Give Me Your Soul… Please (pt. 2)

A short story taken from one of my absolute favourite albums of all time, Give Me Your Soul… Please, by King Diamond. The album tells a story of a haunted house, below is my take on the fantastic album. I was mistaken yesterday, this will definitely be three parts, I am very much enjoying writing this.

Sorry it’s late today, but hopefully its better late than never. Also it’s very slightly shorter than usual, to end for a good place for the story.

If you’re interested in following my posts for this challenge you can find more here. If Cyberpunk is more your thing check out this story. Otherwise I have two Fantasy series you can start here or here.

Hope you enjoy it,
– Zairron

“Why are you hands so full blood,” he whispers, “It’s in your hair too! Good god…”

Silent, the vision of the girl in the cellar remains unmoving. Staring at something beyond the the view of the mirror, in the dull light its difficult to even tell if her dress was originally red or if it is simply bloody white. Entranced by the occult occurrence unfolding before his eyes the man stares intently at the scene in the mirror. Covered in blood that seems not to be her own, her only injuries seem the terrible bruises in large hand shapes encircling her neck.
A sodden thud sounds behind him. Spinning in place he is met by a bloody hand print on the wall behind him. Above the gory marking, an unfamiliar crucifix hangs inverted on the wall. The house is silent save for the creaks and groans of the aged wood, a wet dripping noise draws his attention back to the mirror. Blood covers the entire surface, dripping steadily into a slowly growing puddle on the floor.

The candle’s dim glow illuminates the mans face. Fear must obviously exist within him, but in that moment the uncontrollable need to know more rules him. With his spectral pursuer gone, he turns away from the bloody mirror and satanic symbolism on the wall and climbs carefully down the dark stairs.
Magic is nowhere to be seen, the cat without fear in the dark house. At the foot of the stairs, he can see the front door just ahead promising freedom and safety as long as he leaves now. He knows deep down that he should go, take the opportunity now and flee. The bright light of the full moon shines in through the window, offering nearly as much light as his candle. In the pale silver glow, a trail of blood leads across the wooden floor. Following the trail away from the freedom promised by the door, he is led deeper into the darkness of the house. An evil presence grows in power, the sweltering heat building with ever step towards the cellar. He should go down there, not tonight, not with this evil presence in the air. But he does.
Incapable of penetrating the gloom, he abandons the silver moonlight to the world above. The previous darkness of the house above like the brightest day before the blackness at the bottom of the stares before the door to the cellar. The candle light flickers weakly, barely able to illuminate beyond him. The fear that had been put to sleep by the power of his curiosity has woken with a vengeance. No going back now.

Opening the door, the shadows burst forth in a swarm of fluttering black wings. Without substance but heavy with malice, they part before the light. Deep within the darkness the light illuminates a small figure, wreathing it in a halo of inverted light.
The silence grows in power. The unnatural emptiness banishing all natural sounds beneath a wheezing, raspy breath. Frozen in terror, filled with terror and regret for his poor choice the man watches helplessly as the figure begins to move. An arm moving as if in slow motion raises from its side to point its dainty little finger directly at him. A gust of wind snuffing out the candles flame.
At once the spell is broken and he screams, stumbling and falling in his haste to flee the cellar. The voice of the young girl, rough with the trauma of asphyxiation whispers a deadly message, “Mine… mine… mine… Give me your soul please! Mine! Mine! Mine!”


Dragging himself up the stairs, crawling as his fear has compromised his ability to stand. The shadowy wings assault him with every step, while bloody hands grasp at his feet. His energy draining by the second. I shouldn’t be here, he laments silently through tears, not tonight.
His hand reaches the stair above, the silver moon light illuminating it brings him hope. The strength he is given in that moment allows him to pull himself over the edge, free from the cellar and the girls inhuman grip. Still sobbing in fear, now mixed with relief, he continues to drag himself towards the door. With the sight of freedom just ahead, the last thought before he collapses in supernatural slumber, I can’t believe I made it out of there.

“Go to sleep and I… I will tell you… I will tell you why I’m here” her tortured voice carries him away from his body.

Coming to in a nightmarish place, he finds himself alone in the presence of the girl. What is this place? Have I died? Am I dreaming? Seeing the area clearly now they are surrounded by a hall of portraits, their contents concealed by a layer of blood. Rather than be afraid however, he is filled with sympathy for the girl. Hardly older than single digit years, the markings on her body make the story of her murder so clear. He understands that she has brought him here to explain and that he should listen and watch as she begins to speak the pictures in red begin one by one to part the bloody veils and reveal the hidden history behind the girl in the bloody dress.

Author: Zairron

I'm writing to build a habit, practice, and be creative.

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