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    The hitman looked at his target. The target was sitting at a food stall at a road that leads to Kerinchi LRT station and Menara Telekom, waiting for something or someone. It doesn’t matter. He’ll be dead in a few minutes anyway.

    He waited, and watched as a woman walked out of the Kerinchi LRT station. Nothing to too outstanding about her, she looks just like an office worker. He watched as a waitress brought a plate of food to where his target sat, before the woman approached the same table and sat down next to him,and began chatting with him in earnest.     

    Damn, he thought. More work. No big deal,though..

    He put on his surgical mask, gloves and cap, and stepped out of the car, walking slowly towards his target. To everyone else, he looked like a guy with a bad cough, his hands in his light grey jacket, walking down to the LRT station.

    His eyes scanned the environment, looking at any potential threats that might foil him. So far, so good. No cops, no security guards, just a bunch of people having a late night meal. Nothing to worry about, his face is all covered up, and they’ll be too scared to talk anyway.

    There’s a reason he’s still here, you know.

    He slowly approached his target,who was chatting and laughing with his companion, oblivious of his upcoming fate. Between laughter, he would chow down on his meal, with looked to be some kind of a pale koay teow dish. It doesn’t really matter anyway. 

    He felt the gun in his pocket, fingers running against cold, hard steel. It’s a nice, familiar feeling, the type of feeling that’s he’s used to after so many years on the job. One last touch, though, he realized, and fished out a pair of earplugs and jammed it into his ears. It’s going to get loud.

    He calmly walked to his target, zooming in on the man still chatting and laughing with his dinner companion, clearly having the time of his life. How nice, he thought to himself. At least his last moments will be full of happiness.

    His hand still gripping on the pistol, he unlatched the gun’s safety, wrapping his fingers on the trigger, the familiar feeling of having his fingers wrapped around a gun returning back to him. Resisting the urge to simply shoot on the spot, probably giving the target time to escape and wasting his bullets,, he slowly walked and approached the man’s table.

    Having noticed his arrival, the man looked up at him, a look of surprise and wonderment on his face. Just as he was about to open his mouth, he quickly brandished his gun, and fired into his target.

    One. Two. Three.

    Three bullets.

    That should do it, he thought to himself as he looked at his target’s face, ruined by the bullets, the now-lifeless body leaning on the cheap plastic chair. Without wasting another second, he quickly turned the gun to his companion, who started crying and screaming and pleading for her life. 

    Same old, same old.

    Just as he pulled began pulling on the trigger, she quickly leaped up from her chair, but he was faster. Years of experience had made it easy for her to anticipate any move. Before she could plan her next move, he quickly threw the table aside, and without missing a beat, emptied three more bullets into her, watching as blood spurted out of her body, and she slumped back into her chair, missed, and fell on the ground.     

    The witnesses, mainly the cook, a few of the serving staff and a handful of customers, stood there in stunned silence, terrified by what was going on, fearing that they could be next.      

    He quickly ignored them and ran back to his car, a nondescript Proton Waja with fake license plates. He quickly stashed the gun in the glove compartment, started up the engine, and drove off. He had it all figured out, drive into Federal, duck into the junction before MidValley and drive off into Seremban, try not to get the attention of the police, and get rid of the mask and gloves, as usual.

    Just as he drove past Menara Telekom, he took out an old, battered mobile phone from the dashboard, and with one hand on the wheel, called a familiar number.

    “Yes?” a voice cracked up.

    “It’s sorted.” he replied, his eyes still on the road, “had to take an extra order, though.”

    The person at the other line exhaled, before saying “No problem,” and hung up.   

    He smiled, satisfied at another job well done, secure in the knowledge that he will receive his pay as usual. It wasn’t the pay that kept him on this job, though. It was the power, really. He remembered what it felt like, the first time he did it. The feeling of power, of knowing when a person is going die, hearing them plea, cry, maybe even attack him in vain, just to get a few more minutes of living, all falling into deaf ears, as he pulled the trigger, firing bullet after bullet into their bodies, and watch as their lives leave their bodies, leaving them as empty husks of flesh and blood, soon to become worm food.

    To him, the real reward of this job was being the carrier of death, accomplished with cold steel and hot lead. Snuffing out people who probably had years ahead of them, quake in fear as they knew their lives have been reduced to mere minutes...good times.

    It was only then he realized he was driving straight into a divider. He quickly snapped out of it, and in a state of panic, he accidentally pressed the accelerator instead of the brakes, and the car collided with the divider, and threw him out of the car, and into a patch of grass.

    He felt pain all over his body, and he writhed in agony, unable to move. He felt that all the bones in his body has broken to pieces, and he felt blood flowing out of his body.

    He felt something he hasn’t felt in a long time.


    Writhing in agony and feeling cold sweat trickling down his body, he screamed for help, just for someone to stop and get him off this patch of grass, but they mostly drove by, peering at him for a moment to satisfy their curiosity.

    As he cursed the passers-by, he felt a new presence looming over him. Peering up, to his horror, it was someone who was dressed up just like him. Same shoes, jeans, jacket, cap, and still wearing the same mask covering half his face. The man walked up and crouched beside him.

    “Well, well,” he said, “how the mighty have fallen.”

    “Wh-who are you?” he asked, dread creeping up his spine.

    “Well,” the man replied, “I’m you. Or rather, the person you assume to be."

    “Y-you mean...”

    “Yes,” Death smirked, humor in his voice. “I’m death, in person.”

    “Why?” he croaked.

    “Why?” Death chuckled, shaking his head. “Your time’s up, friend. You of all people should know better."

    “I just didn’t think...I’d end up like this.” he groaned.

    “Well, now you do.” Death said. “Frankly, you’re not that unique. You and your friends? We laugh at you, thinking you have a say on a person’s life. The truth is, you’re just an agent. We know. We decide when a person will expire, and how. You and your bullets and knives are mere toys compared to what we can do.”

    The man relaxed, resigning to his fate. He, of all people should’ve known better than to fight. “I give up,” he croaked, “Before I go, I have to ask. Why are you dressed like this?” 

    Death laid his hand on the man’s chest. “I have my reasons,”

    He then pressed on the man’s chest, and he felt a sudden burst of pain flashing through his body, before being enveloped into complete darkness.

    Death looked at the now-lifeless body and smiled. He stood up and took out a notepad, and scratched out a name. “Well, that’s done. And I still have...” he counted over the list, and sighed. “Five more to go. Busy night.”

    Death then walked towards the divider, ripping off the surgical mask as his slowly melted. His dark brown hair turned white, his taut skin became wrinkled, and his sweatshirt began to grow longer and longer, until it almost reached his ankles, and had the appearance of a hospital gown. He took one last look at the dead man in front of him, and shrugged.

    All in a day’s job. 

A Day On The Job
I wouldn't say it's horror, but it's supernatural....ish. Sorry I haven't posted in a long time. I've been changing jobs and unable to come up with anything good to write.

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   Sani grimaced, looking at the blank Word Document on his computer screen. He has another week to go before he meets his deadline, yet, he could not come up with anything good for the upcoming issue.

   Drumming his fingers on his desk, trying to figure out if he should look up for any information, when he heard someone clearing their throat next to him. He didn't even have to turn his head to know what it meant. It meant his editor wanted to have a word with him, especially about how still he still doesn't have anything for the upcoming issue. It's something that he has been through numerous times.

