Sunday, October 12, 2008

christian's story


as we continue along with our scary story contest, i thought it'd probably be a good idea to go over the rules and prizes once again, just so anybody who might be joining us late will be able to get in on the fun before it's too late--
so here they are...

1. your story can be either fact or fiction. make something up if you want. we just wanna be scared...

2. your story does not have to have happened to you. you can tell another person's story or relate an historical tale--just do it in your own words.

3. your story MUST be YOUR OWN--no plagarisms!

4. all stories must be sent to me between now and midnight, october 24, 2008 to be eligible. e-ddress your stories to

the subject line should read "perhapanauts scary story contest" to be eligible. make sure your name appears on the story.

5. stories will be read and a winner selected by an august group of uninvolved judges whose names will not be revealed so as to avoid bribing...

as for that prize--actually, there are several...

~ the winner will receive an autographed full run of our first story arc of the perhapanauts no.s 1 through 5, including the annual and monster pile up!

~ the winner will also receive a bag of assorted other perhapanauts loot!

~ the winner will be drawn into an upcoming issue of the perhapanauts as a member of the BEDLAM staff! (of course, after this, we own you...!)

~ the winner will also RECEIVE the page of original artwork by craig rousseau of YOUR COMIC BOOK DEBUT! (and it won't be some lame thing--i'll write something cool!)


and now, a story from our good friend, christian--

Christian D. Leaf

This is a totally true story I just made up…

I don’t sleep much anymore.
We recently lost one of our two cats to chronic renal failure. His name was Renfield. His brother, Oliver, was never very vocal, but now that he’s all alone he’s become a meowing machine—all day and damn near all night. My daughter thinks it’s amusing since she’s at her mimic stage, so she just meows right along with him. My wife, Angie, doesn’t mind it either, mainly because she takes an Ambien at night and it’s lights out. Oliver will cuddle up with her and purr like an Evinrude motor while I’m stuck staring at the motes of light on the ceiling.
The other night Oliver’s purring was so different it woke me up immediately. His normal, steady purr was a heavy, wet chuckle—almost a laugh. I rolled over and peeked over Angie’s rocking shoulder to see what Oliver was doing. Instead of the normal dark tabby outline there were wriggling arms and reddish eyes.
I turn on my light to see my sleeping wife stroking the belly of some horrid little man, though I use the term “man” loosely. It was some kind of fiend. Bulging, red eyes sat nestled in wrinkled craters of eyelids. The fiend’s misshapen oval head was covered in wrinkles and white straw-like hair. A wide gaping shark’s mouth of triangular teeth in mottled gray gums grinned at me as its willowy arms pumped wildly in the air as Angie kept rubbing its belly. Thankfully, its long white beard hid whatever passed for its body under the dirty, matted hair.
The fiend didn’t seem to mind me watching as the dirty little bastard winked at me, which broke me from my shock. I yelled for Angie to wake up causing her to stop her rubbing the fiend, but not enough to wake her.
Its fun gone, the fiend slowly extracted itself from under Angie’s hand, chuckling the entire time. My hand searched for something, anything to use as a weapon on my nightstand. I didn’t want to take my eyes off the thing, but before I could find anything useful the fiend did a little curtsey, jumped off the bed and disappeared into Angie’s closet. The door slowly closed behind it cutting off that damned chuckling.
I bolted to the closet, but first grabbing the pair of scissors Angie always seems to leave around despite having a toddler running around. I turned on the closet light before opening the door, ready to strike with the scissors. Nothing jumped out at me, just shoes on the floor and clothes hanging on the rack. I yelled again for Angie to wake up, but received a low moan in response.
So much for back-up, I thought.
I tore through her hanging clothes only to find more shoes hidden behind. I opened all the built-in shelf drawers and looked inside shoeboxes. Nothing. I couldn’t find the thing. Had I dreamed it? No, it was too real to have been a dream.
Then a horrible thought entered my mind: what if it was after Lilah? I ran down the hall to her room. Her nightlight showed no fiend, no weird shapes or noises. Her eyes opened a bit, saw me and widened, but she fell back asleep. Something I didn’t do the rest of the night.
In the morning Oliver was nowhere to be found. Angie didn’t remember anything that occurred and blamed me for losing the cat. My blood ran cold when I went to get Lilah out of her crib and heard her mimic that heavy, wet chuckle.
I don’t sleep much anymore.

smell ya later!


Matt Wieringo said...


Christian D. Leaf said...

That's probably the perfect accompanying picture. Nicely done, Todd.

Brian said...

Ok, I'm having a long talk with our cat Trudi when I get home.

Good job, Christian.

Brian said...


Again, great job with the art.

I'm looking forward to what you come up with for my story.

; )

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