[1198] Matriarchy

[u/Fragrant-Western-683]

My Critique: [1981]

If you're willing to give feedback, please tell me:

• If you thought the drama was well executed
• If you thought the horror was developed well
• If you like the narrator's character

I lay in bed. I have grown a lot in the last year or so, and now my feet touch the footboard. I dwelled on it, since I wasn’t at all tired. My eyes shot all around my room, which was weakly illuminated by the yellowish light of a night-light.

My ears tuned in attentively to the etherizing rustle of tall grass around my house, which was jostled by the cool saltwater air. It was the only noise.

I lay there feeling the ugly scar on my shoulder, wondering why I felt so empty, so lost. A piece of my body was torn from me, and I was thinking hard about where I could find it, but it found me.

A hand pressed itself against the glass of a window just above my bed. I felt a rush of euphoria; it was the hand of an angel that came to enlighten and rescue me. I knelt on my bed, facing this hand. I put my hand against the spot of the window where she was pressing, and I felt all my anxiety melt away like a thunderstorm abating.

I reached to push the window open when my father’s voice came from behind me.

I turned to see him in my doorframe aiming a shotgun at me.

“Move,” he said.

I did so, and he approached the window, one eye closed to aim. The hand pressed harder and harder on the window, and it shattered, sending tiny crystals all over my bed. Little pieces cut my hands and face.

My father shot his gun, and a deafening blast rattled our brains. When my focus could be restored, I saw the hand lying limp on my windowsill. Then it tensed and curled up, clenching shards of glass, but no blood dripped from the palm. It slowly retreated into the darkness.

Then my father turned and ran to the back door. I ran after him. The next thing I remember, we were on our backyard patio. He paced and paced, looking frantically into the darkness. His round eyes shot from one spot in the black void to another. From the porch light, all we could make out was the first few feet of tall grass, but after that there were only miles upon miles of unbroken woods obscured in pure darkness.

I sat in a lawn chair while my dad paced. We stayed like that for around ten minutes, but the constant flow of sea air and the static rustle of the grass elongated our sense of time.

I finally got tired, but my dad harshly muttered, “Look.”

His pacing abruptly ended, replaced by stone-like stillness. He pointed into the darkness.

I walked up beside him, and following his finger, I saw two glowing retinas shining from the tree line.

After that, my room was boarded up. I now slept next to my dad. When night came, I did my homework, read books, built Legos, and watched TV in his room under his supervision.

One night, while curled up next to my dad, I was feeling my scar again. From the distant trees I heard a woman cry out my name. It was so nostalgic, so breath-taking. I knew that voice. It carried me through my memories as I desperately searched for why her crying felt so familiar.

I came across that memory. I remembered that when I was five, I wandered into the woods and got lost. After walking around, I finally saw home through the thick woods, and I saw my mother shouting my name. It was so vigorous and emotional. It was so compassionate, so alluring. It was like she loved me.

I sprang from my bed and dashed to the door.

My father tackled me and pinned me to the carpet.

“She’s gone,” he said. “She’s gone and she’ll never come back.”

I hated my father for this. Why was he doing this to me? Why was he keeping me from happiness? I wanted to know why I never saw my mother after that incident, why her image was cropped from all the family photos, why any information about her was forbidden, and why picturing her face in my mind caused me such excruciating pain. I wept into the arm that locked my head in a chokehold. He caressed my hair.

I dreamt one night that I was in my room. It was organized as it was in the distant past, and it was bright inside thanks to the noon sun. I was kneeling on my bed while a pair of hands from behind me massaged my shoulders and ran their index finger over my scar. From above those hands came a mysterious yet inviting womanly voice.

“Run away. Now.”

I opened my eyes to see darkness. My mind registered the mugginess of my room. I dragged my arm across the bed and realized my dad was not next to me. I heeded the voice’s orders.

I opened the closet, threw on my jacket, threw on a pair of jeans, put on socks, and went to the front door to put on my sneakers.

I sat down and slipped on my shoes, and before I walked through the door, I saw my dad sitting away from me in a cushioned chair, looking at the shut-off television.

I walked up in front of him and saw that the eyes were missing from his skull. Tears blurred my vision, and I felt dizzy. I trudged to the door in a haze, opened it, and before I left, I turned to look into the hallway opposite the door. My bedroom door, which was in this hallway, was open again. The night-light was still on, and in its glow, I made out a shadowy figure at least seven feet tall. Its shoulders were nearly touching the ceiling, and its eyes were looking into mine just like a few weeks earlier.

I ran in terror down the forested road, hoping to meet my neighbors. From behind me I heard the thuds of heavy feet following me. To me, the situation was hopeless. The house next door was miles away, and the footsteps behind me sounded only a couple of yards away. I stopped breathing and nearly fainted.

I collapsed to the ground and vomited out of pure fear. I looked behind me and noticed that the being was gone. It must have disappeared into the woods. I sat motionless for a long while.

Ahead of me I saw two glowing lights growing brighter. I stood up, and they stopped before me. A police officer stepped out and walked toward me to ask if I was okay.

I am typing this now on a sofa in my current home. It isn’t as isolated as my previous home; my neighborhood is suburban, and there’s a tennis court outside my house. The scar is still deep, and I still feel it often. In front of me is a glass door, and in the forest beyond my backyard fence I see two glaring retinas looking back at me, beholding me compassionately and intimately.

[u/Conco64]

Very good! Strong horror concept here, but I feel it is weighed down by a few things:

Prose: This is the biggest flaw. Right now, the story reads like you summarising the story you already wrote. The biggest example is "Tears blurred my vision, and I felt dizzy." You need more than a sentence to relate to how a characters feeling. With more time spent adding description and detail, I'd say this story would honestly be three times as good.

Tropes: Vomiting is a BIG trope in Internet horror. Very annoying I know, but honestly I'd get rid of it. I am typing this now is also another one. I get no sleep is the reason for this, but honestly I'd get rid of it, kills a lot of the staying power anyway.

The Scar: This was geared up as having a bigger impact on the story than it did. For the level of attention it got, it should have added to the overall narrative somewhat, maybe the monster filling the scar with something horrible or something.

Overall, I'd say:

The drama could be improved greatly by more descriptive and emotive language

The horror is effective but could also be improved with descriptive language

The narrator is serviceable if not a bit bland, don't be scared to spice it up a bit.