Scarlet in the Night of Terrors. Chapter 1.
This is the first chapter of my new horror short story "Scarlet in the Night of Terrors."
I hope to make this story part of an anthology book.
The opening prologue is a poem which can be found here: https://steemit.com/writing/@jeezzle/scarlet-screams-the-night
Scarlett woke with a start on the cold stone floor of the dilapidated building. The wind whistled through a brick sized hole in the glass window above her.
Hooligans.
Her parents were long since dead. The only ones who claimed to care about her were mostly interested in the simple question of whether or not she could earn them a dollar.
She pulled the scratchy wool blanket tight around her aching chest. They came and went but these days most of the girls had been taken by the cough. Just thinking about it made her throat start to itch. She absentmindedly scratched it with the palm of her left hand.
Hoofbeats in the distance. A carriage. She dreamt of being a lady well garbed riding in the back of a cushioned carriage to some fancy mansion..... but she knew she was no better than a sewer rat.
The only thing keeping her off the streets begging for bread in a dark alleyway was more a curse than a blessing.
"They only love me for my mind" she jested, rubbing her naked belly. She could really use a bath.
Getting up she stretched out her arms and yawned with an uncovered mouth.
This house had plenty of rooms in it and several of the rooms had beds in them but the girls were not allowed to sleep in those beds. Those beds had one purpose and one purpose only. They were for servicing gentlemen. Clients only.
"One day I will own my own house and sleep in my own bed. All I need is a rich donor."
She walked over to the hole in the wall that she called a closet and pulled a dirty brown day dress from a hanger. She beat it several times against the concrete wall as dust filled the air around her.
Taking a bottle of pink perfume out of a nearby chest of drawers she sprayed the dress over and over again.
Nice and fresh.
She pulled a pair of once white knickers from the same chest of drawers. It had been painted black but now it was mostly brown with black flakes. She slipped them on quickly and then put on her dress.
She didn't have any regular clients so she would have to fight to use a mirror to fix her hair or even go to the restroom.
Walking down the long hallway towards the front door she couldn't help notice how badly it smelled.
It reeked of greed, despair, money, anger, sadness....... but most of all the fetid stench of sex. It wasn't as if any of these girls had a choice. You did what you had to do in order to survive. This was London after all.
If you died tomorrow you would just be another random name on a list at the police station........ and that was a really long list.
In fact the perpetrator would probably be back for another round with a different girl and she would have to just take it.
Even as she thought that she passed by Clara's room, her dark hair covering her soft white hands as she sobbed uncontrollably.
She paused for a moment at the entrance as Clara looked up for just a moment. Her left eye was black and bruised and her lips were dripping blood onto her lacy red night gown.
Scarlet kept moving down the corridor. No time for sad thoughts. This is the world and she hadn't eaten in 24 hours.
It was time to go make some money.
Leaving the lady's house with her hair in a tight bun and with bright red lipstick she knew she looked good enough to catch a fine fish.
It was 8:00 in the evening and the sky was just getting dark.
End of Chapter 1.
I hope you enjoyed this story.
Follow me @jeezzle
Jeezzle, Great start..
Thanks!
Hey there! I'm glad I caught this, excellent beginning my friend.
It's gotten to the point where I definitely do not have enough hours in a day, so in cases like this I actually would love it if you linked the next chapter in one of my comment sections or I'll probably miss it.
How've you been?
I know exactly what you mean. When I come out with the next chapter I will definitely link it in a comment. I've been really good. Eric Vance Walton sent me a copy of his book called "One Word at a Time. Finding your Way as an Indie Author." and I've been reading it every night before I go to bed. For me it's difficult to write fiction on here because everything else seems to do much better....... and seriously writing fiction is a lot harder than writing a blog piece.
I was actually thinking about you earlier today because I saw the pictures from the trip you guys took. How cool is that? I meant to comment but I think I've been kind of forgetful about commenting lately. I hope to get involved like that one day. In the meantime I'll just keep writing. Thank you for commenting and reading my story.
Eric is so awesome.
It's true that blogs do better than fiction, just as posts about crypto do better than anything else. But for me fiction is what I most enjoy, so while I will do blogs I will never give up on my stories, and it does eventually pay off. When people see you consistently in those tags you build a following and the rewards grow. And believe me, it is an awesome feeling to be recognized for doing something you love, much more so than a higher payout for a post you felt 'meh' about making.
But of course it's up to you. I am glad to see you trying though :)