Novell; Dealing with Robin
Om den här novellen;
Titel; Dealing with Robin
Antal ord; 2,243
Åldersgräns; 15+
Varningar; Blod, våld och död - IGEN.
Annat; Den här skrevs väl mest för övning. Liknar den förra på ett sätt, men ändå inte. Det framgår inte så bra i början på novellen tyvärr, men huvudpersonen är en KILLE xD;;
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Innehållet i denna novell är helt ur mitt eget huvud. Eventuella likheter med riktiga personer eller händelser är sammanträffanden Använd ej utan min tillåtelse.
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In spite of it all, Robin had always been a good friend.
In fact; to me he was the perfect friend. Sure, he had his quirks, but he was the type that always said the things I needed to hear, that always came up with the right things to do. And sure, he got absolutely furious about the most ridiculous things at times, but he got over it quickly. It didn't really matter, because I was never bored when I spent time with him. It didn't matter that Robin could get really strange at times and that people said things about him. He was still the best friend I ever had.
And I was the best friend he ever had. So he told me, very often. And I had no reason to doubt it, because our worlds always included the other and either of us could imagine it in any other way.
That day in late August, the first day of our second year in High School was the day that marked the beginning of change entering our lives. A change with a name; Gabriel.
Robin had very early expressed a dislike towards Gabriel. Not in words but rather in small gestures, such as frowning whenever he looked at the unfamiliar boy, snarling whenever he heard his voice. I paid no attention to it; I expected him to get over whatever grudge he had soon enough, like he always did.
But he didn't.
"What's the hell is wrong with him anyway", Robin once said as we made our way home through the dark November evening.
"Who?"
"You know, Gabriel."
I looked at Robins face, now interested, hoping to find out more about my friends strange behaviour.
"He just pisses me off somehow, you know? He keeps going on like that, like he's all high and mighty." I raised my eyebrows at this; Gabriel was far from 'high and mighty'. He was a quiet and somewhat shy person who kept to himself most of the time in school.
"He just pisses me off somehow..." Robin repeated, mumbling to himself.
At this point, I can admit that I was starting too get worried. But it didn't matter much - whatever Robin thought of other people and other people thought of him, he was still my friend.
After a while, Robin started to make sure Gabriel was aware of his feelings as well. It started with simple things like calling him names, then went on to making cruel jokes, laughing at him whenever the poor confused boy made a mistake in class. Meanwhile, I was still waiting for this period of Robin's to pass, doing nothing to hinder him.
Then they started to get into fights. Heated arguments during class, all initiated by Robin. At times we would pass Gabriel in the corridor and not too long after that I and other students would have to hold them back to prevent something that might actually turn into a fistfight. Robin made his sentiments obvious to all and by now, they were no longer one-sided.
"Wouldn't it be better if he had never existed?" Robin asked me, emphasizing 'he' in a way that left no doubt on who he was talking about.
"You think?" came my simple reply.
Robin's behaviour was changed even when Gabriel wasn't around as well. Robin laughed less, conversations between him and me didn't flow as easily. He started spending more time alone, turned down invitations from friends. For the first time in the eight years I had known him, I began to feel like I didn't know him. I began to feel alone.
But I never once said this to Robin. I waited with patience for him to get over it, to come back to me.
I waited, doing nothing but trusting him. Because I wanted to and because I had no better friend. Because I knew Robin had no better friend and he needed me to trust him.
One morning, I got to school and heard shouting from the front entrance. When I got there, I could see a group of students gathered around what seemed to be a fight. I knew who were the two participants even before I got there.
"Robin!" I called out. "Robin, stop it!"
Robin's face turned to mine for a moment and then back to Gabriel to duck the blow that was aimed at his head.
"What is going on here?" the voice of our history teacher rung out and everyone turned to see him running towards the scene from the school parking lot. Robin and Gabriel too ceased what they were doing and faced the teacher.
"It's his fault" Robin stated in a childlike manner, pointing at Gabriel.
"What!" Gabriel replied, incredulous. "You just punched me for no reason!"
"It's his fault!" Robin repeated, ignoring Gabriel. He began to back out of the crowd. "It's HIS fault, for not getting out of my HEAD!"
No one was given the opportunity to reply, as Robin turned around and ran away.
