In the shadowed depths where silence lies,
Where whispers echo, and reason dies,
There lurks a terror, dark and keen,
A glimpse of the horrors that might have been.
The heart, a vessel, so fragile, so frail,
Holds secrets of sorrow, of love turned to pale,
In the corridors of history, blood-stained and grim,
Where the echoes of madness begin to swim.
Oh, hark! The tales of the wretched and lost,
Of tyrants who reigned, heedless of cost,
From Nero's cruel flames to Caligula's jest,
The laughter of demons, a harrowing fest.
With daggers drawn in the quiet of night,
The whispers of power, the thirst for the right,
In the name of ambition, the slaughter unfolds,
As kingdoms are shattered, and innocence sold.
The Spanish Inquisition, a merciless chase,
With fire and fervor, they purged every trace,
Of doubt and dissent, of thought that could stray,
Leaving ashes and echoes where souls went to fray.
In the shadow of gallows, where justice is blind,
The noose tightens cruelly, the verdict maligned,
For history's pages, they bleed with the ink,
Of those who have whispered, "We’re more than we think."
In the war-torn fields where the dead do not sleep,
With the cries of the fallen, the silence runs deep,
From the trenches of horror, to genocide's wake,
The darkness of man is a tempest to quake.
Oh, ponder the depths of the mind's wicked fold,
Where reason is lost, and the wicked grow bold,
For with every great leap, a shadow will cling,
To the heart of the lover, the soul of the king.
In the depths of despair, where the lost souls convene,
The specter of malice reigns ever unseen,
For the darkest of thoughts, like a serpent, will writhe,
In the heart of creation, where nightmares derive.
So gaze into mirrors, reflect on your soul,
For the darkness within us can take its cruel toll,
In the dance of existence, where shadows entwine,
Lies the haunting reminder of man’s dark design.
For in every sweet smile, a tempest may dwell,
A flicker of madness, a glimpse into hell,
In the annals of history, where innocence wanes,
We find the true nature of what remains.
From the gallant to ghastly, from virtue to vice,
The spectrum of humanity, a roll of the dice,
So tread with great caution, in the theater of fate,
For the darkness within us can seal our own fate.
In the shadowed depths where silence lies,
A mirror reflects all the truth and the lies,
And the darkness of man, in its chilling embrace,
Is a haunting reminder of our fragile grace.
---
"Ain't nothing like a little fear to make a paper man crumble." - IT
The dim light of the moon filtered through the curtains, casting eerie shadows across the room. Sullivan sat at his cluttered desk, the faint scratching of his pen echoing in the silence as he meticulously jotted down the details of his dark ambition. The notebook before him was filled with scrawled notes, sketches, and plans—each line a testament to his twisted desire for revenge. A sinister grin played on his lips as he thought of what was to come.
His father, Jason, lay sprawled on the couch in the living room, lost in a drunken slumber. The sound of his heavy breathing filled the air, a dull reminder of the man who had neglected Sullivan throughout his life. While Jason had showered Richard with love and attention, Sullivan had been left to fend for himself, a mere shadow in his father’s eyes. The resentment and pain had festered, morphing into a dark ambition that consumed him.
In the other room, his brother Richard—drowsy and intoxicated—was oblivious to the storm brewing just outside his door. Sullivan’s heart raced with anticipation; the time had finally come.
He glanced towards the closet, where an unsettling secret lay hidden. His mother, a woman he had brought back from the dead through sheer will and a twisted understanding of the dark forces that governed life and death, was cocooned in darkness. Her presence lingered like a specter, a reminder of the lengths he would go to achieve his goals. Sullivan had plans not only for his father and Richard but for his mother as well. The thrill of what lay ahead sent a shiver down his spine.
Sullivan rose from his desk, the creaking floorboards beneath his feet barely audible in the stillness. He walked towards Richard’s room, each step deliberate, the knife tucked securely in his hand. The blade gleamed under the soft glow of the hallway light, a harbinger of the chaos he was about to unleash.
As he reached Richard’s door, he paused for a moment, contemplating the heinous act he was about to commit. Richard was everything Sullivan was not—adored by their father, who had always bullied him, belittling him at every opportunity. The hate burned like acid in his veins, fueling his resolve. He pushed the door open, and the sight before him caused a surge of satisfaction within. Richard lay sprawled on his bed, the room filled with the smell of stale alcohol and sweat. His face was flushed, a drunken smile plastered across his features.
Sullivan stepped closer, reveling in the vulnerability of his brother. With a swift motion, he plunged the knife into Richard’s throat. The blade sliced through flesh with a sickening ease, and Richard’s eyes flew open wide, shock and confusion etched across his face. A gurgling sound escaped his lips as blood sprayed forth, painting the sheets crimson.
Sullivan’s heart raced, exhilaration coursing through him as he watched the life drain from Richard’s eyes. The thrill of the moment enveloped him, a dark euphoria that was intoxicating in its own right. He pulled the knife free, wiping it clean on Richard’s shirt, and grinned down at his lifeless brother.
Dragging Richard’s body from the bed, Sullivan felt a strange sense of power surge within him. He maneuvered the heavy corpse with surprising ease, his adrenaline fueling his strength. The weight of vengeance hung heavily in the air, thick and palpable, as he pulled Richard’s body into his own room.
Once inside, he shoved Richard’s lifeless form under his bed, the darkness swallowing him whole. Sullivan knelt beside the bed, a satisfied smile curling his lips as he contemplated his next move. The thrill of the kill was only the beginning; he had greater plans for Richard.
Sullivan opened his notebook once more, the pages filled with details of his twisted resurrection ritual. “To make him worship me,” he whispered to himself, the words slipping from his lips like a prayer. He envisioned bringing Richard back, as a fucking paper man—an echo of the brother who had tormented him throughout his life. Sullivan envisioned the torment he would inflict, and the thought sent a thrill down his spine.
He had figured it all out on his own, through long nights of experimentation and dark reflections. The rituals he had devised were born from desperation, a yearning to reclaim the power that had so often been stripped away from him. Each word and symbol meticulously crafted, each incantation a step closer to making Richard suffer endlessly, to bend him to his will.
With a wicked grin, he traced his finger over the lines he had written, marking the steps he would need to take. He could bring Richard back, twisted and broken, a pawn in his game of revenge. “You’ll worship me,” he murmured, feeling the weight of his hatred fueling his ambitions.
As he prepared for the next phase of his plan, Sullivan’s thoughts drifted back to their father, Jason, who was still blissfully unaware of the chaos unfolding around him. Sullivan could almost hear the sound of his father’s snoring from the living room
They would all bend to Sullivan's rage.
Sullivan's face would be the only face Richard would ever see, save for what would be the twisted and mangled faces of his girlfriends and his father.
