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Bloody Shadows	By : twiz Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Korn Views: 1512 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Korn. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Bloody Shadows
- 1
Disclaimer: I own neither Jonathan nor James. I’m making no money from this.

A/N: Don’t take this fic too seriously. My morbidity is common knowledge. Never would I want something like this to ever happen. This fic was originally intended to be a dream sequence in a larger work of fiction, but I lost the motivation for it and decided to keep this as a standalone. Reviews are welcome, flames are expected, so feel free to post either one. Reviews will be used to stuff my pillows, flames will be used to roast the hearts and genitals of my enemies.

Dark. That's all I saw. Darkness surrounding me, suffocating me. I knew I was walking; I could feel my legs moving, but I didn't see anything other than the darkness. I could hear water dripping faintly, far away. My footfalls echoed back hollowly from... something. I don't know if it was walls or a ceiling, because I couldn't fucking see - but I knew where I was going. I knew exactly where my feet were taking me, even if I couldn't see what they were walking on.

A little farther ahead and I could finally see something - a faint glow, as if from around a bend in a corridor. The dripping sound grew louder, and grew steadily as I continued walking. Then it got fainter. I'd passed it, left it behind me, along with the dark, because by then I could see, though still faintly, my feet moving beneath me. I wasn't wearing shoes. For some reason, I questioned their absence, but only for a moment. It didn't seem important. The only thing worth worrying about was what I was going to see when I turned that corner.

For it was a bend in a corridor. The light was shining from beneath a door; the only door I could see, and for all I knew, the only door in the entire place. As I rounded the bend, I saw it was an old steel affair, with a tiny window off center, with criss-crossing wire fused with the glass. I felt a sense of dread as I looked at the door - as if I knew what would be on the other side.

Of course, I did know what was on the other side. The reason for my being there was on the other side. But one thing I didn't understand: If I knew what was on the other side, why did I still open the damn door? Why didn't I turn on my heel and run back from where I came? Even the pitch black was more welcome than what lay on the other side of that door. In the dark, you can't see, and if you can't see, you can't be terrified of what you're looking at.

When I was a boy, my mother always used to tell me there wasn't anything in the dark that isn't there in the light. Even then, I wanted to scream at her that there were awful things in the dark, because if you can't see it, your mind will make it up for you. I used to think that the things my six-year-old imagination conjured up in the dark hours were the worst things I could ever see.

Before I opened the door, I believed it still.

With my mind screaming at me, I lifted one numb, shaking hand to the latch on the door. It was cold. It sent an ice-cold sliver of fear straight to my heart, but I opened it anyway. I had to. There was no getting around the fact. The sun rises in the east, and I had to open the door. It was that simple.

Rusty hinges protested; heavy steel grated against the floor. I looked down and saw the half-moon shape as the bottom of the door pushed years - maybe decades - of dust in it's passing. I squinted my eyes against the sudden brightness. The room was illuminated by a single, bare light bulb, suspended from the very center of the ceiling, swaying a bit and casting rocking shadows on the walls.

At first, I didn't even see the blood.

I stepped forward into the room, feeling my heart thud against my ribs and my tongue glued to the roof of my mouth. There was no sound at all. Even the sound of my heartbeat was absent. My footfalls were silent. I couldn't tell if I was holding my breath or not, because I couldn't hear my breathing, either. The room was dead quiet. Literally.

His eyes were what I was drawn to first. Normally a deep, dark brown beneath drooping eyelids, they were now dull and lifeless, wide open in shock - or fear. It could easily have been mortal fear. What was it they had seen? What would put such a look of terror into them? Then I asked myself if I really wanted to know.

"Jonathan?" I heard a hoarse voice whisper, and realized it was my own.

For what felt like forever, I stood staring at my best friend, pale and lifeless, suspended in midair by nothing but meat hooks embedded in his wrists. His head hung loose, resting against one shoulder in a peculiar way. His neck was obviously broken; I could see a sharp object bulging against the skin below his ear. Blood had leaked from both ears, his nose and his eyes. His chin was practically painted red from the flow from his mouth.

What was left of his body was simply an empty shell. His chest cavity had been... well, ripped open is the only way I can describe it. Organs lay in a gruesome heap below his feet, which dangled only inches from the ground. His toes were dark purple.

My feet, shuffling along the dusty ground, stumbled upon a cold, sticky puddle on the floor. In a haze, I shifted my gaze to the floor. Now I saw the blood. Oh yes—now I saw it. I was standing in a thick puddle of the stuff. It looked nearly black in the dim light cast by the light bulb above. Here and there, it had clotted and dried. It looked like morbid islands in a sea of red. Then the smell hit me. The wet, coppery smell of old, dead blood. It was somehow a cold smell, like wet metal. The kind of smell that gives you a headache. The kind of smell you associate with playing on the monkey bars at the playground after a rain, when your foot slips and you crack your skull against them.

I was going to be sick very, very shortly.

"James," a voice called out. A dry, reedy whisper of a voice.

I felt my heart lurch painfully in my chest. My lungs locked up, and for few seconds, I was afraid I was going to suffocate. My eyes tore away from the floor, where they had been raptly staring at the red puddle at my feet. They drifted up, towards the voice. I didn't want them to. I didn't want to see what I somehow knew I was going to see. But it seems that in situations like these, the body never seems to pay attention to what the mind tells it.

Jonathan's eyes had turned towards me. They were still dead, still wide open in fear. But now, they were looking in my direction. And that voice... where had it come from? Was it even real? Or was it my imagination fucking with m-

"James."

This time, I'm certain my heart had taken a firm hold of my windpipe and given it a good squeeze. There was no mistaking whose voice it was. The mutilated chunk of meat formerly known as Jonathan Davis was speaking to me. I had even seen his pale lips part to allow the gust of breath to form my name. In a brief moment of horrified clarity, I wondered how he could have spoken, since his lungs were currently lying at my feet.

“James,” I heard him whisper. I looked on in horror as his dead eyes slowly blinked. “Help… me…”

Fin
- 1
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Bloody Shadows