This is part 2 of an intended series (Part 1 here). A title for this series is still being pondered so when I have decided unveil it, it will be added as a category so you can see the entire work. The first two parts have been written with more to come. Enjoy!
Dripping Thru The Portal Of Hell
a short story by Cult
“and don't whatever you do feed them after midnight…”
Bending over he stretched an arm to retrieve the slim device that is visibly scratched from its impact with the gravel terrain at his feet. His hand stops inches short as he witnesses the darkened screen begin to bulge up at its center. Placing his palm flat against the rough ground he drops to a stance on his knees and leans in closer for a better look. It was very distinct now, definitely not a figment of his imagination any longer, the disruption from inside his phone was causing the screen's casing to splinter and crack.
I don't think this is covered under any warranty
“No mum! It was the phone. It flew by itself... honest.” That was sure to work, it was up there alongside the dog ate my homework excuse.
Then there was... nothing.
Moments pass with no movement, no sound, no yelps or even the slightest adorable crooning... just nothing. Taking a deep breath he decided that the events of the last minute or so were only ever a figment of his overactive imagination. What else could it have possibly been? He hovered over the remnants of his former phone stretching to swipe cautiously at the detritus as if swiping at shards of broken glass could ever be labeled being cautious. Deep within the miniscule pile of now apparently useless technology he saw a flash of movement. He could see a shape, a hand, as the motion slowed somewhat then emerged to grip the unsuspecting youth by the wrist.
Frozen solid in shock John is unable to offer up even a redundant string of curses in retaliation. In the space of a heartbeat he is yanked off balance and down. Before even a whisper can emerge from his terrified throat, the configuration of atoms he had become so accustomed to in his first sixteen years of existence transformed. Muscle, flesh, tendons and bone liquefied with extreme prejudice instantly. His new form slips in relatively comfortably out of its earthly plane sliding unobstructed into an eager and hungry, gaping abyss.
His size ten sneakers, worn for the very first time today, are the only thing left, if only to prove his poor taste in footwear, to any passerby who might happen to see the strange sight.
The Imp cannot see the exact location for the hall is dark but he can detect a shifting of sorts. A patch of meager light appears hovering just short of the ceiling where his Master is pointing, “You didn't call the Ghostbusters? Did you...?”
The messenger is toppled forward barely able to keep his footing as a meaty palm slaps his back in jest, “Relax my boy, it was a joke!”
“Really?! You live in the Pits, amongst filth and vermin, how does that offend your senses?”
In silent fascination they continue to watch. Mucus like tendrils of matter drip sluggishly through the opening having a darkened hue shot through with pulsating veins. The foreign shape most closely resembles an oversized maggot turned inside-out but strangely still exhibiting a perverse will to exist. The malleable construct concludes its descent dropping itself on the ground with a heavy plop! Almost immediately it attempts to coalesce with its surroundings ending in abject failure after only a few seconds. The glistening blob began to shudder and shrink in upon itself.
“Ahh the poor fellow appears lost!” His hoofs reverberate loudly around the vast hall as he takes several strides until the shape is within an arm’s reach.“Just what is this?”
While he basks in the glory of his own humorous observation he is oblivious to the swish of air producing a tiny whistle as the swinging genitalia of his companion hurtles toward him. In the next moment with a sickening smack it connects lifting the tiny green fellow off his feet. He doesn't have ample time to formally introduce himself to the nearby wall as he splatters into it in an accidental but still stunning homage to the celebrated works of Jackson Pollock.
“I am the ONLY funny fucker down in these parts! You'd be wise to take note!”
Unnoticed the gelatinous mass shivers, a tidal wave of ripples cascade across its constantly shifting girth. A bubble moves lazily through its viscous inner workings bursting as it penetrates the surface. A pair of orbs spin in propelled ascent bobbing excitedly as they easily breach the pliable outer skin. Excited motions cease as their rotations slowly fixate on the only other figure in the room, “Well hi there lil fella'. Now... what shall I call you?”
What do you think Scribbler Fans? Let Cult know your thoughts in the comments section below.