Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-24686540-20140321223038/@comment-24686540-20140408145227

Okay so after losing my USB, and finding it again I've finally gotten through the development of the character in the story. It doesn't sound right, but I'm not sure what I'm missing (keeping in mind I'm adding the gore in the first kill). Anyway here it is, critiques?

Indescribable and agonizing pain is all he could remember – a victim of a Juvenile Arthritis of which caused his body to feel pain in his bones from every movement. He was born of a long line of powerful witches; yet he was the runt in the coven when it came to mustering up his own magic; even the simplest hexes were alien to him. That being said, not the strongest healing hex could help him. The constant fear of becoming discovered by the village as a witch family would manifest nightmares of being the last generation in the line to be seen on the face of history. Fire; the most frequent of causes to the dreams. Being burnt at stake. This was his worst fear. One day, the emotional, physical and mental distress was too overwhelming for the mid-teenage boy to endure. It was this night, the 17th of July 1762 that the young man made a decision to end his life. His life burst up in flames.





The night, however didn’t end for him. Awoken for a second chance; a primordial force feared and renowned under the title “The Bogeyman.” Darkness surrounded the boy, his memories a clouded blur… anything before that one last night was unknown to him. Even his own name was chained away in the depths of his mind. “Who am I?” was a recurring thought cycling around in the abyss. Finally, an answer to the never ending question pierced the silence. “No one. Not anymore, anyway; once perhaps you were known by a name but that was – a while ago. All that’s left of you is your rotting conscience.” A raspy, blood-chilling voice impaled him like a spear, the words whistling through shredded vocal chords. The blinding abyss illuminated itself to reveal a simple room. Not much for dimensions, or décor; just an old, rusted torch brazier alight with a black flame. From the darkness a lanky man with no face emerged, clad in a black cloak that blended in to the dancing shadows from the fire. Stitching on his head depicted a smile. A single word formed in the air before him: “Smiley” – the scarred stitches were the first thing to pop out at the dead boy. Then again, Smiley’s head was all that was visible to him; cocked as if sizing up what little it saw. In the coals lay a pure white full-face mask made of lightweight and strong metal. The eyes were cut out large and circular, thick black lines descending from either one. Stitches seemed to keep the mask together tight enough that the connections wouldn’t move. One such stitching was beneath the right eye, another above the left and a final one across the oral region, almost forming a smile. Little nicks and scratches showed that the mask wasn’t new, and small burn marks were starting to form around the edges and the eye-holes. As hot as the fire felt to touch, it had no effect on the mask at all. “That mask is your way out. All you’ve to do is to take it and wear it, then you can go back,” Smiley exclaimed as he took his leave, “and one more thing, don’t be afraid of the dark.” As Smiley disappeared into the darkness the brazier went cold, and the room dark again.



He had no way of telling how much time had passed. No matter what the boy tried he couldn’t find the brazier with the mask. However, upon resting he found that if he listened sharply enough he could hear the darkness whisper to him. More frequent he listened, the louder and easier to hear they became; until one moment they were so strong they couldn’t be ignored even if he tried. They bickered at his failing to find the mask, snickering to one another as he bit back, claiming that they were just a figment of his imagination. One moment they’d beg him to believe they were fake and not there, the next they’d snicker at how ignorant and gullible he was. No longer did he care about the mask, all he could do is cradle on the floor trying to block them out, and not wanting to open his eyes in fear he’d see the entities conversing with him. “I told you not to be afraid of the dark.” He opened an eye to find Smiley standing in the corner, the room illuminated once again by the brazier; redesigned and different in dimensions to how he remembered. Now the room held a stone chair sitting near the brazier. Smiley gestured to the chair. As the boy sat down the whispering halted. Silence, sweet, sweet silence. Peering into the brazier, he could see the mask looked older and had darker burn marks around the edges. “Nice, isn’t it; the warm embrace of the fire?” He shook his head; he remembered all too well the pain of fire. “Oh, and don’t be afraid of the dark, try being friends with it.” Smiley had left once again. The fire out, all he could hear was his own thoughts. He missed the whispering. He missed the torment. Didn’t know why, but he did. ''Don’t think you can get rid of ussss that easssily! ''He smirked.



The room lit up once more, this time by an open fireplace. The stone chair had been replaced by a black velvet couch and arm chairs. A rug had been placed on the floor and unrecognisable animal heads decorated the walls with suits of armor. The mask lay rest on a pedestal in the fireplace, the ageing more evident than before. ”You’ve been here quite a while. Aren’t you going to try for the mask?” The boy glared at Smiley with resent. His arm reached out into the seemingly hot flame only to find the flame was cold. Confused, he grabbed the mask and used belt straps to hold it on his head. Upon donning the mask, he found the room had disappeared and had become a light-filled street in the dark of night. His recall of his past life was now clouded to him.