He tried to move, only managing to scream as he attempted to bring his right arm towards his face. Other than the searing pain that shot up his forearm and pierced his brain like a bullet, the arm didn’t move.
Broken.
Shattered.
Finlay opened his eyes.
And howled in fear.
Staring directly back at him was something ripped straight from an abyssal night terror. His first, insane thought on seeing the grinning skull staring with sightless malice right back at him was ‘Zombie’, but as the fog that clouded his mind continued to dispel, replaced with awful clarity, he realised that the grinning nightmare with the hollow eyes and mouldering skin stretched across its face was a corpse.
Firelight from an unseen source danced across the cadaver’s face, briefly affording Finlay a glimpse into the dark chasms of its eye sockets.
It looked so dark in there. A cavern that carried on forever, all the way down, down, down, until it ended at the gates of hell.
His vision clearing, Finlay tried his best not to gag. He slowly manoeuvred his body from his position on his side, trying to alleviate the pain that burned in his hip where the jagged, unforgiving rocks on which he lay tried to cut their way into his flesh.
Rolling onto his back, Finlay found himself staring up at a pitch black, starless sky.
It took a few seconds to realise he wasn’t staring at the sky at all. Instead, he was staring up at the cold, stone roof of a cave. It had to be high, as the light of the fire never reached all the way up into the shadows.
The walls that climbed up to his side, however, those were visible.
Finlay squinted in the gloom, perceiving the images there as best he could. It looked like drawings. Illustrations committed by childlike, untrained hands. He dared not think what the dried, browning material was that had been used to decorate the walls of this hellish place, but he thought about it anyway.
The drawings themselves spoke of an innocent mind, and were all the more terrifying for it.
A smiling face, little more than a rough approximation of a circle, with two dots for eyes and a curved line for a smile, beamed happily at him, mocking every single childish image drawn by every single childish hand.
Below it, there was a little car. Smoke plumed from its exhaust pipe like a little fluffy cloud, all bubbles and soft corners.
Above both the smiling face and the small car, a brown sun shone down on all. Its rays spreading out from its dark circle.
It was a happy scene.
Or should have been.
The sort of scene that belonged in a Kindergarten classroom, scribbled happily upon cheap, thin paper by an excited kid, eager to express his glee for the summer holidays to come.
Here, in this stinking, suffocating hole, lit by an unseen fire and housing the putrefying dead, it was obscene.
Finlay couldn’t help it. He began to cry.
Snot running down his face, he forced his good arm to do its job. Slowly but steadily raising himself till he was sat upright. His right arm hung at his side, useless, a broken hand on a broken clock.
He peered forward into the gloom; his vision swimming in and out of focus as, from the shadows, something moved, coming his way.
His heart thundered in his chest, his mouth ran dry and his stomach roiled as the thing stepped into the light.
Finlay whimpered.
Here was his ‘Bigfoot’.
The horror from the woods.
And it had dressed for the occasion.
It wore a worn down, faded dress, peppered with small flowers, now filthy and stained with stinking, drying blood and shit. The dress was far too small for the hideously deformed giant. His muscles bulged from beneath the tight material, threatening to burst the once pretty dress apart at the seams.
That wasn’t the worst of it, though.
The worst of it, was the thing that hung from beneath the tattered skirt, thick as a man’s arm, just as long, and dripping clear, gluey fluid down the monster’s leg.
The grinning brute, seeing him eye its enormous rod, smiled and reached for its thick, pulsing shaft…
And began to stroke.
Its bulbous, fish-like eyes burned with unmistakable lust.
Finlay thought of his sister, Laura-Lee, and tried to scream. All that came out was a whimper. In his mind, he saw her, clear as day.
He saw the ruin between her cracked, shattered legs, where her sex had been.
And the hole there, bleeding and tattered and large enough to fit a man’s head inside, and then some.
He raised his working arm in shaking supplication, as the massive abomination approached, grinning for ear to ear with eyes lit by terrible passion.
“P-please…don’t…” he begged.
It stood over him, tall as a mountain. “Roland….likes boy…”
Finlay wept. “Pleeeease…” he wailed.
“Boy….pretty.”
It happened fast.
One second, he was staring up with pleading eyes at the nightmarish thing with the rapidly stiffening, arm-sized cock, and the next he was being hauled up onto his feet, spun around, and flung onto his chest.
As he fell, he could see the fire.