--
Three days passed, three days during which Robin had been absent from school. I had assumed he wanted time alone - he was rarely sick - so I didn't think about stopping by his place. At the fourth day, Gabriel was absent as well. I reluctantly got worried - what if Robin had done something to him? What if they had gotten into another fight?
After school that day, I decided to go to Robins apartment. I texted him about it but received no reply - this didn't worry me, since he rarely replied due in order to save money. Taking the tram out to his neighbourhood, running through the now pouring rain and hurrying up to the fourth floor of the apartment building without giving me an opportunity to think about what I was doing, I didn't feel any doubt until I was standing there, in front of the door with the 'Robin Agervi'-nameplate.
What exactly was I expecting to find in there? If Robin indeed had gone to fight with Gabriel again, he wouldn't be home anyway. And I didn't even have anything to base that suspicion on, other than both of them being absent from school on the same day. I felt ridiculous. But I couldn't bring myself to leave this alone.
I knocked on the door - Robin's doorbell had been broken for ages. He liked it, often told me it made it easier to ignore salesmen and noisy neighbours.
No reply.
I knocked again, harder.
This time, I thought I could hear something from inside - a strange, repeating sound. I felt the door handle and received no resistance. It wasn't locked. I went inside, closing the door behind me.
"Robin?" I called out. "You home?"
I could hear the sound clearer now; something that made me think of footsteps with two different shoes. 'Chuck, schlick, chuck, schlick'. The sounds were wet and the pace was slow. They seemed to come from the living room. I ventured to go deeper into the dark apartment (why are the lights off?, I thought) and found my way into the living room.
I stopped in the doorway and silently stared at the nightmare on display in front of me.
On the floor, a figure was lying in a pool of some liquid, something dark, face down. And next to the figure another one was sitting crouched, one I recognised as my best friend.
I now knew what the sound was.
One of Robins hands rested on his own knee and in the other was a knife, long, wide and most definitely sharp. He was pushing the knife down into the figure below him (chuck) and then pulled it out (schlick), over and over, in twitchy movement like a toy low on battery. My eyes were starting to get used to the dark and I recognised the figure on the floor as a human, lying with the face down. The place Robin was assaulting with the knife was the back, but I could tell both the neck and one of the legs had suffered the same treatment, if not worse looking at how mutilated some areas were.
"Robin?" My voice was weak.
He stopped the movements abruptly and looked up at me.
"Andreas", he replied in a monotonous voice. I suddenly felt like puking; his voice speaking my name had woken me up from the dream-like state I had somehow drifted into and left no doubt on the fact that this was reality.
That my friend, the person I trusted the most, had indeed done such a horrid thing.
"Robin, is that... shit, you..." I had no control over my words; they just poured out of my mouth. "Gabriel?"
Robin nodded. Somewhere in the back of my mind I wondered how Gabriel had gotten here, into Robin's apartment, but the thought felt dull and distant compared to all the other things that swirled around in my head.
"Fuck, what - what the fuck have you done?" I asked. Robin didn't reply, instead he continued with his earlier occupation and moved the knife again.
Chuck, schlick, chuck, schlick.
"What are you doing?"
"Making sure he's dead." Robin's voice was still as monotone as before.
"Stop that."
"He might not be dead yet."
"Robin..."
"I don't think he's dead yet."
I licked my lips nervously. "Listen Robin, he's dead. He's really dead."
Robin pulled out the knife one last time and looked at me. I searched his eyes, looking for any signs of madness, but found none. Just a peaceful calm.
"Are you sure he's dead?" he asked, with a voice that finally betrayed some emotion, curious.
"I'm sure, very sure." My voice quivered. "Step away from him, Robin."
What should I do?, I thought, nausea hanging over me. Run away? Call the police and let them take him? But this was Robin, his friend, they guy I had spent almost every day with for years, the person I had trusted the most. Could I let them take him? But if I didn't, then what? Should we try and get rid of the body? How did you get bloodstains off the floor anyway?
I was still thinking when I felt someone lean against me and realized Robin had indeed stepped away from the body as I told him to. I felt his body shiver slightly and heard him giggle.
