All posts by Crinal123

Hey everyone! Finally rewrote my pasta and hopefully improved it. Please review and give any comments. My angus is peppered. <hr>Bound 
 Thunder crackles loudly outside, as lightning flashes, each burst briefly illuminating the library in a shocking, intense light. The archaic structure is pelted by wave after wave of torrential rain. Winds bellow against the building, threatening to tear the entire structure down. No sane person would dare brave this weather just to read some old, musty books. But I’m here. The metal doorbell clangs as I enter the library, alerting my presence to absolutely no one. The place is empty, just as expected. I assume it will remain that way for the rest of my shift. I don’t even know why the administrators bother to keep the library up and running this late into the night. The only person I ever see this late at night is the librarian, and for this night, that librarian is me. I make my way to the main desk. The librarian’s counter is stationed at the far end of the library. Every step I took causes creaks in the hardwood floor that reverberats throughout the entire facility. Creak. Creak. Creak. Creeaaaaaak. I stop in my tracks, and the noise continues echoing along in the cavernous library. It’s strange, but the sound is not in tune with my steps. I take time to check the aisles and the reading areas, wary of the steps I take, but no one is here. Not a single soul reading books, using the computers or otherwise lurking about. I guess it is just the wood swelling in the cold of the rain or some squeaky, old floorboards. I don’t know; I’m no wood expert. I can’t help but laugh at my bewilderment. The short walk serves to confirm my isolation in the library though. Even Alex isn’t here. I guess he left his shift early. I can’t really blame him. Between the gothic decor, the dim lighting and the emptiness, the library is the perfect mix of haunted mansion and horror movie set. No amount of funding or high tech workstations can erase this ancient vibe. Coupled with the storm, there is absolutely no good reason to stay and supervise this empty, cavernous library. But I can’t let a little spooky ambiance scare me from a paycheck; that’d be irrational. Anyway, the job isn’t so bad. Once I finish all my work, I can always study for my classes the next day. The computers here are lot faster than my laptop, so it is all just convenient. The desk is a mess. I knew Alex is a lazy slob, but I figure he would make an attempt to do his job properly, at least before leaving early. Books are scattered all over the desk and counter. Some are even on the floor, facedown, spines wrinkled and pages folded. A few minutes later, the books are all stacked on the table, ready to be put back in their respective aisles. I take a moment to marvel at my work. Creak. Creak. Creak. I guess I am wrong. Someone is in the library, each step confirming the fact. Perhaps I didn’t check hard enough. Anyway, that is signal enough to continue working or at least, look like I was. I gather up the books and place them on the cart, beginning the dull job of returning all of them. As I place book after book in the shelves, I can’t help but wrinkle my nose. It’s slight, but I know my imagination can’t be so powerful as to just conjure it up. It’s the smell of fish, fish that has been rotting in stagnant water for days. I wonder if the other guy can smell it too and feel embarrassed if he does. Still, I am a librarian, not a janitor. My job is done, and I figure I could start on the philosophy essay I have due next week. I boot up the computer and as the familiar Windows start-up tune plays, I notice the book. It lay in the corner of my desk, propped up to guarantee I would see it. Strange, I swear I didn’t leave any books behind. Stranger still, it is a stripped book; it has no cover. Technically, it is illegal to own one, as books are usually stripped to be pulped and recycled. Perhaps the guy who entered thought he could leave this here as a donation? I can still hear creaking in the distance. He must still be here. If I run into him, I’ll be sure to ask. I grab the book. The pages are clearly of age, crisp and yellowed. There is no indication whatsoever of what the book is or who wrote it. Not exactly excited to start my essay, I began reading it. “This book is all that remains of H.C., What a coincidence. My name is Harvey Cooper. I laugh. who was flayed alive on the Seventeenth Day of September. I humor the book and check today’s