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The Demon

In English, we had to write a horror story. Our English teacher is a complete scaredy cat. So of course, I tried to write the most terrifying horror story a girl my age could get way with without being called into the principal’s office. Anyway, here is my horror story. Enjoy!


We had to design covers for our story. Thank you to the obliging eye that was vastly edited during photoshop.

We had to design covers for our story. Thank you to the obliging eye that was vastly edited using photoshop. It was a painful process.

The Demon lurked in the shadows and waited. The women walking home were spotlighted by the streetlights, all of them obliviously falling under The Demon’s judgment. He was salivating over which lovely lady he would spend the night with.

The Demon wondered when he’d become so predatory. He smiled as he thought back to nine years ago, when he was not The Demon.

She was beautiful. Blonde hair fell over her shoulders, her blue eyes full of uncorrupted innocence and her lips sensuous and inviting. Angelina was the epitome of perfection. She was only 19 – fresh out of school. Luke wondered what she was doing in Paris with a dark-minded 22-year-old like him. All Luke knew was that he wanted her. He wanted to be the one to take her innocence.

“When are you going to introduce me to your parents?” she whined. “I’ve been waiting so long to meet them!”

Luke cast his eyes downward. “I… I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Because I –” Should he tell her? Not yet. “I just don’t think it’s time yet.”

“I just don’t think it’s time yet.” The Demon watched a couple fighting as they walked home. She was saying that she didn’t believe they were ready for a family while he was desperate for a child. “When then?” he snarled. “When?”

“When you get a job, when you stop drinking, when I know that there’ll be a job for me when I come back to work, when we can afford a baby…”

“God, you’re impossible!”

The Demon watched as they fought, recognising the man’s anger issues. He reminded him of his father.

His father was The Devil. He enjoyed causing trouble for people and making their lives Hell. Luke had tried to lessen his father’s influence on him. He’d even shortened his name from Lucifer to Luke. That was before he’d become The Demon. The Demon thought back to when he’d started to become who he was. It was a while ago now.

It all started when he was 16. A boy born to be bad, Luke had come in late after stealing a bottle of gin. His parents were fighting again.

“You can’t just let him wander around the neighbourhood, taking things and beating people up. What if he gets caught? What if someone has enough of him and beats him up?”

“Then he can handle himself. He is my son, and he’s merely following his destiny!”

“But –”

“Ah, shut up woman!” Luke watched in horror as his father closed his fist and punched his wife. He watched as he did it again. And again. And again.

His mother scrambled around, looking for something to defend herself with, as The Devil towered over her. She eventually grabbed hold of a knife, but it was no use. In less than a minute, his father had overpowered her. Her blood pooled around Luke’s feet, creeping through his sneakers and soaking his socks.

The Demon has always remembered that day. He remembered how his father had calmly cleaned up the blood, and how he was forced to bin his clothes. His mother’s body was burnt in the backyard the next day. He remembered how he had gathered up the ashes to make a makeshift burial.

The Demon was brought back to reality by a girl walking past. Those eyes, that hair. A pang of sadness hit him as he remembered that it couldn’t possibly be Angelina. He’d been there when she died.

He went back to when he was 22. His father was sitting with his back to his son.

“Dad –”

“I know about the girl.”

“Oh.”

“You want to marry her?”

“Yes.”

He sighed. “Lucifer. Take a look at yourself. You’re my son. You can’t possibly marry her.”

“I will do it, even if I don’t have your blessing.”

“Thought you might say that.” A large armchair spun round to reveal Angelina, bound and gagged. Her eyes widened as The Devil clicked his fingers. Flames engulfed her and soon, she was Angelina no more. Luke watched as she was murdered by his father. Just like his mother.

The Demon constantly thought back to that day. He watched as a buxom bombshell walked past his hiding spot as he reminisced the repercussions of that event with pleasure.

He’d crept into his father’s room, where he lay defenceless beneath the sheets. From underneath his cloak, he pulled out a large cleaver. He thought back to his mother and the smell of her bloodied body, turning into ash in a matter of hours. He thought back to Angelina, the final look of terror on her face as she realised she was about to die. Two defenceless women. Dead.