"He's finally dead, isn't he?" Robin's cheerful voice said. "He's finally DEAD!" More giggles. "We should celebrate this, you know? We really should do something to celebrate this, because he's gone!" The giggles were louder, started to sound more like laughter.
My eyes stared, wide open and dread filled me. He was mad, he had actually gone mad and I was scared of him. My gaze wandered involuntarily towards the knife, still in his hand. He was gripping it hard, making his knuckles go white. Could I take it from him if I tried? I had always been stronger than Robin, but with him being the one holding the knife to begin with, he had the advantage. I wondered what he'd do if I tried to leave now.
"Andreas?" Robin asked while looking me in the eye, voice suddenly laced with confusion. I realised that my face gave away my current emotions.
"Robin", I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "Why did you kill him?"
"What? It's his fault anyway" Robin said as if it was obvious. "He was the one who wouldn't get out of my head."
"What to you mean by that?"
"He wasn't allowed to" he continued. "Wasn't allowed to be there. You're the only one who's allowed to be there, Andreas."
I furrowed my eyebrows. "What? But Robin, you... you killed him!" I glanced towards the dead, lying on the floor not too far from us. Robin followed my gaze and frowned.
"So?" he said. "You're not supposed to care about that. You're not supposed to care about him, dammit!"
At his words, he took a step back from me and made a sudden gestured with his hands. This alarmed me and on an impulse I grabbed his wrist and took the knife from him. He in turn, grabbed my hand with his free arm and tried to twist it, to make me drop the knife. The struggle continued until Robin jerked his arm and the knife moved upwards in a sudden movement. I could feel something tear under the edge of it.
I froze and dropped the knife. Stared as blood flowed from the gash in Robin's throat.
Panic and dread like no other welled up inside me and I attempted to stop the blood with my hands, feeling the frustration grow when it wouldn't work. Robin's knees gave away and I followed him down to the floor, hands still at his throat. He gaped, a gurgling noise escaped his mouth. Whatever he tried to say was lost. He looked into my eyes and I felt my heart break at the swirl of emotions I could find in his.
Holding him close as life poured out of him, I cried.
/Lilo
Novell; the Face of a Killer
Den här är såpass ny som från förra veckan. Skriven på engelska, för att jag ville så att säga "bryta isen" mellan mig och att lägga ut noveller på nätet igen. xD; Var lite nervös för att låta folk läsa vad jag hade skrivit. Men i slutändan fick jag mycket trevlig respons och användbar kritik från folket på deviantART, så det gick ju bra. :)
Om den här novellen;
Titel; The Face of a Killer
Antal ord; 1.719
Åldersgräns; 15+
Varningar; Blod, våld och död? Tja, vi är ju i en skräckblogg.
Annat; Använder dubbla radbrytningar numera, då det är enklare att läsa på nätet så. Fick idén till denna när jag såg ett järnrör i vår källare.
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Innehållet i denna novell är helt ur mitt eget huvud. Eventuella likheter med riktiga personer eller händelser är sammanträffanden Använd ej utan min tillåtelse.
--
I couldn't stop staring at it.
A long, rather thin but very solid iron pipe, about the same length as my arm, lying forgotten in a corner of the apartment building's backyard.
I wondered what it felt like. Holding it and taking a swing. And then swinging again. Bashing someone's head in with it.
Would there be blood? Of course there would. Lots of it? Would I have the strength to kill someone with it? Or the guts?
Before I knew it, I had picked up the cold object, holding it in my hands like a baseball bat. I swung it like one as well, aiming for and hitting nothing but air. I changed my grip and swung it downwards - towards the ground - a sharp, brutal movement. In my mind, someone - anyone - was lying there, taking my next hit and the next one and the next one. I wondered if that nameless one would be dead by now, if he or she would be unconscious at least, of if someone hit that many times could get up and strike back, or escape, or would just lie there, not sure what was going on as I hit again and I wondered and oh god I want to know what it's like.
I dropped the pipe, the loud clatter from the impact of it hitting the asphalt filling up the silence.
I wasn't sure where these thoughts came from. I had thought like that - felt like that - several times before these past years, but I couldn't figure them out. I had thought about several things that could cause them, but nothing seemed to be a valid enough reason - I had heard people debate about violent video games making people aggressive, but I wasn't that much of a gamer.