Scott’s head, speared through with a sharp branch that entered through the top of the skull and exited through the stump of his neck, cooked over the warm flames, slowly blackening as the hungry fire seared the flesh. The rest of Scott was tossed in a heap to the side. A pile of expunged guts and intestinal loops curled around internal organs, oozing from the gaping hole in the corpse’s stomach, dark and shimmering in the light of the flame.
As rough hands tore at his denims, ripping them apart like paper, Finlay wailed for mercy, thrashing his legs like a child caught in the throes of an almighty tantrum.
Behind him, Roland giggled.
He shuddered, braced himself as he felt the tip touch his puckering anus, wet and slick and already lubricated with the inhuman giant’s pre-cum.
No, no, no, no!
The thing that called itself ‘Roland’, put the tip in.
His anus stretched, ripped and tore apart as the creature’s swollen, pulsating dome forced its way in. Finlay’s body went rigid, gripped by mind-ripping agony. He felt warm blood flood between his legs as he was shredded by the beast’s member.
By the time the monstrous cock was halfway in, growing still larger and harder, the beast’s excitement was such that it pummelled his insides like it was tenderising meat.
Finlay, torn apart from the inside, juddered on the cold, stone floor like a worm on a hook. He screamed for his mother.
Then, it was all the way in, exploring his innards like a burying grub, and spurting a flood of hot semen into his ravaged, brutalised organs.
By that point, Finlay was way past screaming for anyone.
And anyway, out there in the wild, where monsters roamed, there was no one left to hear him.
No one left at all.
THE END
AUTHORS NOTE
Some characters just reverberate.
They just won’t let go.
For me, one such character, is Roland. He holds a very special place in my heart, being that he starred in the first short story, (or story of any kind), I ever fully completed. The tale was called ‘Shopping’ and it features in my first release, ‘Consumed Volume 1’.
I had a great deal of fun writing that story, and in essence, its completion was the moment I decided that this was what I should be doing with my life. I not only fell in love with the process of writing, but I fell in love with my character.
On release of the book, I was very surprised to find that many others fell in love with him, too.
I’m not sure what that says about me, and I’m not sure what it says about you guys, but it sure as hell put a smile on my face.
Over the years, the most common question I’ve been asked by readers is, ‘Will we see more of Roland?’
Something about that sex-cr
azed, cannibalistic, murderous mutant just melts people’s hearts.
He’s melted mine’s, too.
I always knew that Roland would show up again, and the time felt right. The idea came easily, and the character of Amber was the perfect philosophical foil for my wild, horny mutant. I wanted to surprise my readers with his return, and have his appearance be a shock, and hopefully one that inspires a little glee in his fans, just as it did in me as I wrote it.
Anyway, just wanted to share this with you guys. I hope you dug Roland’s ‘slight return’. Rest assured, his story is far from over.
Roland will rise again.
In more ways than one…
Thanks for reading, and please don’t give the game away.
I’ll see you all for the next one!
Love,
Kyle
(And Roland)
Author’s Bio
Kyle M. Scott is a horror author hailing from the dark and desolate wastelands of Glasgow, Scotland. He spent his formative years immersed in the world of horror, devouring the genre in all its forms. A rabid fan of the underground authors whose work paved the way for a more visceral, hard-hitting style of horror, Kyle's love of extreme gore and boundary-pushing fiction could only lead him down one path.
In his relatively short career, his works have made him a favourite among readers with a taste for fearless, provocative fiction that evokes the classic works of those who shaped modern horror.
Among his many influences, he cites Richard Laymon, Edward Lee and Jack Ketchum as the writers who sealed his fate.
At present, he is working on the extreme horror novel, Hell's Auxiliary.
Kyle currently resides in Glasgow with his long suffering partner, an arrogant cat, and an imagination that keeps him up all night contemplating therapy.
Legend tells that he leaves chocolate on the doorsteps of those who review his work.
This has yet to be confirmed, but why take the risk of missing out?
We’re talking free chocolate, here…
Also Available on Kindle by the author
CONSUMED – VOLUME 1
DEVIL’S DAY
AFTERTASTE
CONSUMED – VOLUME 2
WHERE THE DEAD ONES PLAY
RAZORBLADE CANDIES BOOK 1 – LOVE LIES DEAD
RAZORBLADE CANDIES BOOK 2 - VHS
The Wild: A Campfire Tale (Razorblade Candies Book 3) Page 5