Once Upon a Black Kraken

  Part 1 | Part 3 “What in the ass you mean you possessed me? To get revenge on that old woman?!” I, understandably angry, questioned my ghostly “friend” Luke.

  Check the complete story HERE!

  "My Probation Consists of Guarding an Abandoned Asylum" | Part 2 “I didn’t kill her.” That’s how I opened my defense with the officers charging me for having murdered the bitch that got me here.

Part 19 | An hour before twilight, Russel arrived on its own luxurious (and until now unknown) yacht to the island. It required a whole crew to sail it and seemed brand new.

  Part 18 | Finale I came out with a plan. You really can’t map out much ahead when you are dealing with the supernatural. But I had an outline of how to approach Dr. Weiss’ situation. It all started in an impulsive action I should’ve thought better.

  Part 17 | Part 19 I couldn’t sleep yesterday. That fucking creature that escaped the cliff’s cave and spent last night howling was coming back. I felt it on my broken shinbone. That tingling that irradiated my left leg pushed me into preparing.

  Part 16 | Part 18 Without any more pending tasks, I strolled around the island. I needed at least one night out of that haunted building. Grabbed a rope from the destroyed shed.

  Part 15 | Part 17 After almost a full term (9 months) of guarding the Bachman Asylum, I’ve learned to be in this place. You never investigate anything bizarre or abnormal that happens if it is not an issue. Yet, stupidly and by pure instinct force, I went up the stairway to the second story. To the dorms. The sobbing had been bothering me just for a couple of hours.

  "I’m gonna recommend the helmet," I announce to Susan. "Gonna get the report, I'll leave you watching the video.”

  — Voy a recomendarle el casco—, anuncio a Susana.— Voy por el reporte, les dejo el video.

Part 14 | Part 16 After having to let go Dr. Weiss, I spent a couple of nights looking for him, expecting to find him debilitated or something.

  Part 13 | Part 15 I finally rearranged the library and found out a couple of curious facts that I overlooked the first time I inventoried it.

  Part 12 | Part 14 Well, at least now with the chaplain/morgue technician defeated, there’s no more reason to keep the spiritual area locked. Yet, the almost-charcoal benches worried me about a possible fire, and the extinguishers surely were empty again.

  Part 11 | Part 13 I spent a couple of days rearranging the books I had, without reason, used as defense mechanism against the dead bodies that came out of their graves a couple days ago. I was almost finished when a noise caught my attention. A mix of thumps and cracks. Now fucking what?

  Part 10 | Part 12 My left leg still hurts after the wound courtesy of the ghost psycho-killer Jack. Even with him gone for good, I still had work to do. For starters, I needed to find what was behind the false wall on the janitor’s closet on Wing A.

  Part 9 | Part 11 RING! I answered the wall phone from my office that doesn’t have a line, but works amazingly well when receiving calls from beyond the grave. It’s always the guy who got killed after I didn’t let him come in on my first night as guard here.

  Part 8 | Part 10 As my seventh task was scratched and my recognition wandering was interrupted last time by a lighthouse “incident,” I continued to explore Bachman Asylum’s surroundings. There was an old shed around a hundred yards away.

  Part 7 | Part 9 I don’t have any more tasks now. It took me three days to finish the library’s inventory. Already asked Alex to bring more fire extinguishers on his next groceries delivery trip. The seventh, and last, instruction is scratched beyond readability. Maybe, for once I could relax.

  Part 6 | Part 8 “6. Make an inventory of the library.” If my task list says so.

  Part 5 | Part 7 As soon as Alex delivered me the gauss and ointment for the empty first aid kit, that I had ordered almost a month ago (if I may say so), I used them to take care of my arm’s burns until now only relieved by slightly cold water. Alex watched me as if I was a desperate, starving animal in a zoo. Pain prevents you from feeling humiliated or offended.

  Part 4 | Part 6 I couldn´t close the Chappel. After being thrown and smashed open the doors of the religious corner of the Bachman Asylum, it turns out I needed a key to lock the entrance as I am instructed to do by my tasks list.

Part 3 | Part 5  I contemplated the reappearing blood stain. Fuck it.

  Part 2 | Part 4 Hadn’t finished my job, so I went back to the cafeteria. The Canterville-ian blood stain was there again, as if I had never cleaned it before.

