Evil Dead Remake

   
     The title says it all: a remake of one of my favorite horror movies of all time, and the source of so many cliche's that it is actually difficult to count them off. When I first heard this was going to happen, I instantly thought only negative things. But then I heard Bruce Campbell and Sam Raimi were involved in the movie making process, as producers and a co-writer of the script.
     This leaves me conflicted. We all know that remakes are generally worse than the original, but never before has a remake had the actual people who first made the movie involved in the process; maybe this one will be able to break the mold and turn from a horror/comedy cult classic into a truly terrifying piece of cinema?

Ravens, pt Six

“Fall back!” Heinrich shouted in broken German, the unofficial language of code for the village hidden in the hills of Pennsylvania.

Instantly Steven and David fell back, allowing the dead to press through the three foot gap, stumbling over the mound of still corpses beneath their bloodied feet and into the blades and maces of the two men, plus Michael. Heinrich moved around the melee to the other shelf, putting his good shoulder against the shaking wall of wood and boxes to better stabilize the leaning tower keeping the hungry dead at bay.

Ravens, pt. Five

Standing in the pale light of a hundred candles, bathed in their warm glow, was a man dressed in perhaps the strangest outfit Heinrich had seen since the Great Impact. Scuffed steel-toed boots beneath worn denim jeans was all framed by an oversized terrycloth bathrobe, the sleeves down well past the thin man’s hands. When they were visible, Heinrich could see the blue veins traced along his wrists and hands, his fingers ending in long sharpened fingernails, adorned with rings and a bright red nail polish.

Ravens Pt. Four

“I’m fine, I’m fine!” Heinrich growled through grit teeth, pushing himself up. “My arm is broken is all.”

“And covered in that black gunk,” Michael observed, eyeing the drenched arm with distaste.

“All the more reason to help get it off me.” Heinrich ordered, nodding out into the store. “Go grab a couple bottles of alcohol so we can douse my arm before we bind it.”

“On it.” Michael agreed, shouldering his blade as he marched through the batwing doors and off into the darkened store. Heinrich reached over to the one sickle within reach and began gingerly scraping what slime he could off his injured arm, listening as David and Steven struggled to down the skewered Crawler.

Ravens, Pt. Three

Tossing his mace to Steven, David hefted his copper-tinged spear I his hands, sweat glistening on his brow despite the chill in the air. Steven, a burly lad with a clean shaven head and a beard down to his mid chest, clenched his fist around the hefty mace with an iron grip, his other hand wielding an equally hefty oak cudgel. Heinrich had no doubt that between the two of them, they would work fine. He was merely worried about being overwhelmed by the Crawlers.

Peeking over the counter, he could just make them out in the dim lighting of the old pharmacy. A total of five clamored above the shelves, moving like spiders on stolen limbs stitched to grey swollen bodies. The heads, hanging limply from the shoulders, were split down the middle and bald, opening and closing in a demented parody of a mouth as tendrils of sewed tongues slithered out, black ichor dripping from the pale pink extremities. Moving on four or five arms a piece, this left each of them with four arms held high in the air, rusty knives and trowels held in dirtied hands, with an array of other sharpened bits of metal jammed into the back of the creature, easily within reach of the arms should they have need of them.

Ravens Pt. Two

Previously

It was an all too common problem that Heinrich and other raiders faced; finding survivors tucked away in some remote store or home. Most of the time they were half-starved and crazed, but sometimes they could be reasoned with, brought back to the village to rejoin humanity. The rest of the time they were the occultists that paid homage to dark gods and spirits, relying on their arcane abilities to carve out a niche for themselves in this new, horrifying world. Heinrich’s sickles were each coated with silver, hammered onto the curved blades over the cold iron they were cast from.

The perfect weapon against anything supernatural.

Son of a Preacher Man: Hunter, Finale

Shylock sighed as he slowly pried the final diamond from the intricate wedding band he’d liberated from his latest kill, a jewelers monocle clenched by his eyebrow over his left eye. He’d spent the better part of two hours slowly dismantling the fantastic piece, careful not to scratch the gold as he peeled it of its precious stones.

Why he cared about the state of the old yellow gold, he couldn’t say. After years of endless nights and tedious boredom, he found that he liked to challenge himself with puzzles or games, or as he had done in the last twenty years, metallurgy. Lifting his tweezers up in front of the bare bulb that lit his small workshop, he examined the fine diamond carefully, before opening his four tiered pillbox and depositing it with the rest of the point three carat princess cut colorless diamonds.

The Many Misadventures of Master Mystery: Murderous Mohrgs from the Moors

Previously

Research was slow going that night. But, Reginald mused, research was rarely wont to be done in haste. For Master Mystery, the act of researching was rarely each sure but more of the cleansing ritual that he happily partook in whenever he got the chance. Now that there were actual lives on the line, he could enjoy his research all the more, as the fax that he would discover could be used to help others, while also earning him a hefty profit.

Having retired to the Pink Swan just as the sun set, Reginald had ordered room service to his private suite and unloaded is a briefcase of books and scrolls, intent on discovering what exactly could be attacking these people in such a horrible manner. After all not many creatures of the night still roamed the streets of England in this day and age. 

Well… Not many creatures of supernatural means perhaps.

Fighting a Losing War

Pain…

Agony…

And then… nothingness. No bright light or eternal flames, no smiling faces of long-forgotten loved ones or weighing of my heart against my sins. Merely… nothing.

And not nothing like any other nothing I had ever encountered before in recent memory either, but a true and utter lack of anything. Including time, it would seem.

Son of a Preacher Man: Hunter, part Five

Jack groans as he slowly rouses back into consciousness, glaring about the darkened room in search of something new to focus on. The room is fairly devoid of anything worth studying, save for a long table of instruments obviously designed for torture, as well as another prisoner hanging from the rafters by a set of verdigris ridden chains. The man, if you could even call him that even more, seems devoid of intellect, with glazed over eyes and no visible reactions to Jack’s questions throughout the day.