Room without a View – A short story by Kevin Moore

Head He watched the condensation forming on the filthy ceiling. Inexorably slowly, the moisture gathering together, re-shaping, forming, until it became a pendulous mass, depending from the roof, gradually surrendering to gravity’s sweet song.It fell, down, down, growing, though the effect was illusory, as it continued unstoppable through the fetid air of the dimly-lit cellar. For the merest fraction of a second, a dull light shone on its surface…and then it exploded in a thousand tiny droplets on his forehead.

He tried to force his tongue up to catch the precious moisture, but it always seemed to be beyond him. His tongue mocked him, immobile. He had no idea how long he’d been here in this room.  He felt numb. He felt…the slightest sense of being, like the brush of a feather or a lover’s tender kiss on the back of your neck, fleeting, ungraspable. There was a sound in his ears, like a storm, like rushing water, unyielding. It seemed he’d always heard that sound.

Then he heard it. Something else. The distant sound of a metal bolt being drawn. Footsteps on cold stone, The creaking of a rotten wooden door.A face loomed over him, a sallow, corrupted face, wearing medical whites, no longer white, stained, bloodied, some bright red and fresh, others old, brown mute to the horrors they had seen.  The face drew close, smiling, rotting teeth like tombstones peeking out.He spoke in a harsh whisper, like a death rattle.“You lasted the longest.” He said, holding a grimy hand mirror up to his captive’s face.

The prisoner glanced at his reflection, wide-eyed and terrified, letting his gaze travel down his face…to the ragged edge of his throat, the hack-sawed remnants of his spine, muscle, fat and nerve endings protruding out from the bloody stump of his severed neck like a dead man’s fingers.The man lifted the head and threw it into the flaming jaws of the incinerator in the corner, to the sound of a silent scream.

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5 Responses to “Room without a View – A short story by Kevin Moore”

  1. orangeaction Says:

    if you are inspired by litteracy skilled writers, enjoy the likes of Ian banks and Clive Barker. The images they conjure will leave you amazed.

  2. Many thanks for your comment. Indeed, all the writers I read I would deem to be skilled in literacy, its a basic requirement for good writing!

    Clive Barker, in particular, is a favourite of mine. I’ve read most of his work, but was particularly taken with the fantastic imagery in Weaveworld and Imajica. I think his strength lies in his dealings with the heavenly and the horrific in equal measure.
    I well remember the Stephen King quote: “I have seen the future of horror, and it’s name is Clive Barker”

  3. Wowft that’s creepy. At the moment you described the blood stains on the guy’s whites I was like ahh oh my god.
    Very well written.

  4. I’ve always wondered…in the brief seconds after a beheading, how long do you actually realize what has happened to you? How long does that fleeting moment last? Not the most happy thought that I’ve ever had, but it is a curious question. Interesting short. And very creepy. Nicely done!

  5. Yes, its a gruesome but fascinating thought, isn’t it? Lets just hope it doesn’t last too long, should any of us be summoned by Madame Guillotine (or by some nutter arab wanting his Youtube moment on Al Jazeera) Thanks for the kind comments!

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