He looked at his father. Without any emotion, Luke swung his arm and butchered his father. One, two, three blows, and he refused to stop. He enjoyed the sound of bones snapping at his touch. He enjoyed the sight of his father’s mangled body. He enjoyed the feel of the cleaver in his hand. He enjoyed the smell of blood on the sheets. He enjoyed the way he could almost taste his father’s pain.

After that night, there was nothing left for Luke. Suspicion would fall onto him, and he couldn’t allow that. He’d shed his identity, the person he was. He’d became a shadow of himself.

From that moment on, he’d become The Demon.

His father hadn’t been his last victim. He would use women, for his own needs, his own pleasure before leaving them, throats cut, lives gone. It wouldn’t be until much later that he realised he was no better than his father.

But it was too late now. He’d turned to crime, and there was no going back. He enjoyed the adrenaline of murder, the high that powerless women gave him.

The Demon watched as an attractive brunette strutted past. He crept out from the shadows and followed her home. He’d found his prey for the night.


So obviously the formatting isn’t that brilliant (damn you, WordPress!), but I am interested in what you think, so leave a comment! (God, I sound like a YouTuber…)

Well, thank you for reading and I hope that you have a lovely rest of your life!

-The Empress


The Imagination and Poison

Given the astounding response I ha to my last post (sarcasm detected), I decided to write you something for Easter.

Just kidding! This is completely unrelated to Easter. It’s just the timing of posting. Enjoy your chocolate 🙂


Think of poison. You don’t even know you’ve been struck until it’s too late. And then comes the pain. A burning fire spreads through you like a prickly blanket of nettles, clawing at you like an untameable beast before that final moment when it stops. You realise that Death’s cold, clammy hands are crawling over you, about to steal you, and as you finally accept the inevitable, you feel a flicker of the greatest euphoria you’ve ever known the moment that you die. Now imagine that all of these twisted felings can be felt within a split second.
That is the curse of the imagination. Like Prometheus and the Eagle, by the time you recover from the shock of imagination, it comes at you again, battering at you relentlessly, until finally, you have to give in and put pen to paper. That is the daily occurernce that goes on in the mind of a writer.
It’s like a wave that washes over you repeatedly. The first time is heart-stopping: cold, biting and overwhelming. But then you get used to it. You get used to the tingle that shudders down your back when you get a new idea, the butterflies that flutter in your stomach when you think of a character, the stone that drops to your feet when you write that first sentence.
However there will always be times when it hits you again. It occupys your mind costantally like a teenage lover, and you know, you just know, that it’s the one. That it’s your greatest work. That soon, the world will be screaming your name. You will be on shelves beside J.K Rowling and Agatha Christie. You will be remembered with Shakespeare and Charles Dickens.
And with that finality, you set to work. Day in, day out, until you’re finished. Then when you do, you feel empty. Now what?
Well, the poison strikes again. And the ruthless cycle that your imagination has unwillingly sucked you into repeats itself again and again and again. And you, as the writer, not only embrace it, but you consume it: because you know in the depths of your heart that the day you lose this feeling, leave this cycle, is the day you die.
And you love it.


Opinions welcome. No, opinions encouraged, mandatory even.

Happy Easter!

– The Empress


My First Sonnet!

I have been dying to write a sonnet for AGES! So, today, considering I had no schoolwork, and I had just had my State Music Camp Audition (which I completely screwed up, for the curious), I decided I would write one. This one is written in the freer, English style, which is often called the Shakespearean style, compared to the tighter Italian style, called the Petrarchan style. In true Shakespearean style, I’m calling this Sonnet 1.


I do not think that you know what love is
For your behaviour is horrid and cruel
And yet you insist with you I’ll find bliss
But you forget I’m no longer your fool.

The loved we shared was a lethal poison
That slowly killed my unfortunate soul
And although we had a nice liaison
You soon made it exceedingly awful.

But you promised it would be different
And like a dumb fool, I fell for your lies
Then to me you became indifferent
Now I just wished you had seen through my eyes.