I took a look at my reflection, the vague image of my features a window on the first floor could provide a darkened evening. A bit shorter than most of the guys in my age, brown hair, green eyes, a grey hoodie and a pair of blue jeans. I could be just anyone.
But I didn't think I looked like a killer.
These thoughts, these fantasies, they had been returning more frequently lately. Just the other day I had found myself unable to listen to my mother's instructions during the making of dinner, because I had been to busy staring at the basic kitchen knife she was holding. Imagining what it was like; cutting someone open with it, through the skin, opening them up, exposing their insides. What it would look like, what it would feel like, what sort of sound the person would make.
I shuddered at the memory of the images my mind had produced, but from what I was not sure.
--
In the group of students I liked to hang with it was rare to see new faces, but Michael Planstedt was definitely a new face. Both as someone I had never met before and as someone with a face very different from the rest of ours. If I ever were to call another boy pretty, Michael would be the one. With slightly reddish blonde hair in a trendy cut, slim features without being thin and clear green eyes and a playful smile, he stole a lot of glances. He was nineteen, had graduated from a different high school than ours and had somehow befriended David, my classmate and was now spending time every now and then with us. He had gained our respect, not just from being two years older and popular, but simply because there was something about him that just made it so. Something, so very different from the rest of us, something I couldn't quite figure out. It felt like there was way too many things about him that I couldn't quite figure out.
The fact that he invited me over one afternoon was one of those things.
He lived on his own in a small apartment at the edge of town, in an area mostly populated by young people with rather unstable budgets.
I stood in the door entrance to the small hallway, wondering what exactly I was doing there.
"John," he had said, his voice speaking my name made me tense for some reason. "Do you have something planned after this?"
The rest of our gang had left already, leaving me and him standing alone at the bus stop.
"Well... I'm going home I guess?" Meaning no, I hadn't planned anything in particular. "Why?"
He shrugged. "I live nearby and I have nothing to do either."
"No work?"
"Not tonight."
And so I was there, in his apartment, hanging my jacket over the back of a chair as he had instructed.
The plan was that we would play video games - we were currently engaged in an conversation about favourites and he was suggesting that I should come over another time and bring Tekken 4, a game I had and he wanted.
While he excused himself and went to the bathroom, I was struck with the idea that no one knew that I was here. No one other than me and Michael. I wondered if anyone would figure out that I was guilty if I were to kill him now.
I shook my head as if to clear it, but the train of thought had started and I was lacking things to distract me.
If I were to go to the kitchen now, find a pair of rubber gloves, grab a knife and lurk outside the bathroom door, waiting for it to open...
Would I be able to do it? Would I get caught? Would he scream? Curiosity filled me as I told myself that it didn't matter what could happen, because it wouldn't happen, because I wasn't going to do anything of the sort.
And yet the images continued, all the time until the click of a door handle was heard.
Michael exited the bathroom, the faint sound of a flushing toilet slipping through before he closed the door behind him.
"So, which one?" he asked while leading the way into the small living room combo kitchen. "Silent Hill three or Resident Evil four?"
"Silent Hill," I said without putting much thought into it, my eyes fixed on his face, imagining it twisted in agony, fear, pain - wondering if it would still be as pretty when lifeless. I wondered if he would cry.
"Huh?" Michael had said something, but I hadn't been listening.
"You sure like to stare at me a lot," he repeated, that seemingly everlasting smile on his face growing wider. I felt my cheeks go red. I knew he was making fun of me and that I was supposed to come up with a witty reply, but I could think of none.
I once again imagined using a knife on the older boy now crouching in front of the PS2 and realized that it no longer felt like a fantasy. It felt more like an urge, growing in the pit of my stomach.
I had fantasized about killing someone I knew before, but it had never made me feel like this.
Would it work? Would I get caught? Would it matter?
More images flooded my mind - images I now found exciting - and before I knew what I was doing, I found myself standing in the kitchen, opening and closing drawers frantically, searching. It was reckless, dumb, wrong, but I couldn't stop. Wouldn't stop.
But I had to when a strong hand grabbed my right arm and another hovered over my left hand about to open another drawer.
"What are you doing?" His voice was a low murmur right next to my ear.
"I-I was," I stammered, "looking for..."