date. My heart jumps out of my chest, like falling when you’re just about to sleep, an involuntary twitch that jolts you awake. He is this book in its entirety. May you be connected with him through its touch.” A chill ran down my spine, but I still can’t suppress a chuckle. It is just a book after all, whatever is written here is probably just sheer coincidence. I just hope the coincidences end there. I have to read more. Each turn of the page dissipates whatever hope I have bit by bit. Each chapter I read sinks my gut a little bit deeper. The hairs on the back of my neck threaten to rip away from my skin. This is all too chilling, too coincidental. The first chapter begins with the first time I decided to work here, back when I was a freshman some three years ago. It starts with my first day of work, exploring the library, organizing books and meeting Gertrude, the senior librarian. The book even describes what I thought of Gertrude; what I think of her overt enthusiasm, how it borderlines into a creepy neediness. I am absolutely certain I've told no one about that. Every chapter after details a portion of my life since then, down to the smallest detail. I don’t know what was worse, the fact that my entire life has been written here or the fact that this is all written in a third person perspective, that of an omnipresent observer. The writing grows cryptic as the chapters progress; details irrelevant to my life are interspersed between every paragraph. Thunder continues booming in the distance, uncaring of my predicament. The lights start to flicker ever so slightly, making it even harder to read this chicken scratch handwriting. What scares me most though is that this book is not more than a hundred pages. Considering the pages I've read and how much of my life has been already detailed, I assume the worst. I fumble through the pages, desperately seeking how the last chapter will play out. I scan through paragraphs that detail everything up until this day, sweaty palms dampening the outermost pages of the tome. The following pages are empty. I flip through them, making sure I didn’t miss anything out. Nothing, not a single word beyond me picking this book up. I feel my heart pump in my chest and sweat bead down my temple. This must all be a cruel joke. That’s the only thing it can be, right? I could still hear the stranger’s footsteps in the distance. The stench of fish still wafts heavily in the air, seeping into every breath I take, churning my already weak stomach. Ring. It’s the doorbell. I don’t think anyone else would enter the library this late at night, so it could only mean one thing. The stranger is leaving. He is the only one who could explain this book. He is the one responsible for this. I run towards the entrance. My boots pound down on the hardwood, each step booming, like the thunder outside. As I ran, the doorbell continued ringing; the clanging of the bell producing a chaotic melody to the chorus of thunder. The creaking in the library got louder and more frequent, all of the sounds blending into a cacophonic dissonance. Everything climaxed into a harsh crescendo, a terrible symphony orchestrated by storm and fear. Distracted, I did not hear the lumbering monster creep up behind me nor expect the heavy blow that took my consciousness. ---  My head throbs, waves of pain shooting throughout my whole body. I could still smell the all too familiar stench of rot and strangely, musty paper. The odor only serves to exacerbate my pain. Blurry eyes distort my vision. I try rubbing them, but my arms are paralyzed, immobile. Thick leather belts hold them in place, red-hot blisters already bubbling where the abrasive leather is in contact with my skin. To my horror, my legs are similarly restrained. I struggle vainly against the restraints, until I realize I wasn’t alone in the room. He sat at the corner of the room, writing under the luminescence of a dying light bulb. His hands are a flurry of disgusting movement. They are like gnarled branches, knotted at the joints with the rigidity of bark. The cracks and groans of abused ligaments and joints are audible through the furious scratching of pen on paper. It is like the buzzing of hornets, an aggressive and foreboding white noise, made even worse knowing that he is writing on my book. The coverless pages lay flat and wrinkled on the table, squished under his forceful writing. I try to call out to him. I plead, I beg. My throat tears at my screams. I cry out words with increasing volume