Through your own fault you lie at my feet dead
My bullet passed through your exquisite head.


All opinions welcome! This is my first sonnet, and I would like to write more, so all the advice you guys can give is greatly appreciated 🙂

-The Empress



The door slams behind me and I slide down the old wood. My fingers are trembling and my hands are covered with thick, jammy blood. I don’t know what happened. I think Sven put me in here.

I don’t know why he put me in here. There must’ve been a death. A human death. I try to remember, although I’m struggling. Whenever a wolf changes, there’s always half an hour where you’re purely a wolf. No human emotions, no human memories.

This is the most deadly time to be a wolf. Depending on how many packs there are in the woods, it can be quite literally Kill or be killed. So many murders have gone unsolved in the woods. I still find it hard to believe that it was only last year that George had butchered that village boy, Samuel.

I hear a sharp rap on the door, and I realise that I’m in a priest’s hole. I hear a voice. “I’m DCI Johnson. I’m investigating the potential murder of Scarlet Blake.”

“Oh!” replied a young female voice. “Where was she found?”

“In the woods out the back of your property.”

“The woods you say? Are you sure she was murdered? It could’ve been the wolves.”

“The wolves?”

“Yes. When I was five, my sister was taken by the wolves.”

“Your sister?” I couldn’t see anything. I imagined that he was recording he every word.

“Yes. My sister was twelve at the time.”

“Was her body ever found?”

“No, Inspector.”

“What was her name?”

“Astrid. Astrid Ballinger.” I have to use every ounce of my self-control to stop myself from screaming out. Of all the houses, Sven chose the one which housed young Jasmine. I don’t think I’ve seen her since I was turned, since she was five. I imagined that Johnson had stopped her writing to look at Jasmine sharply. “You sure?”

“Yes… why?”

She sighed. “I was investigating that case.” She paused. “Some of her DNA was found at the scene.” I felt myself shaking.

“That’s impossible. She was killed by the wolves.”

“Are you sure?”

“What do you mean?” Jasmine’s voice went very frigid. 

Johnson matched her voice with equal coldness. “Her body was never found.” 


So, there’s a little post for you about Astrid the Werewolf. I told you you won’t see these characters for the last time. Don’t worry, there’ll be another short story/poem/whatever-I-feel-like-writing very soon.

I’m sorry I haven’t posted anything for a while. Life took over. But I will post very soon to make up for it.

– The Empress


In the Water

A poem for you because I wanted to, and I’m really bored:

In the water, I am free

In the water, I am me.

The water rushes through my ears

The people’s hate; I cannot hear.

Beneath the waves is where I play

Alone yet tranquil, everyday.

The water quickly fills my eyes

Masking the pain behind my lies

The bubbles stream up to the sun

Briefly in peace, I don’t want to run.

The clouds hide the water’s glare

Just for a moment, I see the loathsome stares

I dive in, the water’s glass cracks

Like my mental walls as they are smashed.

Sometimes I wish it would all just end

The loneliness, the spite; the lack of real friends.

In the water, I am free

In the water, I am me.

Alone yet calm, I await my Death

For that euphoric feeling before my last breath.

Ugh, I need to motivate myself to do my geography. Wish me luck!

-The Empress


Happy Valentine’s Day!

Today, I feel like sharing the love this Valentine’s Day with a special poem, just for my lovely followers. And what a better theme than the mighty colour of love, red?

Red.

A fluttering in the heart

Someone you can’t bear to part

Love forevermore

Red.

The voice of passion

A powerful assassin

Campaigning forevermore

Red.

Alone on a journey

The future, so murky

Searching forevermore

Red.

A heart racing

Two lovers embracing

True love forevermore

Red.

A bouquet of roses

A lover proposes

Valentines forevermore

So, while it’s not my best poem by a long way, it’s just a little something to get you in the mood.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

– The Empress


Fifty Shades of Irony

Today, Fifty Shades of Grey was released in my country! While I haven’t read the books, and don’t intend to, I just thought I would share that bit of irony with you.

Watch this space for more literature!

– The Empress