The left hand shifted, moved towards the next drawer, pulling it open and taking out a large kitchen knife.
"For this?" he asked.
I pulled a sharp breath.
He knew.
He couldn't possibly know and yet, somehow, he knew.
My body went rigid - I had no idea what to do now, what to say. And I most certainly didn't have the slightest clue as to what the boy standing behind me was thinking.
"John," he said, with a voice of someone talking to a child. Perhaps in his eyes, I was. "Were you looking for this?"
I nodded.
"Why?"
I honestly had no idea.
Desperate to find a way out of this situation, to explain it, I felt my mind go blank in panic. I ended up staring right in front of me, mesmerized by the cracks in the colour of the cupboard door.
A clean pain shot through me.
Michael was fed up with my silence and had taken action. The knife was now deeply bedded into my stomach. I had never been good with handling pain to begin with and this was something of an entirely new level of pain than I had ever felt - ever imagined. Michael tugged at the knife slightly upwards and the feeling multiplied in intensity. I felt a coppery fluid fill my mouth and sipper out between my lips. The knife was now pulled out, blood gushing out of the wound, soaking my clothes and dripping on the floor. My legs were no longer able to support me as I fell down on my knees. All that was needed was a small push and I was lying on my back on the floor.
I was crying, as he, him, the one who had taken the role I had longed for, sat down next to me. He leaned forward to place a light kiss on my forehead.
"It's too bad, you know," he said in a soft voice. "With all the things we have in common, I thought we could get along great." A sob escaped my lips. "Shh, don't cry." Stroking my hair back from my face in an affectionate manner, he spoke again; "You brought this on yourself, didn't you?" He smiled at me then, a smile softer and more beautiful than any other I had ever seen. The smile of a killer. The smile of my killer. The smile I had intended to kill.
Soft hands descended on my throat and my world ceased to exist.
/Lilo
Novell; Rädd Nu?
Om den här novellen;
Titel; Rädd Nu?
Antal ord; 1,917
Åldersgräns; 11+
Varningar; Inga vad jag kan komma på.
Annat; Skriven till en skoluppgift, så den är lite mildare än det mesta jag gör. Lite kul är att lillsyrran läste den och visade den sedan för sin svenskalärare. Hon i sin tur använde den som exempel för sina niondeklassare för hur man skriver en bra novell. Dock är den något cliché, jag hade idétorka.
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Innehållet i denna novell är helt ur mitt eget huvud. Eventuella likheter med riktiga personer eller händelser är sammanträffanden Använd ej utan min tillåtelse.
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Jag lutade mig bakåt från datorskärmen och granskar snabbt det jag åstadkommit hittills. Jag hade fastnat igen, det var ett som var säkert. Att det skulle vara så svårt att skriva en ordentlig skräcknovell! Jag som hade gjort det flera gånger förut, varför skulle den här gången vara något annorlunda!
Jag började skjuta med fötterna för att få kontorsstolen, tillsammans med mina tankar, att snurra några varv innan jag reste mig upp för att gå ut i köket. Väl inne öppnade jag kylskåpet och letade reda på en öppen Coca Cola-flaska, samtidigt som några mindre vänliga ord om skrivarkramp gick igenom mitt huvud.
På väg tillbaka till vardagsrummet tog jag en snabb blick mot klockan på väggen i hallen - halv elva - mina föräldrar skulle vara hemma om minst en trekvart. Det var en sak att vara ensam hemma i en timma eller två, men under en hel eftermiddag tar sakerna att gör snabbt slut och detta ledde gärna till tristess. Vilket i sin tur resulterade i att jag - trots total brist på inspiration - bestämde mig för att skriva en ny novell.
Efter att ha tagit en klunk av colan satte jag mig ner igen och bläddrade ner i word-dokumentet för att fortsätta där jag slutade.
Min hand släppte musen och stannade upp ett ögonblick för att låta mig tänka efter om jag verkligen hade sett rätt, innan jag bläddrade tillbaka för att dubbelkolla.
Vad i...?
Med rynkade ögonbryn läste jag den understrukna frågan som jag med säkerhet visste att jag inte hade skrivit, men som ändå fanns där.
ensam hemma?