and desperation until I could feel my vocal cords hemorrhage. Specks of blood shoot out of my mouth. I could taste iron on my tongue. I try to scream louder hoping someone might save me, but mere silence escapes my gaping mouth. There is no reaction from him. There is only the persistent sound of words being written on paper. It is no use. He has the pen, and I am his story. His shadow, a distorted projection of his monstrous silhouette, dances against the flickering bulb. As he continues, one thought lingers: How does he want my story to end? -- Harvey screams. He cries. He pleads. It does me no pleasure to hear his voice torn raw by his anguish. He uses words to try and delay his inevitable demise, but alas, words are what bind him to his fate. The futility of his begging causes Harvey to seek other means to survive. Bound to the table, he looks desperately around the room. He sees the multitudes of leather bound books. Hundreds and thousands of volumes fill the room, the smell of ancient pages and deteriorating binding creating an oppressive and suffocating atmosphere. He sees vats of unknown liquid, dust obscuring the contents inside. He sees needles, spools of string and various wooden instruments, tools so mundane that it stuck out in the eerie dungeon. Yet, these are not what catch his attention. His eyes lock on his friend, Alex, who stares blankly into the ceiling, mouth agape, eyes frozen in a silent expression of fear. His stripped body is crumpled awkwardly atop a rack, his skin, laid out, taut, tanned and leathery. His face now a hollow mockery of who he once was, flat and deflated, contorted in the final terrifying moments of his life. All color drains from Harvey’s face. He does not understand. No one does. The shock is too much to handle; his psyche shatters like broken glass. His head drops in resignation, its weight hanging heavily on his neck. He does not notice me rise slowly from my chair, nor does he notice my laborious approach. A quick and decisive flick of the wrist severs his throat, a movement perfected and well practiced. The claws cut deep and his clothes are dyed a deep shade of crimson. Harvey struggles to glance up through the pain and blood loss, taking one last glimpse of his captor. His eyes betray one final wave of terror and regret before going blank, the last vestiges of his life slowly dripping from his throat. -- The creature gently lays the new hide on the rack, like a mother placing her baby in a crib. It has been processed properly, artfully. The skinning done as easily as peeling a banana. The hide now reeks of rotting fish, the solution of brain oil lathered on its surface now seeping in. It would be some time before it is ready. The corpse is left on the table, the lifeless husk left without skin. Like an anatomy chart, it displays every muscle with startling clarity, the skin so perfectly removed that whatever beneath is left intact. Its face is left in a macabre state, eyes wide in shock and mouth twisted in a toothy grin. The corpse’s limbs have stiffened, the cadaver now a grotesque mannequin. The ancient creature then grabs the older hide, now brown and leathery. It cuts and snips the material, a procedure it has done thousands of times. What was once the face of the human is placed on the forefront of the book, while the rest of the leather wraps the book’s cover. The being then sews it all shut, coursing the needle in and out, in and out, in and out. It places the book among the countless others on the shelf. It sits and begins writing once more.  -- Ring. The senior librarian, Gertrude, enters the library, the familiar scent of old and musty books immediately filling her nose. She notices the silence in the library, the stillness. The strange odor of rotting fish creeps up, subtle and quickly dissipating. She reaches her desk and finds it organized, the books returned and filed correctly. Harvey was always a good worker. She sighs, and knows she’ll have to find more help yet again. She’s old now. She wonders how much of her book has yet to be written. <hr>So a few concerns. 1. I'm not sure if the ending is satisying enough. I'm not sure I handled the skinning, tanning, binding, etc. properly (adding enough terror or creepiness in it). This might just be me being too self-critical though, but better I have your thoughts. 2. Grammar. Please help me with that, I have terrible grammar. I'm particularly concerned with the tenses. I hope to consistently have a present tense in this story. Thanks!