   He grimaced and turned around to face his editor, a grim, square faced man with a large nose and a bushy mustache.

   "Sani," he began, his mustache bobbing up and down, "you've got a week to go before the deadline. You still don't have anything, don't you?"

   "Um, no boss, sorry." Sani winced.

   "I thought so," he said, "This isn't your first time. Sani. You better find something quick, or else,"

   "Sure, boss," Sani replied, knowing all to well what just 'or else' means.

   He then went online, trying to look for anything he can use for his latest article. Some of the articles he found included an abandoned mansion in Penang, a case of hysteria affecting schoolgirls in a boarding school in Pahang , even UFO sightings in Klang, anything to save his skin.

   Dejected by the miserable choices on offer, he decided to go out for an early lunch. During lunch, he slowly ate his meal, wondering which article he should use for the upcoming issue and their pros and cons, when a man approached him.

   "Excuse me," the man began, interrupting Sani's train of thought. He quickly lifted his head and looked at the man, whose gaunt, weather beaten face looked no older than someone in their fourties.

   "Uh, yeah?" Sani asked.

   "Do you work for the magazine over there?" the man asked, pointing at Sani's office just around the corner.

   "Yes, I do," Sani replied, his face lighting up. Maybe, just maybe, this was the lucky break he was looking for, "How can I help you?"
   "Well," the man began, "I heard that there's a strange cult situated somewhere in Melaka, and I think it deserves a look,"

   He then produced a piece of folded paper from his shirt pocket and handed it over to Sani. Sani, his hands still sticky with rice and curry, took it with his left hand and shoved it into his jeans.

   "Here's the address. From what I've learned, they've having another gathering tomorrow." But before Sani could ask any more question, he stood up, and looked at Sani for the last time. "Excuse me," he said, turned around and walked away.

   Sani looked at the departing man, still confused by the man's secretive behavior, but he promptly dismissed it, glad he finally had something to work on. He quickly finished his meal, washed his hands and paid for his meal, and rushed back to his office. Sitting at his desk, he quickly fished the piece of paper out of his pocket, and unfolded it.

   Reading through it, the first thing he saw was an address scrawled on it, presumably written by the man. Below it were further instructions:



   Do not get caught? Sani thought to himself, wondering what is he getting himself into. Part of him wanted to just forget about it, and make up whatever he can about the UFOs in Klang, but at the same time, his curiosity is piqued. What's this cult about? Why do they give the impression of a dangerous, maybe even evil, organization? Maybe this is something truly worth checking out and exposed.

   Giddy with excitement, Sani hastily informed his editor, who, although unconvinced, gave him the approval to investigate.


   Sani arrived at Melaka at five in the evening, anxious not to get caught in the rush hour traffic. With some time to kill, he stopped by a restaurant, ordered a cup of coffee and a plate of fried bananas, and set to work. Opening his laptop, his first point of research was to find out where it was located. Opening Google Maps, he found the location in a manner of few minutes, memorizing the location.

    It really didn't give him much comfort when he saw that the place was located at a remote area, and he would have to leave his car by the side of the road and walk for another half an hour before he would reach his intended destination.

    He then checked his camera, making sure he has enough space in the memory card to take some pictures, and he also checked his recorder, to make sure that it is in working condition and if it could record properly. Satisfied that everything is in working order, he went back to his laptop screen, looking at the blank document in front of him. The words came quickly, and like any good tabloid writer, he began his article with the words, "Shocking blasphemous cult in Melaka", and began typing about how he had encountered this cult after a chance meeting with one of their former members, but stopped at the part where he drove all the way to Melaka.

    He killed some time at the restaurant, just drinking more and more cups of coffee and ate an early dinner before leaving for his intended destination at seven in the evening. The traffic in Ayer Keroh had already petered out, which made travelling much easier. He recalled that the place he was supposed to go to was located in a remote area of Melaka, located just at the outskirts of Jasin.

    He started driving through the country road, barely paying attention to the trees, the shophouses, the attap houses, even the Mydin in Jasin barely registered to him. Only when darkness started to descend as he was driving away from the town itself, did it finally register to him where he was. He quickly turned on his lights and stopped for petrol and cigarettes at the local Petronas station.

    He then drove into a rubber plantation, and parked his car by the side of the road. Even though he felt uncomfortable leaving his car in an unfamiliar location, he quickly dismissed it and grabbed his bag. He took a look at his watch, and saw that it's five minutes past eight now, enough time for him to find the supposed location of the cult's base of operations and be prepared.

    Walking through the dark, humid, and mosquito-infested rubber plantation, he briefly regretted his decision to investigate a remote area, wiping sweat away from his brow before shooing away any mosquitoes that tried to get near him.

    He soon saw the place. A white, colonial style two story bungalow house,  sitting right there in the middle of the plantation itself. He saw that it was carefully maintained despite its age, and somehow, it was well-lit despite the lack of electrical wires connected to the house itself.

    Dismissing the weirdness, he retreated back into the plantation, taking cover behind some rubber trees, before hiding in a good hiding spot, where he would have a good view of the cult's proceedings, but at a distance where he would not be seen.

    He took out his camera and waited for the cultists to show up. One by one, a  car would drive up to the bungalow, and he would take  a snapshot of whoever came out of the car. To his surprise, most of the cultists arrived wearing civilian clothes instead of dark robes that he had conjured up in his mind.

    He waited until what he assumed was the last cultist to arrive, and slowly crept back towards the bungalow, watching the proceedings from a safe distance. What he saw was nothing out of the ordinary at first, a group of people, the youngest in their late twenties to those in their sixties and seventies of various races, just sitting by the dining table, making small talk and laughing at each other's jokes.
It wasn't long before the dining room fell silent. He then saw the cultists stand up at once, which meant that they're receiving someone important.

    "Well met, brothers and sisters," he heard an authoritative voice calling out. It was a voice he had heard before, but where? "Let us begin with our solemn oath," He then heard them chant, and he brought his recorder as close as possible to the window, and when he heard their chants, it brought a shiver up his spine.

    "For flesh begets flesh. Consumed flesh grows new flesh. From flesh we were, to flesh we shall he. For when our flesh is the same, our flesh and blood shall accept them as one of our own. The new blood shall replace the old. New life will be absorbed into the old one, bringing life anew."

    "For when flesh is the same, it's life, blood, soul, is not lost. It lives on in those that consume it. Existing together in one vessel. From flesh we were, to flesh we shall be."

    The chant frightened and confused Sani at the same time. Just what exactly do they mean by that chant? What is this cult about?

    "Now," the authoritative voice continued, "let us bring forth tonight's nourishment." Sani zoomed his camera into the dining room, and what he saw next made his stomach churn.

    On the table, what at first, appeared to be a whole roast lamb or a pig, turned out to be something much more gruesome. It was only when he zoomed in, did he realized that the features could only belong to a boy of seven or eight. He could only stare in horror and fascination as the guests slowly carved up the morbid meal laid out in front of them and dividing it among themselves.

    The scene grew even more absurd for Sani as he saw these cannibal cultists eating it with barbecue sauce and passed the salad bowl with ranch dressing around, the normality of the dinner scene just made it more absurd. Despite that, Sani pressed on. He quietly took a number of photographs, from the body laid out in front of them, to scenes of the cultists enjoying their meal.

