Going Mental #1

(This is a original story rather than a fan fic, but I think it belongs here, or at least not anywhere else)

(Rated M, due to some violence)

(Suggestions for future content within the story are very welcome)

Going Mental #1: Deal with the devil

I wake up to a lump of wet dirt landing on my face. Before I can sit up another pile lands on my face, and I fall back trying to wipe it out of my eyes, grasping at my surroundings. I’m realizing that I’m lying on the cold earth outside in the heavy rain. Grasping at the muddy walls I start to remember what happened. I’d been snooping, looking for some dirt to give to my boss at the tabloids, hopefully something kinky and strange enough that the bastard I’m spying on can deny it easily and won’t feel the need to have some guys kick my head in. But I heard something bad, something real bad. And I freaked. I freaked and they caught me and now I’m going to die. And suddenly it hits, I’m not in some muddy hole in the ground, I’m in my own grave.

I’d like to say I burst through the dirt through sheer brute force, or that I tricked one of the goons into stopping with my amazing cunning, but I didn’t, I didn’t do a thing and I’m damned for it. Because when you’re facing death, really facing death, you’re more desperate then you’ve ever been, and there’s always someone waiting to abuse that if they can. In this case it might as well have been the devil himself. “Need a hand?” The voice echoed in my mind, it was calm and quiet, the exact opposite of my thoughts at the time. I didn’t dare open my mouth to respond, I was suffocating as it was and I didn’t want any dirt in my mouth. “Don’t worry about responding with your voice.” It was like this guy could read my thoughts. “I can read your thoughts, after I’m speaking into your mind.” I shook in horror. I’d heard about telepaths before, guys who knew everything you wanted to do, what you would do, and could rip you apart with their minds before you could even react. “Actually my abilities are quite restricted given my lack of physical form, believe it or not.” So I was hearing voices, hallucinating before death, so much for your life flashing before your eyes. “Actually I can save you, if you let me use your body.” So I had a choice give my body, or die like an animal. “I’ll give you your body back, and you’ll only have to do me one small favor.” I could feel myself running out of air, tears streamed down my face, it was hardly my finest hour. “So what will it be?” I made the only choice I could.

Three thugs all stood around Richard Hamilton’s newly dug grave, discussing matters most morbid. One was pointing out the prospect of blasting out Richard’s brains and how much time it would have saved. His fellow pointed out that this would be far too messy and most likely bring about unwanted attention, which he added was the reason they had decided to kill Richard in the first place. The third gave a snide remark about a freshly dug grave not exactly being something that people tend to ignore. Before their argument could escalade, like so many of these had before, the dirt that they had spent so much effort piling onto poor Richard exploded into the air. Richard slowly flouted out of the grave, his eyes giving an eerie unearthly glow. “So, who dies first?” His voice was calm and quiet. The first thug, the biggest and no doubt dumbest of the bunch swung his shovel at Richards head. It stopped just short, held back by the same force that lifted Richard. He gave a ghoulish smile. “Henry Dirgen. Age 25, another lost child in a careless social system, turned to crime after a string of failures in low wage jobs. This is his first murder and he wishes it could have gone so much faster so he didn’t have time to regret it in the moment.” The large thug grasped at his neck as if he were running out of air. His eyes rolled back in his head and he fell to the ground. Richard didn’t flinch, turning to the other thugs. “So, whoever thinks of the best name for me gets to live.”

A few minutes later Richard flew off grumbling, leaving three corpses behind. “Psycho is not a super hero name.”

Nice work, I cant wait for more, I only wish you would have described more of what Richard looked like hovering over his grave. Just a though, but then I'm no writer.