So here's the story, it's pretty long, but I hope it's worth the read. <hr>Bound 
 Thunder crackled loudly outside the library, as lightning snaked across the evening sky. The archaic structure was pelted by wave after wave of torrential rain. Wind bellowed against the building, threatening to tear the entire structure down. No sane person would dare brave this weather just to read some old, musty books. But I’m here. The metal doorbell clanged as I entered the library, alerting my presence to… absolutely no one. The place was empty, just as expected. I assumed it will remain that way for the rest of my shift. I don’t even know why the administrators bothered to keep the library up and running this late into the night. The only person I ever saw this late at night was the librarian, and for this night, that librarian was me. I made my way to the main desk. The librarian’s counter was stationed at the far end of the library. Every step I took caused creaks in the hardwood floor that reverberated throughout the entire facility. Creak. Creak. Creak. Creeaaaaaak. I stopped in my tracks, and the noise continued echoing along in the cavernous library. It was strange, but the sound was not in tune with my steps. I checked the aisles and the reading areas, wary of the steps I took, but no one was there. Not a single soul reading books or otherwise lurking about. I guess it was just the wood flexing in the cold of the rain. That would be the only logical explanation. I couldn’t help but laugh at my bewilderment. The short walk served to confirm my isolation in the library though. Even Alex wasn’t here. I guess he left his shift early. I couldn’t really blame him. Between the deteriorating wood, the dim lighting and the emptiness, the library was the perfect mix of haunted mansion and decrepit house. Coupled with the storm, there was absolutely no good reason to stay and supervise this empty library. But I couldn’t let a little spooky ambiance scare me from a paycheck; that’s just irrational. The desk was a mess. I knew Alex was a lazy slob, but I figured he would make an attempt to do his job properly, at least before leaving early. Books were scattered all over the desk and counter. Some were even on the floor, facedown, spines wrinkled and pages folded. A few minutes later, the books were all stacked on the table, ready to be put back in their respective aisles. I took a moment to marvel at my work. Creak. Creak. Creak. I guess I was wrong. Someone was in the library, each step confirming the fact. Perhaps I didn’t check hard enough. Anyway, that was signal enough to continue working or at least, look like I was. I gathered up the books and placed them on the cart, beginning the tedious job of returning all of them. As I placed book after book in the shelves, I couldn’t help but wrinkle my nose. It was slight, but I knew my imagination couldn’t have been so powerful to just conjure it up. It was the smell of fish, fish that has been rotting in stagnant water for days. I wondered if the other guy could smell it too and felt embarrassed if he did. Still, I was a librarian, not a janitor. My job was done, and I figured I could relax a bit at my desk. I booted up the old computer and as the familiar Windows start-up tune played, I noticed the book. It lay in the corner of my desk, propped up to guarantee I would see it. Strange, I swore I didn’t leave any books behind. Stranger still, it was a stripped book; it had no cover. Technically, it was illegal to own one, as books are usually stripped to be pulped and recycled. Perhaps the guy who entered thought he could leave this here as a donation? I could hear creaking in the distance. He must still be here. If I run into him, I’ll be sure to ask. I grabbed the book. The pages were clearly of age, crisp and yellowed. There was no indication whatsoever of what the book was or who wrote it. With nothing better to do, I began reading it. “This book is all that remains of H.C., What a coincidence. My name is Harvey Cooper. I laughed. who was flayed alive on the Seventieth Day of September. I don’t know what compelled me, but I double checked the date on my computer. My smile died. He is this book in its entirety. May you be connected with him through its touch.” A chill ran down my spine, but I still couldn’t suppress a chuckle. It was just a book after all, whatever was written here is probably just sheer coincidence. I just hoped the coincidences ended there. I had to read more. Each turn of the page dissipated whatever hope I had bit by bit. Each chapter read sunk my gut a little bit deeper. The hairs on the back of my neck threatened to rip away from my skin. This was all too chilling, too coincidental. Every paragraph detailed a portion of my life, down to the smallest detail. Things about me that I have never told anyone else about were here, from my unexpressed rage at my parents to the time that I cheated on my girlfriend. I don’t know what was worse, the fact that my entire life has been written here or the fact that this was all written in a third person perspective, that of an observer who seemed to revel in watching me from the shadows. The writing grew cryptic as the chapters progressed, details irrelevant to my life being interspersed between every paragraph. Thunder continued booming in the distance, uncaring of my predicament. The lights started flickering ever so slightly, making it even harder to read this chicken scratch handwriting. What