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A Century of Blood - by Elobo

A Century of Blood




Some folks have asked me why the people of Spookane will not look at the Rosemary Mansion during a nighttime windstorm. We found this in some dusty archives, and it recounts the Shroudley. "The most notorious mass murderer of our times was a Rosemary. His immaculate white robes were stained crimson as he delighted in the bloodletting of countless people. After taking countless lives, he was finally lynched in his house on the hill. But his profane soul was condemned to the vile dwelling in his hereafter, never free to roam. Unless, that is, he could lock eyes with another and single them out. This allowed him to manifest in their quarters for that night only. His tortured wailing in the wind would cause the people of the town never to look at the roof of that mansion in the night for over one hundred years. And though he comes infrequently and the tradition holds fast... there is always new blood on his hands."



Other Submissions by Elobo

Author Sort Ascending Sort Descending Title Sort Ascending Sort Descending Description Sort Ascending Sort Descending Date Sort Ascending Sort Descending Rank Sort Ascending Sort Descending
Elobo Mondo Momma
Though she was never the third strongest mole, she had a reason to fight. Your Sanctuary was hers now, to protect and nurture her birth and surrogate children. True brutal savagery emerges in a threatened mother, a gentle touch remains as she holds her rowdy progeny back from the main fracas. They may have been playing rough, but without Momma they will be scared and scattered, completely out of their depth in the Dusty Dunes and Summers. You monster.
4/9/09 0.00
Elobo Mousey in the Sky like Cheese Curds
This strange creature, I've never seen it before. It worms its way effortlessly through my rotten walls. My stomach curls into a knot so Gordian at this crass amalgamation of vermin. What perverse architect thought imagine this tiny abomination?
1/22/10 0.00
Elobo My Mindless Friend
My life… my everything… it used to be at the bottom of the bottle. We were not scientists, we were assembly line workers. It didn’t matter how useful our abominations were, as long as they were present. So I found solace in a melange of liquors hard and brutal. As I pulled my blood soaked arms out of its gaping cranium, my heart was heavy. The brain was wired, the switch was flipped. It stared at me, blankly, for nearly five minutes. Then it smiled, and hung on my every word with unflinching adoration. Was this unconditional love? No, there was a dire condition: lobotomization. But I needed something to grab hold of to haul myself out of the pit of this despair. This seems to be working. Hmm, I’ll feel terrible about him down the road? You know what? Whatever.
11/28/09 8.00

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