    Sani's mind churned. What is wrong with these people? he thought to himself. They don't look mad and starving, that's for sure. They appear to be well-fed, normal, even polite folk. His mind now racing, wondering if it will be a good time for him to leave now, and thinking just how will he put this into words, and if his editor will actually accept it, not dismissing it as something he had cooked up just to save his own skin.

    Sani quietly stood up, taking care to make sure he will not be seen. He walked behind the rubber trees, shooing away any mosquitos that try to get near him, hoping that he was still in the right direction on where he had parked his car earlier.

    However, as he walked back towards his car, he couldn't help but feel that he was being followed. Dismissing it as mere paranoia, something his mind cooked up after that ridiculous dinner scene, he pressed forward, anxious to return to the safety of civilisation.
That is, somehwere where he knows there will be no closet cannibals, hopefully.

    Sani walked for half an hour before he realized the inevitable. He was lost, in the private compound of a cannibal cult in Melaka, of all places. His shirt already soaked with sweat, Sani pondered what would be his next step, when he saw a pair of headlights approaching him.

    Fuck, he thought to himself, and quickly ducked behind a tree. He watched as the car drove by, driven by a man in his late thirties, who may or may not have been a cultist. There's no way of telling. All of a sudden, a wave of weariness overtook him. Against his better judgement, he decieded to lean by the side of a rubber tree, looking ahead into the bleak darkness of the rubber plantation.

    Wiping the sweat from his brow, he pondered what his next step will be. Wait, Sani realized, smacking his forehead. I'm an idiot! I brought my phone with me, didn't I? All I have to do is to call the police, and hey ho, here comes the cavalry, taking them all in a single swoop and I'll be able to walk away with an exclusive! But as soon as Sani fished his phone out of his pocket, whatever hopes he had left evaporated when he saw that there was no signal in the area.
    That's just ridiculous, Sani thought to himself. What am I going to do now? Seeing no other option, he decided to press on. Maybe he was on the right track, after all, a car had just passed him by, didn't it?

    He then walked between the rubber trees, making sure he remained parallel to the road. It wasn't long before he saw his white Myvi sitting by the side of the road. His heart leaping with joy, he broke into a jog, just wanting to get out of this mad place, but just as he reached his car, he stopped dead on his tracks, his heart sinking all the way down to his stomach. His car was vandalized. No, vandalized isn't the word he was looking more, violated seems to be a better word to describe what happened to his car. All the tires were savagely punctured, the windows broken into, and the steering wheel stolen.

    Sani could hardly believe it. Of all the places he could've parked his car, he thought to himself, I should've seen this coming. Without a vehicle now, his options of escaping are limited to only walking out of the compound and hoping that someone can give him a lift to safety.

    So he pressed on, feeling sick to his stomach. As he walked towards the exit, he still couldn't shake off the feeling of being followed, and as he got closer and closer to the exit, the feeling intensified, and unable to take it anymore, he started running.
It was only then did he hear those footsteps from behind him picking up speed that he realized that he was being followed. Stupid, Sani cursed to himself. How could I not notice it earlier?

    Still, he kept on running before he tripped on a root and stumbled to the ground, his camera and recorder flying ahead of him. Just as he was about to get up, he felt a pair of hands grabbing him roughly.

    "Get up," a voice said gruffly, handling him roughly, dragging him towards a waiting car, which somehow missed his attention earlier. As soon as the driver saw Sani and the cultist approaching the car, he started the car engine, and waited as Sani was bundled into the car before driving back to the bungalow.

    He started to wonder what did they have in mind for him. How did they find out about his presence? What are they going to do to him? Will he end up on the dinner table like what he had witnessed earlier? Even with the air-conditioning at full blast, he sweated profusely, his face pale and stomach churning. He looked at his captors, but their faces remained calm, expressionless, even.
    Like butchers taking a lamb to a slaughter, he thought to himself. He felt his legs giving in the moment they reached the house, and his captor had to support him. In front of the house, he saw that most of the cultists were simply standing around, looking at him with a blank expression on their faces.

    His mind was racing, wondering just what will they do to him? His knees grew weaker and weaker at every morbid thought that entered his mind, each resulting in a more violent death than the previous one.The captor led him to the dining room, and sat him on one of the chairs. "Wait here," the man said gruffly, and went to the connecting room.

    Sani looked around at the dining table. The dining table is now clean, serene, even. No trace of the previous morbid dinner scene that had happened just an hour ago. Say whatever you like about these guys, Sani thought to himself, at least they clean up properly.
Just as he started to think about his next step, the door opened, and Sani turned around, and to his horror, it was the man who he had met during lunch yesterday.

    "Ah, Mr Sani." the man said. "Have you eaten?"

    "Y-yes," Sani replied.

    "Good, good." he replied. "Now, you must be wondering why did I invite you here,"

    "Y-yes," Sani replied again.

    "Simple." the man replied, crossing his fingers and placing it on the desk, and looked directly at Sani, like a schoolteacher having a talk with a disobidient student.

    "," he said, "is always in need of new blood, in the figurative and literal sense," and let out a low chuckle. "And believe me, Mr Sani, we're always in need of new blood."

    "Why did you..." Sani began, but the man held out a smooth palm, preventing Sani from talking any further.

    "Choose you? Well, there's a number of reasons. First of all, our little group has been dogged by people who suspect our true nature, and we noticed that people tend to disregard whatever your esteemed magazine published, so maybe when we appear on your magazine, with some alterations of course, people will leave us alone."

    "Second of all, you look like the type of person that's not enjoying his job. And frankly, Mr Sani, your talent is wasted there. If you join us, we'll pull some strings and you'll find yourself working for a proper publication, or if you want to publish a novel, say no more."
Sani's mind raced, thinking about the offer. Yes, surely his lfie would improve if he agreed to it, but at what cost?

    Just then, another cultist showed up bearing a plate laden with food and a glass of water and placed it in front of him.

    "Yes," the man smirked, "it's what you think it is. Frankly, you looked like you need some food in you right now. And consider this to be our deal. If you do partake in our nourishment, you'll be one of us, and I'll even explain further about our group, show you around."

    "If not," he said, looking at Sani grimly, "you'll be taking our little secret to the grave, and...I don't have to tell you how we'll be disposing you, do I?"

    Sani looked at the plate in front of him. His stomach was growling and churning just looking at it, knowing the origins of the meat in front of him, revulsion creeping up his spine, but his mouth could not stop watering. It smelled so good. What will it taste like?

    No, Sani thought to himself, this is wrong, I shouldn't do it.

    Or you could just throw it up later.

    Better being dead than a cannibal.
    But your life isn't that good right now anyway, and this man is offering you a way out. Just throw away your morals.

    Or No?

    With a trembling hand, Sani picked up the dinner knife.


The Feast of Flesh
I...don't know about this. I just thought about cannibal cults, and this happened.

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                “Did you guys hear?” Jazlan, the ever-busybody classmate, turned around to face his friends again, just as soon as Ms Phua, the Add Maths teacher, left their classroom.

                “No, whatever ridiculous story you’ve heard this time, Jaz, it’s probably fake;” Jerry sighed, rolling his eyes. “Or we’ve probably heard all about it,”

                “Man,” Jaz exclaimed, “this is something new, I swear.  Apparently there’s this rumor going on that this guy kidnaps students of our age, and then he kills them, you know? They call him The Smiler or some shit like that.”

