally, I realized what was in this room. Aligned on shelves and the walls were those faces. Hideous multi-eyed beasts. Elongated heads with unspeakable markings on them. Bodies of twisted flesh and darkness. But worst of all - the eyes. All the eyes stared at and followed me. Some force compelled me to move forward. I was breathing heavily from having the wind knocked out of me, and I couldn't avert my gaze from the faces.

I swear to god I heard a low chant begin, but there was not another soul in the room. They seemed to originate from the paintings and idols and fetishes decorating the room. I don't know if I'd even call those cobblestone-ridden walls and floors a room. All I saw were the grotesque faces and a pedestal ahead. Bookshelves encircled it and one lay open on its stand. The faces forced me to it. Reaching it, my eyes unwillingly shifted down. I couldn't even understand most of the words, yet I knew they were utter horrors. Necrophagous . Cyclopean. Mi-Go. My hands forced a page turn and I found a gut-wrenching picture staring right back. It was multi-mouthed with slime-drenched tentacles outstretched in front of it. Almost inviting me to them. I heard a low roar that quickly became louder. It was not of this world. It came with sounds of flutes and drums and grunts which mixed into the ever escalating roar. Somehow I was able to regain control of myself and quickly thrust the book from my hands and onto the floor.

The roar dwindled, but an ominous chanting began. And then I realized it was those faces on the wall that were chanting. It was all too much to handle and I ran. I ran as fast as my legs would permit. The chanting seemed to slow time, as I didn't reach the door in ten seconds, rather, ten minutes. Ten minutes of that hellish chant. I brutishly barged into the door and sprawled out onto the floor on the other side. The door slammed shut behind me.

"Honey? What are you doing?"

I looked up to see my mother. "Oh... just wanted to take a quick look in Dad's study. Just curious."

"Aw, baby, you know he doesn't want you in there," she scolded, but then sighed. "Just go back to watching Television. I'll order us some dinner, okay?" I nodded and lumbered to my room.

Those nightmares? Yeah. Many, many, many nightmares. Of The faces. I could never forget those faces. So horrifying, and mysterious, and forbidden. I had a lot of time to reflect on that evening. Dad was still around for a couple more years 'till he died. We got a phonecall saying his corpse was found in a Peruvian cave system. My mom received his money and possessions via a will, but we never heard anything else about his death. Mom was hit a lot harder than me, and never found love again. If she even found it in the first place. As for me, I finished High School as usual. Then it was on to college, and I had to decide on a major.

I've had plenty of time to reflect on that evening. On my whole life, really. I wondered about Dad, and why he chose his career. Then there was his fascination with the idols and paintings and statues. And the faces. God, what was it about those faces? I wanted to get my own so I could study them. Yes. Study them. Dad knew something was odd about them. Hell, I could even collect them myself. But you can't really go to college for collecting, so... what to do? Hm. I could always search and find them myself, right? Yeah! What better way than to collect those forsaken relics for my own collection? By god, I've got it!

I think I'll major in Archaeology.