There is no light at the end of the tunnel for us. We are who we are.
I__e never liked urban myths. I__e never liked pretending to believe in them; never understood why everyone else doesn__ see straight through them. Why is it they__e always happened to a friend of a friend - someone you__e never met? Why does everyone smile and nod and pull the right faces, when they must know they__e not true? Pointless. A waste of breath. So I sneered at the myths about Scaderstone Pit. It was just an old quarry _ nothing more. I never believed in the rumours of discarded dynamite. It had decayed, they said. It exploded at the slightest touch, had even blown someone__ hand off. I shrugged off the talk of the toxic waste. It was dumped in the dead of night, they said. The canisters rusting away, leaking deadly poisons that could blind you, burn your lungs. I laughed at the ghost stories. You could hear the moans, they said, of quarrymen buried alive and never found. You could see their nightwalking souls, searching for their poor crushed bodies.I didn__ believe any of it _ not one word. Now, after everything that__ happened, I wonder whether I should__e listened to those stories. Maybe then, these things would__e happened to someone else, and I could__e smiled and said they were impossible.But this is not an urban myth. And it did not happen to someone else, but to me. I__e set it down as best I can remember. Whether you believe it or not, is up to you.
Trespass
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I__e never liked urban myths. I__e never liked pretending to believe in them; never understood why everyone else doesn__ see straight through them. Why is it they__e always happened to a friend of a friend - someone you__e never met? Why does everyone smile and nod and pull the right faces, when they must know they__e not true? Pointless. A waste of breath. So I sneered at the myths about Scaderstone Pit. It was just an old quarry _ nothing more. I never believed in the rumours of discarded dynamite. It had decayed, they said. It exploded at the slightest touch, had even blown someone__ hand off. I shrugged off the talk of the toxic waste. It was dumped in the dead of night, they said. The canisters rusting away, leaking deadly poisons that could blind you, burn your lungs. I laughed at the ghost stories. You could hear the moans, they said, of quarrymen buried alive and never found. You could see their nightwalking souls, searching for their poor crushed bodies.I didn__ believe any of it _ not one word. Now, after everything that__ happened, I wonder whether I should__e listened to those stories. Maybe then, these things would__e happened to someone else, and I could__e smiled and said they were impossible.But this is not an urban myth. And it did not happen to someone else, but to me. I__e set it down as best I can remember. Whether you believe it or not, is up to you.
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And in the echo of that gladness, horror blooms within me. In its own strange way, it's a horror as deep as any I've experienced so far. I've succeeded in taking another human hostage, in making him urinate on himself. I made a plan to torture someone, and then I carried it out, and it satisfied me to do so. As much hurt and hell as the Wolfman has caused, I don't want to be his judge and jury, his jailer and tormentor. I don't want to be that person. I want to be good. I don't want to fall into a big, black pit of darkness, because what if I can't get out?
Emily, there are enemies everywhere. We have to be on our guard, especially for the next couple of weeks._ Theo sighed unhappily. __his is going to be the longest fortnight of my life._ __hat__ saying something,_ I joked, __iven how long you__e lived._ __xactly,_ he said, without smiling.
We're not in a fairytale story. This is not a movie. Scriptwriters don't write our fates. We do.
It felt oily inside her head. There were strings of Xavier Stancliff caught inside of her, holding on and spiderwebbing out as he plotted and waited and thought: this is all the bitch deserves. Swallowing, Sandra pushed herself off the bed. It was late and the room was dark. She could see the bundled lump of Jack beneath his own covers. He__ left the television on and the light flickered down the tiny hall. Shadows danced and Sandra shivered as she left the room.In another life, she would have told Danny and Jack about the man. Danny would have whispered, __t__ alright,_ and smoothed back her hair from her face and kissed her, lips dry and coarse on her forehead. Then he and Jack would__e left while she was sleeping. They would__e trampled the flowers and climbed into Xavier Stanliff__ window and when Sandra woke up there would have been one less man in the world.