                “Are you sure that’s not just some lame ghost story you read off the Internet again, Jaz?” Azlina asked, leaning closer towards Jazlan. “No offense, but you get excited even reading the lamest horror stories, so…”

                “No, no, you guys,” Jazlan said, his body shaking in excitement, “I read about it on Facebook last night,”

                They groaned out loud, realizing that once again, Jazlan has read yet another barely-believable Internet horror story and he’s going to bore them to death with it.

                “Oh, come on,” Jazlan exclaimed, “I swear this one is true.”

                “I don’t know,  Jaz.” Cassie said, adjusting her glasses, “If your story’s true, how come I didn’t see it in the newspapers today?”

                “I don’t know,” Jazlan said, “but it’ll probably in the news tonight,”

                “Alright, whatever, Jaz the horror expert,” Azlina said sarcastically, “lay it on us.”

                “Okay, okay, guys.” Jazlan began, leaning forward at the table. “So basically, right, the Smiler’s like this supposed killer that goes around, kidnapping school students and then he kills them. I mean, that’s pretty common shit, right? But the thing is, he then carves a smile on his victims’ faces, you know?”

                Jerry snorted, “What’s next, did the guy write “Why So Serious?” on a piece of paper and left it at the scene of the crime?”

                Jazlan quickly shook his head. “No, man, nothing like that. No one has any idea about this guy or why he’s going around killing students. I don’t have my phone with me, but you guys can check it out at home. I swear, the crime scene pictures are gruesome as hell,”

                “Whatever," Azlina said, “I really don’t have time for your nonsense stories, Jaz. I mean, you have to remember that we have exams a month from now."

                Jerry groaned out loud. “Oh god, do you have to remind us about that?”

                “Sorry,” Azlina grinned.

                Later that evening, Azlina walked out towards the living room, and watched the news with her parents as usual. It was almost like a ritual for them, the whole family getting together to watch the news, with her parents asking her the usual questions on how her day was, how was school, and so on, while she would try and tiptoe her way around their answers, hoping that she didn’t accidentally upset them.

                Just as she was about to answer their query regarding the upcoming exams, the next news item caught her eye. She quickly focused on the news item, ignoring her parents’ questions. Her eyes grew wider as she listened to the newscaster started announcing about a serial killer active in the Klang Valley, attacking youths around the ages of fourteen to sixteen.

                It then cut to a police officer explaining that so far, three youths,  a fourteen year old Malay youth in Shah Alam, a fifteen year old Indian girl in Klang, and a sixteen year old Chinese boy in Subang are confirmed as the killer’s latest victims. The killer’s signature, the news report continued, was that the killer then carved a smile on his victims’ faces, and the police requests that the public do not spread rumors and pictures of the deceased online.

                Well, fat chance of that happening, Azlina thought to herself.

                “Astagfirullah,” her father muttered, “what is wrong with people these days?”

                “I don’t know, dear,” his wife said, shaking her head. “Did you see that, Ina? Lots of crazies these days, you should take extra caution when you go out,”

                “Yes, ma,” she mumbled, her head spinning. God damn, she thought to herself, Jaz is right for once. What’s going to happen next?


                “Did you guys see the news last night?” Jaz asked, just as soon as they sat down at their respective desks. The whole school was abuzz with the story, and earlier, during the school assembly, the teachers assured the students to not panic, and to take extra precautions, such as going home in groups and to avoid going out unless necessary.

                “Yeah, we did,” Jerry sighed. “You’re right for once, but this is some scary stuff going on here, bro. How long will it take before this guy strikes our town, man?”

                “Uh…” Jazlan thought out loud, before shaking his head. “Okay, I have no idea myself.  For all we know he could be in our town tonight,”

                “Oh, that’s great, Jaz,” Cassie said. “That’s really assuring, you know that? My parents are freaking out about this whole thing and you think he might be in our town right now.”

                “Sorry,” Jaz replied sheepishly.  

                “So what do we do now?” Azlina asked.

                “I don’t know,” Jaz admitted, “but I guess maybe as long as we don’t go out at night and go out in groups I guess we’ll be fine. I mean, that’s what I do most of the time.”

                “That’s because you’re a nerd, Jaz.” Jerry snorted. “You’re a nerd that spends his free time reading horror stuff on the internet and jerking off.”

                Jazlan was about to retort, but Mr Azhar, their class teacher, strolled into class, cutting him short. They then got up, greeted the teacher and sat back down.

                “Okay, so you might have a point,” Jazlan whispered, while they opened their Malay Lit handbooks, “But the best thing we ought to do right now is to be careful until he’s gone. I’m sure he’ll be gone in a week,”

                “Let’s hope so,” Azlina said, twirling her pen between her fingers.


                Just after recess, Kenneth quickly climbed the school fences, choosing a spot covered by a large tree to do so, and ran as fast as possible, avoiding nosy adults and patrolling police officers until he reached his favorite hiding spot.

                Taking out a pack of cigarettes from his backpack, he rested by a tree and started smoking.

                “Serial killer, my ass.” he said to himself. “Go on, I’d like to see him try and get me. I’m way to smart and quick to be killed,”

                Just as he took another drag on his cigarette, he heard the bushes rustle. Who could it be? He thought to himself, and hurriedly gathered his belongings back into his backpack, before a man in his late twenties appeared.

                “Uh, sorry,” he said, “I thought I saw some cigarette smoke, and I was wondering if I could, you know, bum one off you?”

                Kenneth quickly relaxed and sat back down. “Uh, sure,” he said, taking out the pack from his backpack and handed the stranger one. “I haven’t seen you around here?”

                “Oh, I’m new,” the man said. “I just moved here a few days ago. Still trying to get a feel of the place.”

                Kenneth looked at the man suspiciously, who despite his unshaven appearance, seems to be a friendly enough person.  It wasn’t long before they began chatting, and Kenneth gathered that the man was previously from Klang, (“Hated that place. Too noisy.”) and occasionally travels to Shah Alam and Subang for his job, before his job transferred him to Petaling Jaya.

                “So how come you’re not working today?” Kenneth asked curiously.

                “Oh, I work nights,” he explained, taking another drag of the cigarette, before exhaling smoke and throwing it away. “Anyway, I was wondering…” he said, leaning forward towards Kenneth.

                “Whoa, dude,” Kenneth replied, “I’m not gay, bro.”

                The older man laughed. “Shit, no, man. I’m not into that kind of stuff myself. I was just wondering if you know where I can score, since I’m new here.”

                Kenneth grinned. “Shit, say no more, man. I know the guy,”

                The older man grinned back. “Shit, that's great.”


                 The duo drove towards another one of Kenneth's favorite hideouts, having bought the marijuana from his drug dealer earlier that day. Kenneth thought it was a bit odd that the man insisted on staying in the car while he did his purchase, but he assumed that he didn't want to be seen with a schoolkid or getting caught in a middle of a drug deal.
                   "It should be right about here," Kenneth said, pointing to an isolated spot at a park, covered by large trees and bushes. Kenneth walked in front, guiding the way. "There's a clearing here that's large enough for three or five people, and so far, no one ever busted me when I hide out here,"

                    "Oh, really?" the older man said, a slight smile creeping up his thin, flesh coloured lips, "that sounds like a good spot,"

                     "Shit, it is. I swear I can live there if I want to." Kenneth said, pushing aside a few bushes to reveal the hiding spot. "And here we are."

