Thursday, April 21, 2011


"REFLECTION" - Pixie J. King


That’s all he could see when he opened his eyes; a layered blackness, with an orange neon tint that crept in through the door – the streetlight, which blended in with the silver glow of the moon. He lay still in his bed, clutched the sheets and listened to the swelling shadows. He swallowed the tight ball forming in his throat, but all he could hear was the pulsing in his ears, his heart thumping against his ribcage, fuelled by a torrent of adrenaline. That; and the silent ringing in his ears.  

No, there it was again.

He shot up, stared into the shifting black murk of his room.

Small beads of perspiration formed on his brow and down his neck, the soft tiny hairs on his neck standing on end. He slowly peeled back the covers, stepped out of bed, still listening to the odd noises drifting in from the dark. He walked towards the bathroom, tentative.

It’s getting louder…

He entered the bathroom, switched on the light, saw his reflection in the bathroom mirror; a pale shadow that stared back at him.

Dark dreams, he thought, grabbing the flannel. He turned on the cold tap and soaked it, slapped the flannel over his face, felt it cool his clammy skin. He rubbed his eyes, forehead and then around his neck.

The water gradually drained and stopped flowing from the tap. He turned it, but no water came.

Icy tendrils, like thin, sinewy fingers, swept up his spine, made the hairs stand on end. He shuddered, felt the coldness flood his skin, seeping into his veins and numbing his senses. He felt faint, dropped the flannel and clutched onto the sink, momentarily struggling to stand upright.

The noise.

Shit, there it was again…only softer…almost like a whisper…

A stench.

He looked into the mirror, but his tired reflection had vanished; behind him, something moved.

His skin piqued; two topaz eyes stared back at him through the murk, and slowly a figure of a girl emerged, with long flaxen curls which fell from her scalp. Crimson streams dripped from deep lacerations in her neck, down her clothes and onto the lino floor.

He swallowed, hard. His mind flashed back to that night, quick and fast, and then gone. His eyes shuttered; he turned, his heart pumping hard, fear seeping from every fibre in his body. But the vision was gone. He peered around the bathroom, but the girl had disappeared. He sighed inwardly with relief.

Thank God…that bitch can’t hurt me…She’s dead…

He became rooted to the spot for a moment, slowly glanced down.

Blood on the floor.

What the...?

He grabbed some tissue paper and mopped up the blood, flushed the tissue down the toilet. He tried the taps, and water spilled out. Relieved, he swilled the blood from his hands, but when he turned around, the blood had re-emerged in front of him.


He heard the scratching noise again, the sound he’d heard all night, but it seemed to emanate from the living room. He noticed that more drops of blood had formed, almost like bloody footprints, gesturing him to follow.

He took a deep breath, edged closer towards the bathroom doorway and followed the footprints.

He stopped when he reached the living room, he saw the flaxen haired girl standing by the far wall. He seemed trapped in the spectre’s gaze, watched as it smeared his wall with blood. He glanced to his right; saw the other walls covered with the same bloodied message repeated over again.

My blood is on your hands; the devil will collect.

He could smell rotting flesh and stale blood.

He shuddered, tried to scream to wake his neighbours, but his larynx had tightened. He backed away, knew he had to find his phone, get out, get away...

The girl turned, her topaz eyes focussing on him. The irises swelled into two gleaming black pits; he was convinced he could see a raging fire in both eyes. His muscles trembled.

He felt as though the air was being sucked out of his lungs...could barely breathe...He glanced up at the girl, her rotten stench filling up his senses. He looked into her eyes as he drew his last breaths. ‘Please…’ he rasped. ‘I’m sorry for what I did…’

The girl just stared at him as he fell to his knees, then the floor. She edged forward, staring; the holes in her eyes grew wider, watched as he spluttered with blood.

She smiled as his neck tore open, blood gushing out onto the cream carpet. She wrote a sentence in his blood.

Your debt is paid. The devil will collect you now…

BIO: Pixie is an A level student who enjoys writing. She writes anything dark, from horror to fairies, and writes in any length. While completing college, she writes when she can, writing either short stories or lives in the world of her two protagonists as she completes two different novels. She dares you to enter her Realm at


  1. now that is one fine horror story ... with every ingredient a horror story needs, all nicely wrapped up (if I can use that expression) in one great tale.

  2. Good work, Pixie. A haunting tale.