scared me most though is that this book was not more than a hundred pages. Considering the pages I've read and how much of my life has been already detailed… I fumbled through the pages, desperately seeking how this the last chapter will play out. I scanned through paragraphs that detail everything up until this day. The following pages were empty. I flipped through them, making sure I didn’t miss anything out. Nothing, not a single word beyond me picking this book up. I felt my heart pump in my chest and sweat bead down my temple. This must be all a cruel joke. That’s the only thing it could be… right? I could still hear the stranger’s footsteps creaking in the distance, the echoes now taking a more ominous tone. The stench of rotting meat wafted in the air, churning my already weak stomach. Ring. It was the doorbell. I don’t think anyone else would enter the library this late at night, so it could only mean one thing. The stranger was leaving. He is the only one who could explain this book. He is the one responsible for this. I ran towards the entrance. My boots pounded down on the hardwood, sound echoing throughout the empty library. As I ran, the creaking in the library only got louder and more frequent; the sound overwhelming even the rain and thunder outside. The doorbell continued ringing; the clanging of the bell producing a chaotic melody to the chorus of creaks. It all grew to an overwhelming roar. Enough so that I didn’t hear the thumping steps behind me and the heavy blow that took my consciousness. --- My head throbbed, waves of pain shooting throughout my whole body. The all too familiar stench of death wafted throughout the area, exacerbating my pain. Blurry eyes distorted my vision. I tried rubbing them, but my arms were paralyzed, immobile. Thick leather belts held them in place. To my horror, my legs were similarly restrained. I struggled vainly against the restraints, until I realized I wasn’t alone in the room. He was seated in the corner, writing under the luminescence of a dying light bulb. His hands were a flurry of disgusting movement. They were like gnarled branches, knotted at the joints with the rigidity of branches. The cracks and groans of abused ligaments and joints were audible through the furious scratching of pen on paper. It was like the buzzing of hornets, an aggressive and foreboding white noise, made even worse knowing that he was writing on my book. I didn’t need to make sure, but I knew. The coverless pages lay flat and wrinkled on the table, squished under his forceful writing. I tried to call out to him. Pleaded, begged for my life. I would’ve gone on my knees if I could. I told him I won’t tell anyone. I wouldn’t rat him out, as long as he would let me out. Let me free. Let me live. I’ll give him all the money he wants. Everything. But he didn’t respond. There was only the persistent sound of words being written on paper. It was no use. He has the pen, and I am his story. As he continued, his terrible visage casting shadows upon me, one thought lingered: How does he want my story to end? -- Harvey screamed. He cried. He begged. He pleaded. It did me no little pleasure to hear his voice torn raw by his anguish. He used words to try and delay his inevitable demise, but alas, words are what condemn him to his fate, words that I write ever so endlessly. Blinded by fear, he failed to see. He failed to see the array of knives arranged neatly on my table. He failed to see the rows of leather bound books lining the shelves that surrounded this room. He failed to see the book I just finished. He failed to see that even without me, he would not be alone in this room. His friend Alex stared blankly into the ceiling, mouth agape, eyes frozen in an expression of fear. He was crumpled awkwardly atop a rack, his skin, laid out, taut, ready to be processed. His face was a hollow mockery of who he once was, flat and deflated, a macabre impression of his last moments forever on his face. Perhaps it was for the best since unfortunately, the same must be done for dear Harvey. It began with a cut, a long vertical cut from his throat to his genitals. The first plunge of the dagger is always the finest. Harvey was still lucid then. His eyes stared at me in shock, his sniveling pleas cut short by 3 inches of steel in his neck. From there, it was short work; Harvey had ceased resisting. Liver, heart, intestines, all thrown out. Flesh and vile human fat rendered from his skin. Face, carefully peeled off, preserving his horrified expression. Skull smashed in. Brain mashed, spread on his skin. Leather made. Book bound. ---- So a few of my concerns: I'm not particularly satisfied with how I ended it. It seems almost too dragged out for me, enough so that the creepiness and scariness dissipates. I feel that the pasta would do better with a more abrupt twist, but I couldn't really find out a way to end it quickly and succintly while still retaining my core scare/idea (which is anthropodermic bibliopegy; practice of binding books in human flesh/leather). Another of my concerns is that in the end, I may have given the monster/antagonist too much of a voice. It's like I'm spoon feeding readers too much, again reducing the scare. I also thought of perhaps making it that the monster has to do this to continue living, as he "lives within other people' stories", but I think that will make readers too sympathetic to it. Any comments, suggestions, and help will be much appreciated. :)