                     The older man took a look at the clearing, the worn out patches of grass and discarded cigarette butts and beer cans strewn around the area attesting its popularity as a hide out spot. 

                      Kenneth quickly sat down on the ground and took out the bag of weed and rolling papers. "So, who's first?"

                    "Um, how about you?" the older man said, "I just want to see how good it works before I try it out,"

                    Kenneth rolled the marijuana into a joint and lit it up. "Shit, man, your loss." He then started taking a few hits before he passed it on to the older man, who took a few drags himself, before passing it back to him again. 

                    It didn't take long before Kenneth began to feel dizzy and disoriented. "Shit, man," Kenneth said, laughing, "I don't know you at all, but man, you must be one hell of an awesome dude, man."

                    The older man then laughed and said, "And you're a worthless drug-using piece of shit."

                    "Huh?" Kenneth slurred, "what the fuck, man?'
                    "Are you deaf?" the man sneered, "I said, you're a worthless piece of a shit,"

                    Kenneth got up unsteadily, his knees shaking. "Hey, man, come on now, I'm not a..."

                     But before he could finish his sentence, he felt something cold and sharp in his gut, and he felt his world turning black. "You're a worthless piece of shit," the man whispered into his ear, "but don't worry. I'm going to save you. I've saved three people so far, and you'll thank me, oh yes you will. You'll be smiling forever,"

                    The man than removed his blade and threw Kenneth to the ground. Kenneth got on his knees, mustering his strength to get away from this man who had tricked him, but the man quickly kicked him in the face, sending him sprawling back to the ground.

                    "Stop struggling already," he hissed, "stop struggling and I'll take you to your freedom,"

                    "I don't want your freedom," Kenneth moaned, putting his hands on his wound, trying to stop himself from bleeding.

                    "Well that's too bad," the man said, brandishing his blood-soaked knife. "I'm taking you there anyway." He then lunged on Kenneth, driving the blade into him several times, before he felt Kenneth's body going limp.

                    He threw the now lifeless body on to the ground, panting and laughing with excitement. He watched as the blood started seeping into the ground, and thought how beautiful it looked, the sins of yet another aimless youth escaping his body, purifying his body while fertilizing the soil underneath him.

                   He then walked up towards the lifeless body, and smiled. "See? It's not so bad," he said, tracing his knife on the mouth, before he started cutting into the flesh.

                    "You're going out with a smile now, aren't you?" He whispered underneath his breath, "Oh yes you are, I can see how happy you are."


                    "Has anyone seen Kenneth lately?" Mr Azhar asked the class before he began his lesson. "He hasn't been seen in a few days now."

                    "I don't know, sir," Ariff said. "He's always skipping school, sir."

                    "I know," Mr Azhar grunted, "but we've called his parents and they told us he hasn't come home for the past few days,"

                    "Shit," Jazlan whispered, "Do you guys think the killer got him?"

                    "What was that?" Mr Azhar spoke up, looking at Jazlan. "Care to share your opinion with the rest of the class?"

                    "Uh, no sir," Jazlan mumbled, "Sorry, sir."

                    "Moving on," he said, "I would like to remind everyone that we have three more weeks to go before our exams..." and he was greeted by a collective groan by his students, "so I'm going to give you extra homework to help you prepare for it,"

                    "At this rate," Jerry muttered, "I'd rather be murdered by The Smiler than having to deal with more homework,"

                    Just as Mr Azhar was about to open his essay book, a school prefect knocked on the door. "Excuse me," the prefect said, "But the Headmistress requests all students to gather at the assembly hall for an important announcement,"

                    Everyone in the classroom got up and went to the assembly hall, and lined up according to their classes. The teachers sat on the podium, looking solemn. Azlina knew, at that time, that something is wrong. 

                    The headmistress walked up the rostrum, looked over the students, adjusted her glasses and began speaking, "Dear students, I am sad to announce that one of our students, Kenneth Leung, was murdered a few days ago by..." she removed her glasses, tears welling in her eyes, "by the same madman that had terrorized and mercilessly slaughtered three other students in other towns. It is a sad occasion for us, as he was a gentle soul..."

                    "Kenneth was a fucking asshole, but now he's a god damned angel." Jazlan muttered underneath his breath.

                    "Shit, tell me about it," Jerry muttered in agreement.

                    Sweat poured down Azlina's brow, however. Her mind racing, she realized what it meant. The killer's in their town now, and no one knows when he will strike again. Who's next? she pondered, It could be someone she knows, hell, she could be next. Ever since her cousin Zach disappeared, her family and relatives has been keeping a watchful eye out for her and her cousins, restricting their movements to only the daytime and making a point to know about their friends and their whereabouts, and for once, she was actually thankful of their ever-prying eyes.

                    The newspapers went wild the following day, with headlines such as "Mad Killer Strikes Again", "Youth murdered by serial killer," "When will this madness stop?", and with most of the pages are dedicated with statements from the police, opinions from professionals, who, depending on their point of view, believed that the killer might have came from a dysfunctional background, that the killer was proof that society needs more religious guidance, or proof that society needs stricter laws, and so on and so on.

                       The killer chuckled to himself as he read the articles. "Man, these guys are ridiculous. Give them a disaster and they all come up with their pet ideas on how to make things better," he said to himself. He then looked at his watch, downed his coffee, and retrieved the folder he placed on the next seat. He still has half an hour to go before his job interview, but he liked being early and prepared for anything. He went through the contents of his folder again, making sure every thing is in order.

                        Satisfied, he got up, and paid for his breakfast at the counter. He unconsciously tucked his shirt into his trousers again, before he started walking to where the interview was being held. Once he reached the location, he took a flight of stairs, and reached the reception desk. Once he had his name taken down, he patiently waited for his turn, and after fifteen minutes of waiting, the receptionist informed him that he can now enter the interview room.

                        He entered the room, and came face-to-face with an older Chinese man with a receding hairline and a double chin. The interviewer waited until he sat down, and shifted his glasses, before requesting for his resume. He gave it to him, and read through it before saying, "So...Mr Adam, you're applying for a job as a tuition teacher for secondary school students, is that right?"

                        Adam flashed a friendly smile and said, "Yes, Mr Leong. I have plenty of experience working with secondary school students, it won't be a problem at all. Trust me, I know how to handle them."



The Smiler, Part 1
So...The Bridge seems like a bust. I've been trying to come up with a way to continue with the story, but I seem to get dead-ends. I'm still trying to untangle the story, so have another story about a serial killer who targets teenagers instead. It's going pretty good so far.

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          It all began with a blog post. Faizal Amir was just checking out another supernatural-themed blog based in Petaling Jaya, and its popularity shot up when it managed to provide footage of a creature called The Rotting Man, and is now the go-to blog for those interested in the supernatural.

          One of the blog’s posts, titled “Haunted Bridges, proven and alleged” caught his interest as he was browsing the blog. He opened it, and read through the list, which consists some of the bridges that he knew about, such as the Penang Bridge, a bridge in Port Dickson, one in Johor…and saw one of the entries was a bridge in his own town.