  Is announced that the manager resigned. Lies. We know. I was there. In the office’s men’s restroom, the urinal demands a tribute. A coin. Our overwhelmed boss, always judgmental about our tradition, entered a toilet constricting his rectum as a snake devouring its prey. A howl from the stall. Violent sucking. Chill-inducing burble. Only blood and shit were left.

  Part 1 | Part 3 Fucking satellite internet my balls!

  | Part 2 A dead guy called me. That’s the only explanation. Okay, too abrupt, let me start at the beginning.

  Certain things do not change. As a child you endure recess alone with your thoughts, same when you become a teacher. Other educators glimpse at me with disgust. Elementary school children do not denominate as " cool " to dialogue with their history “ teach . ” Not even the Christmas spirit alters traditions. Solitary, I eat my reindeer cookie. Cannot recriminate them. The scar, dividing my right cheek like a hemorrhagic cauliflower not chosen from the store due to its aesthetic deficiencies, is tough to ignore. I hear what they are talking about at other tables. Football, the new superhero movie, VTS (what's that?). Despite the hustle and bustle of the place, irritating screams and embarrassing cries, to my left something hijacks my attention: Santa Claus. "I'm going to ask him for a Mimtendo Witch 2 ." A deceived child, Santa Claus is unable to give away something that is rented. "Do you really believe that? Santa does not exist.” Shit. An...

  Ciertas cosas no cambian. De niño toleras tus recreos con tus pensamientos, igualmente al transformarte en maestro. El profesorado me ve con repugnancia. Los niños de primaria no ven “ cool ” dialogar con su “profe” de historia. Ni el espíritu navideño altera las tradiciones, en soledad como mi galleta de reno. No puedo recriminarlos, la cicatriz, que divide mi mejilla derecha como una coliflor hemorrágica no elegida en la tienda por sus deficiencias estéticas, es trabajosa de ignorar. Oigo lo que platican en otras mesas. Futbol, la nueva película de superhéroes, VTS (¿qué es eso?). Pese al bullicio del lugar, gritos irritantes y llantos vergonzosos, a mi izquierda algo secuestra mi interés: Santa Claus. — Le voy a pedir un Mimtendo Witch 2 . Niño iluso, Santa Claus no puede regalar algo que se renta. — ¿En serio crees eso? Santa no existe. Puta madre. Otro niño castrosito y no deseado que sabotea la inocencia ajena. ¿Y yo soy el que come solo? — ¡No es cierto! Tie...

  "What happened to your sister?" Not interrogate me about that. Same thing every time someone accesses my home. The photo is meaningful to me, but I dislike others seeing it. "An accidental fire," I lie. *** Easter. 1989. A warm spring for the rainy season we are used to. Stereotypical: Sun, flowers, animals and children playing. Every year, Mom would hide in the park the Easter eggs that we decorated during the previous month and filled with confetti. My little sister and I tracked them down to use as projectiles. It was the version of violence and confrontation allowed in a single day of annual catharsis. At the bottom of my basket, I came across a peculiar egg. Extremely ornamented. Not the one embellished by elementary school kids with cheap watercolors. I felt the texture of the design in my fingertips. Vivid colors and intricate drawings mesmerized me. My older sister approached. I presented her my souvenir. Without noticing, she cracked it in m...

  — ¿Qué le pasó a tu hermana? No me cuestiones eso. Lo mismo cada que alguien ingresa a mi hogar. La fotito es significativa para mí, pero me disgusta que otros la vean. — Un incendio accidental—, miento. *** Pascua. 1989. Una primavera cálida para el clima lluvioso que acostumbramos. Estereotípico: Sol, florecitas, animalitos y niños jugando. Cada año, mamá ocultaba en el parque los huevitos de pascua que decorábamos durante el mes anterior y rellenábamos con confeti. Mi hermanita y yo los rastreábamos para usarlos como proyectiles. Era la versión de violencia y enfrentamiento permitido en un único día de catarsis anual. En el fondo de mi canasta me topé con un huevito peculiar. Extremadamente ornamentado. No aquel personalizado por críos de primaria con acuarelas baratas. Sentía la textura del diseño en mis yemas. Colores vivos y dibujos intricados me hipnotizaron. Mi hermana mayor se aproximó. Le presenté mi souvenir. Sin advertirlo, lo reventó en mi cabeza. No hu...