When the Sky Bleeds Patches

Name: When the Sky Bleeds Patches
Rating: 5.0 (1 reviews)

Gavin

Short stories | Completed

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The white light faded, leaving me in a Louisiana swamp, mud squelching under my boots. My head throbbed, a familiar echo of the screams and blood from the last game. The System' s voice, tinny and cold, declared my status: "Active. Choice: Continue or Perish." Another round, another nightmare. Our objective? Find "coverings" for Mother Hemlock, a decrepit phantom haunting a sprawling, dilapidated manor. A biker, Jax, tried to defy her. In an instant, she ripped his clothes right off him, leaving him exposed, screaming, before absorbing him and casting him from a high window to become a "patch" for her. Panic set in as we scrambled for scraps, but Mother Hemlock's demands escalated. Others offered the wrong things – metal, useless trinkets – and simply vanished, their screams replaced by the rustle of her growing, tattered robes. Our dwindling supplies meant our turn was coming, and we'd seen what happened when you had nothing left to give. What was this impossible "covering" she truly craved? Through an old telescope, I stared at the horrifying truth: the moon itself wasn' t real. It was a giant, grotesque quilt of stitched material, and her macabre collection was adding to the actual sky. But a haunting Creole lullaby whispered a cryptic clue: "patchwork moon... in the water deep." With resources gone and Mother Hemlock' s final collection imminent, I clung to that chilling song. The sky was high, yes, but what about its reflection? Racing against time, I plunged into the murky bayou, praying the distorted "moon" shimmering on the water's surface held the real answer, the last hope to escape this horrifying, stitched fate.

Thriller Mystery Suspense Fantasy Twist

Chapter 15

06-21 14:40

Introduction

The white light faded, leaving me in a Louisiana swamp, mud squelching under my boots.

My head throbbed, a familiar echo of the screams and blood from the last game.

The System' s voice, tinny and cold, declared my status: "Active. Choice: Continue or Perish."

Another round, another nightmare.

Our objective? Find "coverings" for Mother Hemlock, a decrepit phantom haunting a sprawling, dilapidated manor.

A biker, Jax, tried to defy her. In an instant, she ripped his clothes right off him, leaving him exposed, screaming, before absorbing him and casting him from a high window to become a "patch" for her.

Panic set in as we scrambled for scraps, but Mother Hemlock's demands escalated.

Others offered the wrong things – metal, useless trinkets – and simply vanished, their screams replaced by the rustle of her growing, tattered robes.

Our dwindling supplies meant our turn was coming, and we'd seen what happened when you had nothing left to give.

What was this impossible "covering" she truly craved? Through an old telescope, I stared at the horrifying truth: the moon itself wasn' t real.

It was a giant, grotesque quilt of stitched material, and her macabre collection was adding to the actual sky.

But a haunting Creole lullaby whispered a cryptic clue: "patchwork moon... in the water deep."

With resources gone and Mother Hemlock' s final collection imminent, I clung to that chilling song.

The sky was high, yes, but what about its reflection?

Racing against time, I plunged into the murky bayou, praying the distorted "moon" shimmering on the water's surface held the real answer, the last hope to escape this horrifying, stitched fate.