          Surprised and curious of the bridge’s inclusion in the list, he decided to pay special attention to the entry, and read that, according to reports, as soon as the bridge was completed in 1985, a woman jumped off the bridge, and soon after, people have reported seeing an apparition at the bridge, and were plagued by nightmares and hallucinations, to the point that they were either driven to madness or suicide, and it is said that it still continues to this day.

          He reclined on his chair and pondered about the bridge. He’s lived in this town all his life, how come he had never heard about it? Maybe, just maybe, this will be his first foray into paranormal investigation, like in those TV shows he used to watch.

        Something like this would be perfect for a total beginner like him, and before long he could move on to bigger cases, and move from an office drone to a paranormal investigator, and maybe he could team up with whoever runs this blog, and they could become the foremost authorities when it comes to supernatural stuff.

            He took note of the bridge’s location, and went to bed.

          Later, the next day, returning home from work, he stopped by his friend’s burger stall, and told him about the blog entry.

          “Shit, bro,” his friend said as he spread margarine on a burger bun before slapping it on the grill, “you’re seriously telling me you’ve never heard about the bridge? That shit’s common knowledge in this town, man.”

          Faizal cracked open his can of Coke and took a sip before he continued, “That’s what I’m telling you, dude. How come I didn’t know about it?”

          His friend gave a low chuckle while flipping a beef patty. “Beats me, bro. I mean, you’re the one who’s into all this paranormal stuff, not me.” He then stopped, his hand in mid-air, still holding the burger flipper. “Wait, I know why. It’s because you’re such an antisocial jerk that you don’t even know what’s going on in your own town.”

          “Ah, fuck you, Daus,” he replied, “I’m not that out-of-touch,”

          “Eh, memang betul apa,” Firdaus replied, still chuckling. The grin remained on his face even while he handed the plate over to Faizal’s table and sat down next to him. “For real though, bro,” he said, taking off his cap and running his hand through his hair, now dyed light brown, “it’s common knowledge that the bridge messed folks up pretty good for like what, thirty years now?”

          “Around that, yeah,”

          “Yeah. Anyway, I guess no one just likes to talk about it. I mean, they think that shit's contagious, you know? Besides, everyone had chalked up the hallucination part to just being spooked out by the bridge, you know, like the fact they heard how scary the bridge was, and then they got so worked up they thought the same thing themselves, I don't know, really.”

          Faizal placed his burger back on his plate. “Yeah, maybe. I guess I should keep that in mind.”

          Daus looked at him grimly and said, “Yeah, you should. Really, though…” but his train of thought was interrupted when he saw a large woman with a child on tow approaching his stall and looked at him.

          “Kejap, kak,” he called out, put his cap back on and looked back at Faizal. “Shit, I gotta go back to work. You know, being a businessman and all. I’ll talk to you sometime, man.”

          “Cool,” Faizal said, swallowing the remains of his burger and washed it down with his Coke, left the money underneath the plate and went home. It’s a Friday evening, a time when office drones like him can take it easy while small-time businesses like Daus’ will be busier.

          As he walked up towards his flat, he started thinking about the bridge again. It’s a Saturday tomorrow; he could just go and have a look around the bridge. It’s not that far, he could take the bus and be there within fifteen minutes, thirty on foot, have a look around, take some pictures and tell the guy running the blog about it.

          He woke up the next morning, the humid heat clinging all over him, his body slick with sweat, but he hardly paid any attention towards it, as he was more focused on the bridge itself. As he showered, however, he felt a slight sense of unease churning in his stomach. Dismissing the feeling of dread, he got dressed, drank a cup of cold coffee, and within half an hour, boarded the bus that passes by the bridge.

          He sat at the back of the bus, and put his earphones on. He then looked outside the window, hardly paying attention to the other people in the bus, wondering what Daus just said to him last evening and he realized that with what he’s doing at that precise moment, sitting at the back of the bus while listening to Alkaline Trio and ignoring other people does give the impression that he’s an anti-social freak.

          “Fuck,” he chuckled to himself, and seeing the bus approaching his stop, he turned off his mp3 player, plucked the earphones out of his ears, and pressed the bell. Once the bus pulled up at the stop, he got out, and looked at the bridge, and started walking towards it.

        As he approached the bridge, his heart started beating rapidly, out of anxiety and excitement, but he soon reached the beginning of the bridge and looked at his surroundings.

         His initial impression of the bridge was that it looked like any other ordinary bridge; Pedestrians walking by the sidewalk, vehicles driving by, both hardly paying any attention towards each other, and almost looked dreary with its grey concrete pillars and torn up bills and posters plastered by the walls. He then leaned forward at the railing, the paint chipping beneath his fingers as he gripped it, and peered down at the large, flowing brown river below him.

    Nothing out of the ordinary here, he thought to himself. So how come it induced nightmares and hallucinations to some people?

    Taking out his phone, he took some pictures of the bridge, the river below him, and pictures of the vehicles and people passing by him. Just as he was about to place his phone back into his pocket, he heard the distinctive sound of someone clearing their throat behind him.

    He turned around, and saw a short, middle-aged Indian woman looking at him.

    "I’m sorry," the woman said. "I couldn't help but noticing you taking pictures of the bridge,"

    "Oh," Faizal said, "I just thought it looked interesting,"

    The older woman gave him a wary look. "Yes, I guess...interesting would be one way to describe this bridge,"

    "I guess you can say that,"

     The woman lifted a tired eyebrow at his comment and said, "Interesting? This is a very bad bridge, boy. "

    "Sorry," he shrugged, and scratching his hair, he asked, "So, uh, auntie, how much do you know about this bridge?"

    "All I know is that some girl killed herself a long long time ago, and people started getting nightmares and seeing things. This is a bad bridge." she replied.

    "Uh, I see,"

    "Damned shame. They should so something about it," she added. 

    Faizal stood there, unable to reply. Instead, he just looked at the river, listening to the vehicles passing by them. “Yeah, I guess,” he said.

          “A damned shame,” she said, and slowly walked away.

          Faizal looked at the older woman until she disappeared from view. He stood there uneasily, before he started to walk back himself. As soon as he reached the end of the bridge, he looked around the roadside stalls and cafes, and thought he could use a drink after all the excitement. 

          He sat down at one of the stalls and ordered a coffee. The owner then delivered it to him, gingerly placing it on his table. He looked at steam escaping the clear glass mug for a moment, blew at it several times, before sipping on it slowly.

          While drinking his coffee, he started wondering about the bridge. What's causing all the nightmares? What exactly did they see that it made them paranoid? Who was the girl who committed suicide in 1985, starting off the unfortunate chain of events?

          “…the bridge just now?” a voice interrupted him.

          “Huh?” Faizal jumped up, his train of thought broken.

          He saw it was the stall owner himself looking at him, his eyes shining behind his glasses.

          “I said,” the man repeated, “I just saw you taking pictures at the bridge just now. Are you working on something?”

          “Huh?” Faizal looked at the man for a moment, processing what he had said, and once he realized what he meant, quickly shook his head. “Oh, no, no. Nothing like that. I was just curious about the bridge, that’s all.”

          “I see,” the man said, and went back to manning his stall.