Ett ryck med axlarna, sedan markerade jag de två orden och tryckte på delete, innan jag bläddrar längst ner i dokumentet. Mina ögon vidgades då jag såg en upprepning av frågan två rader under det jag senast hade skrivit, fast men ett tillägg;
inte rädd?
Den första tanken som slog mig att mina föräldrar hade kommit hem tidigare och att de nu gömde sig och väntade på att jag skulle börja leta efter vem som än hade skrivit meddelandet.
Visst, jättekul. Sorry morsan, farsan, men man kan inte skrämma skräckförfattaren.
Jag reste mig upp och gick fram till fönstret.
Ingen bil på uppfarten.
Okej, så man kanske kan skrämma skräckförfattaren.
Jag vände mig om och tittade mot skärmen. Ända härifrån kunde man se frågan som nu gjorde mig nervös.
'Inte rädd?'
Frenetiskt försökte jag komma på någon annan som möjligtvis kunde ha kommit på att skämta såhär, men ingen jag kände bodde nära nog eller skulle ha gjort sig besväret.
Plötsligt gav jag uttrycket "flyga en halvmeter i luften" en mening då ett dundrande ljud hördes igenom huset. Efter ett ögonblicks panik insåg jag att ljudet ifråga var min stereo på övervåningen som hade satt igång på full volym.
Halvt springande, halvt snubblande tog jag mig upp för trappen, rusade in i mitt rum och kastade mig på knä för att komma åt knappen och stänga av stereon. Tystnaden slog emot mig och sakta blev jag medveten om minsta lilla ljud, alltifrån den tickande klockan i hallen till surrandet från frysen på nedervåningen. Jag drog djupa andetag och kände nu att min hals sved från stressen de senaste händelserna hade skapat.
Efter några försök med lugnande tankar och påminnelser till mig själv att detta var verkligheten, inte någon skräckfilm, började jag resa på mig.
Att hela övervåningen låg i mörker insåg jag först nu och längtan efter det upplysta vardagsrummet tog över då jag rusade ned för trappen igen. Väl nere i hallen stannade jag tvärt och höll blicken klistrad mot fönstret i utterdörren. Det enda jag kunde se var min uppskärrade spegelbild, men nervositeten skapade en inre syn av hur ett blekt ansikte med stirrande ögon skulle dyka upp utanför och innan jag tillät mig att tänka närmare på det hade jag rusat fram för att försäkra mig om att dörren var låst.
Altandörren.
Jag sprang mot andra änden av hallen, svängde vänster in i vardagsrummet, men frös mitt i rörelsen.
Skit.
Handtaget på dörren var uppdraget. Öppet.
Skit. Skit, skit skit skit skitskitskitSKIT!
Tanken jag inte hade vågat tänka innan, att det faktiskt var någon här for igenom mitt medvetande. Det lilla lugn jag hade lyckats behålla var som bortblåst då paniken välde upp inom mig i mångdubblad styrka. Jag var på ett ögonblick inne i köket och slet ut den låda jag visste innehöll köksknivarna.
Vänta...
Vad höll jag på med? Tänk om det faktiskt var någon som skämtade med mig, som inte var beredd på att jag skulle ta det på sådant allvar?
Eller...
Eller, så var det någon sjuk Michael Myers-wannabe som gömde sig någonstans, med en kniv beredd, inte olik den jag nu hade greppat i min egen hand.
Som väntade.
På mig.
En kväljande känsla av rädsla steg i halsen och min hand slöt sig hårdare runt köksredskapet.
"H-hallå?", ropade jag, tvekande.
Visst. Skitsmart.
"Ä-är det någon där? Hallå?"
Jag var nära att tappa kniven då - vem det nu var - bestämde mig för att svara med att sätta på min stereo igen.
Jag svalde hårt och tog ett djupt andetag innan jag sakta började ta mig upp för trappen, obekvämt medveten om att musiken hindrade mig från att lyssna efter en eventuell inkräktare.
"Eventuell"? Det är någon här!
Jag smög vidare i korridoren, blickade snabbt förbi den halvöppna dörren som ledde till mina föräldrars sovrum, innan jag stannade utanför dörren som ledde in till mitt eget rum. Tvekande höll jag vänsterhanden på handtaget, innan jag gick in.
