Who Killed Bob?

by Stephen Craig

It knew there was food inside…

  Also by the same author:

  A COLD WIND BLOWS

  (A Winter Mystery)

  A bitter coldness welcomed him and he was momentarily confused by the amount of snow that was on the ground. He moved forward slowly and his feet crunched over the covering on the floor. As he moved onwards the weather seemed to worsen further with the wind screaming and the snow getting whipped up into a maddened fury. On his skin, the melting flakes felt as if they were burning hot as they hit his face. Edging forward he slipped and fell to the floor.

  Getting to his knees he struggled to see. He was lost but looking behind him he was sure that he could see something. A movement? Was that the outline of a figure? Whilst he could not be sure if his eyes were playing games - he certainly did not want to put that thought to a test. He wasn’t going to wait around and find out who would be following him out into this freak weather.

  He turned and ran blindly into the white unknown…

  Coming in 2014 by the same author:

  M’ALEMERGE

  (A Fantasy Novel)

  There had been voices for the past thousand years - muffled, inaudible, nonsensical. Voices that whined, voices that begged and pleaded, voices that occasionally laughed and joked. He liked the voices that were pained and crying but the most precious to him were the voices that stopped existing at all. For the past one-thousand years he had been blind - blinded by an all encompassing darkness that existed to feed off his sensory perception, like a symbiote feeding upon its unwilling host.

  In this prison he could not move, he could not feel the binds that held him so, but they were certainly there - wrapped around him like a million tentacles that pushed and pulled in equal force. His form could not turn and he could not speak. He had no voice other than the one he could conjure in his head - but was that even his?

  He had been here for so very long that he did not think he should be able to hear voices. Indeed, there was a time when he could not - but were they voices from another place, or from his own mind? Could one already deemed mad turn to actual madness? For him that was not possible and he knew it. His existence was the beginning and the end of mankind. He was the creation and the destruction of life, the breath that could blow out the final candle. Yet, he had been captured but he did not know, or understand, how. He had been in existence and now he was ‘not’ - but he could not die. There was no end - only eternal continuance being unable to do anything…except think.

  Time passed. Years - although in this tomb ‘time’ was not anything to fear. To one that could not die it was not an enemy, even so, the longer he remained the less he seemed to remember. The less he remembered, the less he began to care and he would not allow himself to linger on those pointless thoughts. If only he could remember just one thing he might be able to make sense of his predicament. The blackness continued, ever expanding, and time passed…