          Damn, Faizal thought to himself, why’s everyone so interested about what I just did? Unnerved by the attention, he stuck two one ringgit notes underneath the coffee mug, went to the bus station, and took a bus home. Later that evening, as he pondered about what happened earlier, he decided to pay Daus another visit.

          To his surprise, as he reached Daus’ stall, Daus was sitting at a table with a Chinese guy around their age, wearing a mechanic’s outfit. As he approached them, Daus noticed him and said, “Shit, man, look who showed up.”

          As Faizal reached the table, Daus took a look at him and said, “Shit, don’t tell me, you probably went to the bridge, huh? Anyway, remember this guy? Andy Lim, we used to play football together at school, though you’re the guy that hangs out by the sides anyway.”

          Faizal grinned at the both of them and went, “Yeah, yeah. I know him. You’re working with your dad now?”

          “Yeah,” Andy said, “Business is okay, I guess. As long as there’s a something running on an engine I won’t be out of work.”

          “Anyway,” Daus said, looking at Faizal, “you want anything, man?”

          “Nah, I’m good,” Faizal replied, “just wanted to hang out.”

          “Ah, so my statement about you being anti-social finally made you want to go out more, eh?” Daus grinned.

          “Eh, more or less,” Faizal shrugged as he sat down. “And yeah, I went to the bridge this morning,”

          “Thought so,” Daus said.

          “Wait, what bridge are you guys talking about here?” Andy asked.

          “You know, the bridge,” Daus said.

          Andy looked confused for a moment, trying to figure out what he meant before he finally realized what he meant.

          “Oh, that bridge.” Andy said, “Man, that bridge’s bad news,”

          “How come?” Faizal asked.

          “If you ask my pa,” he said, “He thinks that bridge is haunted, especially at night. He said the girl's spirit's still lingers, and if you upset her, she'll curse you until you die,"

          “Does he have any idea why that shit started, though?” Faizal asked.

          “Man, he’s an auto-shop owner, not a paranormal investigator.” Andy replied. “I really have no idea, and I bet he doesn’t know much himself. People come in, sometimes just for a battery change, sometimes they have transmission problems, so when I or someone else fixes it, they go and have a chat with him and talk whatever the hell’s on their mind. Business, real estate, football, politics, family, lingering spirits haunting the bridge, that kind of stuff.”

           “Right,” Faizal said, “so how do these guys know about these stories?”

          “Word of mouth, mostly.” Andy replied. “The same old I-know-this-guy type of conversations. From what I gathered, it’s definitely a bad idea to use the bridge past midnight,”


          “I don’t know, maybe because that bridge happens to be haunted and ghosts come out after midnight?” Andy replied sarcastically, before he looked at the two of them and continued, “Well, for real, though. That shit actually happened.”

          “So what happened?” Faizal asked curiously.

          “Well, there was this Indian guy, he came in with a broken light and a missing bumper. Pretty routine stuff, since a lot of people drive like idiots. Only this time, before we could ask, he started telling us how it happened,”

          “From what I could gather,” Andy explained, “he just returned home after having a few drinks with his work friends at some pub out of town, and when he started crossing the bridge, it was around twelve-fifteen or so,”

          “So when he was driving,” he continued, “he saw this lady just standing there by the side of the bridge, right? Like she was just standing there,”

          “Man, that sounds cliché as fuck,” Daus interjected.

          “Yeah, I know, right?” Andy agreed, “And that guy, even with all the booze inside him, somehow knew picking her up was a bad idea, so he just drove on, and when he almost reached the middle of the bridge, he saw the lady standing by the side of the bridge, so he started freaking out a bit,”

          “So he pressed the gas and drove faster, but just as he reached the middle of the bridge, the same woman stood there, blocking the way. He slammed on the brakes and when he faced the road again, the girl wasn't there,”

          “He was kind of confused about what just happened for a moment, but then he heard a knock at the passenger seat window. Something tells him he should’ve just pressed the gas pedal and got the fuck out of there, but he was frozen with fright, and then, he heard a knocking sound by the passenger window.”

          “What does she look like?” Faizal asked.

          “From what the guy told me, he didn't get a good look of her face, since it was covered with her own hair like in that movie..." Andy started snapping his fingers, "Come on, what's the name of that movie? Oh yeah, The Ring."

          “And then, he saw that she was all wet. But what’s really scary though, was the when she started speaking. She basically started crying and he could see her move what was left of her mouth and started moaning, ‘Why didn’t you stop? Didn’t you love me? Why did you forget about me?’ When he heard that, he just lost it, hit the gas pedal and accidentally knocked on the road barrier, and just drove the fuck back home, and hid in his room until morning,”

          Faizal stared at Andy for a moment, before he started blinking again. “Wow,” Faizal said, “That’s quite a story,”

          “I don’t know how much of it was true,” Andy replied, “that guy probably had too much to drink. I still think you should stay away from that bridge after midnight, though.”

          “Alright, I’ll keep that in mind,” Faizal said. “I’ll be seeing you guys around,”

          “Yeah, see you. Hey, don’t even think about going to that bridge, alright?” Daus said.

          “Yeah, whatever,” Faizal replied.

          Faizal went back to his flat and sat in front of his computer. He quickly recollected his thoughts, and attempted to write down as much as he can remember, uploaded the pictures from his phone onto the computer, and then added his post onto the blog. Within half an hour after he had posted it, he received a message from the blog owner himself.

          From: aseth89

      So you’ve been to the bridge there? Thanks for your submission, I’ll be sure to credit you as well. One thing though, if you’re willing to that is, could you get some nighttime pictures or footage of the bridge in question? That’ll mean a lot. Thanks.

          Faizal stared at his monitor, his fingers still idling on his mouse as he pondered the request. With the story and warning still fresh in his mind, he was just about to deny that request, but a small gnawing feeling grew in his stomach, a feeling that maybe the story was just made up, something that goes with the bridge in question.

          Besides, for all we know the guy was simply drunk and made the whole story up so he doesn’t look like an idiot when people asked him why his car all was busted up. He quickly typed his reply:

      To: aseth89

      Sure, I’ll get around to it. I’ll go to the bridge next Friday and take some pictures. Is that okay?

      The reply came back immediately:

      From: aseth89


    Well, that settles, it, then. My first foray in the paranormal scene, Faizal thought to himself, closed the tab, and just surfed the internet for a while before he went to bed. As he slowly began to drift into unconsciousness, he felt that the surroundings around him are changing. He felt a strong gust of wind blowing into his room, cooling the warm air inside his room. He then smelled a strong, fishy smell, like he was at the bridge, earlier this afternoon...and when he opened his eyes, his jaw dropped slightly.

    He was standing on the bridge itself, still clad in a pair of old track pants and an old t-shirt.

    “This is just a dream, I’ll wake up,” Faizal told himself,and pinched his left arm.


    “What?” he exclaimed, sweat beading down his forehead. “That’s impossible. How did I get here?”

    He fumbled his hands into his pockets, trying to find his phone and wallet in either pockets, but came up empty. He shuddered, realizing for the first time how truly vulnerable he was in this situation.

    His reason told him that he should turn back, walk away from the bridge and try to find a way back home, but something made him stand there. It wasn't like his feet were glued to the pavement or a supernatural entity blocking his way, he simply lacked the will the move, and furthermore, he felt a growing desire to simply stay there and explore his surroundings.