Tomt.
Efter att återigen ha stängt av stereon drogs min blick mot garderoben i det bortre hörnet i rummet. På tå tar jag mig försiktigt fram och en del av mig kommer att tänka på att om detta hade varit en skräckfilm, så hade det funnits en skrämmande bakgrundsmusik just nu. Musiken skulle ha byggt upp spänningen tills det blev olidligt och det var alltid då som tittarna kunde ana sig till vad som skulle hända.
Någon fåfäng del av mig sade då att eftersom det inte fanns någon musik, då var det okej, inget skulle hända, det var ingen där!
Med kniven framför mig som en försäkring drog jag upp dörren.
Det enda jag möttes av var kläder och lite allt möjligt annat som jag fått för mig att stoppa undan därinne.
Men innan jag hann dra en suck av lättnad hörde jag en ljudlig duns från rummet som låg vägg i vägg med mitt, badrummet. Jag snodde runt och den här gången tappade jag verkligen kniven. En svordom tog sig ur mig, men samtidigt var jag glad över att min vanliga otur hade undvikit mig och inte fått kniven att träffa någon av mina fötter. Andetagen darrade och känslan av att jag när som helst skulle spy satt som en klump i halsen.
Med skakande händer plockade jag upp kniven igen och tog mig ut i korridoren. Försiktigt öppnade jag dörren till badrummet och smög in. Ingen där, det var tomt sånär på allt det som brukar finnas i rummet. Toalett, tvättkorg, handfat och...
Duschen.
Mina tankar rusade iväg till den berömda scenen i Psycho då jag ryckte undan draperiet, men jag såg bara mer tomhet. Nu när jag äntligen hade lyckats övertyga mig själv om att det inte var någon där vände jag mig om och gick ut i korridoren igen. Det var då jag märkte att dörren till mina föräldrars rum inte längre var öppen, utan helt stängd.
Med ett plötsligt överskott av mod - eller var det kanske dumdristighet? - som jag inte var riktigt säker på varifrån jag fick rusade jag in, bara för att mötas av ytterligare ett tomt rum. Snabbt kollade jag under sängen, i garderoberna, till och med under byrån av någon obegriplig anledning, med det var ingen där.
Jag tog mig på benen och drog ett djupt andetag.
"Hör du? Vem du än är - ge dig av innan jag ringer polisen!". Jag han knappt avsluta meningen innan jag hade kastat mig över telefonen på pappas nattduksbord. Eller rättare sagt; där telefonen brukar vara. Det enda som fanns där nu var laddarstället. Jag tryckte på spårarknappen samtidigt som jag förbannade vilken idiot det än var som kom på den åh så briljanta idén med bärbara telefoner.
Det pipande ljudet ledde mig tillbaka in i mitt rum och jag lade ifrån mig kniven för att riva funt bland kläderna på golvet för att hitta telefonen. När jag väl hade lyckats skulle jag precis till att trycka in numret då den började ringa. Jag tappade telefonen i min förvåning, men tog snabbt upp den igen i hopp om att det var mamma som ringde och skulle berätta att de snart var hemma.
Det faktum att det stod "anonym" på displayen krossade dock den strimman av hopp totalt. Jag tryckte på luren och höll telefonen mot örat.
"Ha... Hallå?", sade jag med låg och trevande röst.
Inget svar.
"Hallå?"
Jag rykte till då ett hest skratt ljöd i andra änden. Snabbt avbröt jag samtalet genom att trycka på lurknappen och slog in 112. Hjärtat slog dubbla slag i halsgropen.
Efter vad som verkade vara en evighet svarade någon i andra änden och jag hade en vag aning om vått som
tårar?
rann ner för mina kinder.
"Välkommen till 112, vad har inträffat?"
Jag skulle precis till att kasta ur mig hela situationen till kvinnan som svarade, men min röst fastnade och min blick var fixerad i spegelbilden i fönstret.
"Hallå?"
I fönstret såg jag mig själv, med tårar som rann nedför kinderna och händer som krampaktigt klamrade sig fast runt telefonen.
Jag kommer spy.
"Hallå? Hallå, är det någon där?"