    He slowly walked up the bridge, sweat pouring down his forehead and back, despite the cool, strong wind. He reached the middle of the bridge and stood there, unsure of what to do next.

    The bridge was deserted, which attested to the late hour. Wasn’t there something about how you’re not supposed to be at the bridge at midnight? He thought to himself. Oh shit. What’s the time now? What am I gonna do?

As he pondered his next move, he felt pangs of terror rising up his stomach, and saw a figure standing by the opposite side of where he was standing. 

    Despite his curiosity, his instinct to simply turn around and run overwhelmed it, and he quickly turned around, and started running back to the end of the bridge. As he ran, however, he started to hear a wet, slopping sound following him from behind.

    Oh fuck. Oh fuck, Faizal thought to himself. He started running even faster, his lungs and feet burning as his speed increased, but as he did so, he started hearing the same wet,slopping sounds following him behind.




    Faizal ran even faster now, trying his best to get away from that infernal splashing sound pursuing him, the sound barely picking up its pace, but it sounded like it was directly behind him, even as he kept running faster and faster.

    Just as he was about to reach the end of the bridge, he heard a chuckling sound coming from behind him, and he tripped on his feet, and fell flat on the ground. He quickly pulled himself up, wincing in pain as he realized that the impact had scratched the skin off his palms, and limped as fast as possible, before he heard a voice behind him, wailing, "Where are you going? Don't you want to be with me?"

    Faizal woke up screaming, his bed sheets and clothes soaked with sweat.

    "That was a dream. Fuck, that felt real," he said to himself, and wiped his face with his palms, but reeled back as he felt a stinging sensation as his hands touched his face. He turned the light on, and saw his bloody palms, with scratched-out skin still hanging on from his palms.

    "" Faizal said to himself, before he rushed to the bathroom and started washing his hands. He winced at the stinging sensation of water running through the wound, but he steadied his hands, watching the blood slowly drift away with the pipe water.

    How'd I get my hands injured like that? Faizal wondered, since he knew that his injuries could only caused by a rocky surface, something like a...tarred road.

    "No, that's impossible," Faizal said out loud. "That's just ridiculous. That's some cheap horror story stuff right there,"
    Faizal went back to his room, and noticing the blood-and-sweat stained bedsheets, removed them from his bed, and after stripping down to his boxers, lied down on the bare mattress. He tried closing his eyes, but unable to sleep, he looked at his computer perched on his desk, got up, turned it on, and went online.

    His first course of action is to look for any news sources regarding the bridge itself,but to his dismay, he found that most of them are the same old blog posts, full of speculations about the nature of the bridge, some said it was cursed, some said it was built on 'hotspot', not-too-flattering assumptions regarding the nature of the people who ended their lives there, and blogs full of people who assumed that Comic Sans was an acceptable font.

    After going through his six or seventh blog, he stumbled upon a blog post that came with a scanned newspaper article regarding the first suicide. It was dated May 19, 1985, which meant that within two weeks, it'll be the thirtieth anniversary of the bridge's haunting.

    That's kinda sad, he thought to himself.

    He read through the article. It read, that a twenty-five year old female, race unknown, had jumped off the recently-built bridge a few days ago, and by the time they had found the body, the decomposition had already begun, making it difficult for them to determine her identity. Police have determined that the act was committed before midnight, and she had died from drowning. No motive was given, and police were unable to find any identification on the individual herself.

    Oh, okay, Faizal thought to himself, reading through the article again, before noticing the reporter's name, James Muniandy. If he's still alive, he'll probably be in his mid fifties or sixties by now, he guessed, but it's worth a shot, maybe he knows more than his initial report.

    He quickly searched the man's name online, and quickly found out that he's retired and lives in the same town.

    That's a plus.

    The following morning, he took a bus towards a housing area just outside of town, got out, and started looking around the housing area, trying to find the former reporter's address. It didn't take long for him to find it, and he saw a middle-aged Indian woman sweeping the verandah, and called out for her.

    "Auntie!" he called out.

    The woman then stopped sweeping for a moment, turned to face him, and to their mutual surprise, realized they've met each other at the bridge just the other day.

    "Why are you here?" she demanded, looking angrily at him.

    "I...uh, wanted to see your husband?" Faizal asked.

    "No, you cannot see him," she shook her head aggressively.

    "Please, just let me see him for a moment," Faizal pleaded.

    "No," the lady replied, holding her ground.

    Just as Faizal was about to turn around and leave, the front door opened, an Indian man in his sixties stood at the door, clutching a newspaper in one hand, adjusting his glasses with his other hand.

    "What's going on here?" he demanded.

    His wife then rapidly spoke to him in Tamil, looking and gesturing at Faizal occasionally.

    The husband then looked at both of them, spoke to his wife in Tamil again, and gestured to Faizal to enter.

    "Come in, young man." the old man said, removing his glasses, his tired eyes looking straight at Faizal, "Come in."

The Bridge (Part 1)
This story was inspired, by, unsurprisingly enough, a bridge.

It took me a while just to fix up this first part, and I still feel it lacks something. So just give me the best feedback you can with this story. I'll write the upcoming parts when I actually have some free time on my hands, which is getting pretty rare ever since I started my new job. 
Has it really been that long since my last journal entry?

I'm really sorry, guys. I've just been busy and I haven't been writing as much as I used to.

First things first, I had just finished my internship, did the necessary paperwork, signed my reports, yadda yadda yadda.

And now I'm job-hunting. You know, polishing up my resume, lying about how intelligent I am, attending interviews, that sort of thing. In fact I had two interviews yesterday. One was an interview at HP's offices, and another was a call-in interview, and they said they will call me again today to conclude it. (They've called me twice yesterday, one for oral, one for technical. I was actually asleep when the call for technical stuff came, but somehow I managed to answer all of it)

So I guess with all the excitement I couldn't find the time to write, mostly because by that time, I would be too tired to write. But I've been writing, promise.

I guess, first off, I'll post the revamped version of the rotting man. I've been working on two stories, but I think they might be too big, so I'm going to cut them into chapters while I try and make it work.

So...that's all for now.
  • Listening to: Archers Of Loaf


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LassieTheArtist Featured By Owner Feb 3, 2015  Hobbyist General Artist
Thanks for the fave, love! :iconnewhugplz:
LunaNitor Featured By Owner Oct 15, 2014  Student Writer
Thanks for joining LiteraryOpulence. If you have any suggestions on improving the group, please let me know! :)
crazytintinlover Featured By Owner Oct 9, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
em hi
i was going through my message box and i found this…
i thought you might be interested
weekendhunters Featured By Owner Oct 9, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Oh wow, thanks for the heads up. I appreciate it. I might not be able to come up with anything excellent, but I'm definitely giving this a shot.
crazytintinlover Featured By Owner Oct 9, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
glade to be at help
the person directing this contest seems to do things like this often
i suggest you make her in your watch list
fully-blue Featured By Owner Sep 28, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
thanks for the fav =]
Kounterpoint Featured By Owner Sep 10, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Happy birthday, man. :party:
weekendhunters Featured By Owner Sep 11, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Hey, thanks.
poweredbyostx Featured By Owner Jul 11, 2014  Hobbyist Interface Designer
Thanks for FAV, glad you like my work.
Pastwriter Featured By Owner Jun 4, 2014
Thanks for the fave,
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