Spegelbilden visade även en man stå bakom mig, med ett ansikte skrämmande likt det jag tidigare hade föreställt mig och vars blick mötte min utan en blinkning. Och vars hand höll samma kniv som jag hade lagt ifrån mig tidigare. Höjd ovanför mig.
Jag kommer spy. Kommer att spy.
Jag kände ett starkt behov av att skrika, men min strupe hade snörpt ihop sig och jag fick inte fram ett ljud. Jag hade ingen aning om hur länge till mina ben skulle klara av att bära mig. Mannen bakom mig flinade brett. Varenda nerv i min kropp skrek åt min att göra något, att jag var en idiot som bara stod där, att
... jag kommer att spy, kommer spy, spy, spy, spy, SPY!
han skulle döda mig om jag inte gjorde något, jag måste göra något!
Ett klick och tutande från telefonen bekräftade att personen i andra änden hade lagt på och ljudet bröt min tillfälliga paralysering.
Skriket som hade lagrats upp inom mig ljöd nu för full styrka och jag kastade mig från inkräktaren, som i samma ögonblick kört ner kniven framför sig. Det vassa föremålet skar mot min rygg och rädslan i mitt tjut togs över av smärta. Jag snubblade ihop i en hög mot väggen, snyftandes och såg sedan med en tårfylld blick upp mot främlingen. Hans ögon stirrade fortfarande och hans hand hade kniven i ett fast grepp. Han höjde armen samtidigt som jag knep igen ögonen och...!
Med ett ryck satte jag mig upp i stolen. Jag såg mig omkring i vardagsrummet med uppspärrade ögon och sedan jag fick grepp om var jag befann mig lutade jag mig tillbaka och försökte lugna mina andetag.
En mardröm, bara en hemsk mardröm.
Ett dovt skratt fyllt av lättnad gick igenom mig medan jag snurrade runt i stolen, men kände sedan hur skrattet övergick till ett kvävt skrik då min blick fastnade på datorskärmen...
rädd nu?
/Lilo
Vem är jag, vad gör jag här, och vad är det här för blogg?
Tänkte att ett sådant här inlägg kan behövas. Finns lite info om mig i spalten brevid, men ville ha en som bara gäller för den här bloggen.
Vem är jag?
Jag heter Lisa Harald, kallas för Lilo. Är född 90.11.16, och är i skrivande stund som ni kan se 18 år gammal. Har i mitt liv fokuserat främst på mitt tecknande, men har även skrivit en hel del. Bor i Göteborg.
Vad gör jag här?
Jag ville ha ett ställe där jag kunde "rant"a om ett av mina största intressen; skräckgenren. Må så vara att det är mycket jag inte har sett och ännu mer jag inte har läst, jag tycker ändå om att säga vad jag tycker om det jag faktiskt tagit del av.
Jag är även här för att dela med mig av det jag själv skriver och tecknar; som ni kan läsa i bloggbeskrivningen.
Valde att starta ett medlemskap på en svensk sida för en gångs skull, då jag kände för att "dra mig tillbaka till hemmaplanen" lite grann. Hänger väldigt mycket på engelskspråkiga sidor annars.
Vad är det här för blogg?
En för skräckintresserade? Lyckas jag lura hit lite folk kan jag även tänkas starta lite diskussioner, om man kan kalla det så. Ställa lite frågor om vad folk tycker mest, antar jag (tycker om att lyssna på andra människors åsikter; inte för att följa dem själv, utan bara av rent intresse helt enkelt).
Roligt är det också att få lite respons på det jag själv skapar, och kanske lite tips på bra böcker och filmer? ;)
I vart fall; vi får se hur det går!
/Lilo
Here we go! Skräckblogg!
För att jag behövde en. xD; En samling av allt skräckrelaterat jag hittar på; mest teckningar och noveller. En hel del av det jag skriver kommer dock att vara på engelska, då jag skriver det för att lägga upp på deviantART allt som oftast. Kommer också innehålla lite förtittar på det jag pysslar med? Kanske.
Har totalt tre noveller att lägga upp, men de kommer senare.
Sålänge får ni en skiss. 
Clown! :'D Pratade om att rita i skräck-tema och clowner på jobbet. Är inte särskilt rädd för Clowner själv, men de är roliga att rita.
Ajajaja.
Hare gött!
