NOTE: This is an old story of mine. I found it on my PC and had a moment reminiscent of nostolgia. Decided to post it on Teen Ink just for the fun of it. Here it is, reposted in its full, unedited glory. Grammar Nazis beware, this was written by a younger, dumber version of myself.
2000, October 31st. Flying over France and about to land in Paris
The older man's tense face was wrinkled up in anxiety, his wide eyes fleeing from here to there on the laptop's screen. The man was younger than he looked (although he was actually quite old), his name was Mr. Glass, but with his face wrinkled up like a newly used napkin, he looked close to the end of his life. He held the traits of a man in the deepest form of stress; his back was bent, his tie hanging out like a forgotten thing, scarcely noticed by its owner; his long, gnarled fingers and wrinked hands shook with either Parkinson's Disease or a deep fear that overwhelmed his own control; and his eyes zoomed around his sockets, not focusing on more than one thing for a few seconds on his bright laptop screen.
Mr. Glass sighed audibly, shifting his short attention to the window of his own rented, private jet. White, puffy clouds flew by or were torn to shreds by the zooming plane; the bright blue sky either being wrenched from his view or momentarily showing its placid beauty. Mr. Glass had hoped to find a constant in the view from outside his window, but he found the only constant out there, or anywhere in these last few minutes as a matter of fact, was change. Completely and utterly horrifying change.
Suddenly, and to Mr. Glass's extreme shock, the white, welcoming clouds shifted to dark, grey, and ominous pillars of twisting storm cloud; deep, growling thunder and lightning clawing inside of them. Mr. Glass shot a quivering hand to the blind and closed it hurriedly. Out of sight, out of mind. Mr. Glass would find this quite to the contrary.
A few moments after tapping his foot on the ground to an out-of-beat tempo in anxiety, wiping his brow of the sweat that collected on it with a shaking hand, and recoiling every time the loud, crashing sound of thunder boomed, the door to the control room opened. What came out Mr. Glass would never have guessed in a million years.
Out came an unnaturally thin figure, a black hoodie throwing shadows over his downcast face to hide his likely leering expression. Dirty, black jeans that looked a couple sizes to big for the man somehow stayed on his gaunt legs. Both of Mr. Glass's seated bodyguards eyed each other and tried to remember if they had seen this unearthly man board the flight.
"I don't remember seeing you join the flight, mister. What's your name?" One of the bodygaurds, Ethan, asked without standing up.
They were given no reply, only the uncovering of a hidden weapon that was in a hidden pocket in his jacket. The gaurds rushed to their feet in an attempt to stop the attacker, but the muffled "phwact, phwact" of a silenced pistol's reports accompanied the dull thump of the two dropped guards. They would never stand again.
The eerie being made his way over to Mr. Glass, stepping casually over one of the dead guards. As the figure slowly walked closer and closer, the very shadows of the plane seemed to flee their corners and cling to the mysterious man, like a long estranged child would do to his father or mother. The thing accepted them, drawing them around him like the blackest robe, clothing himself in the purest form of darkness.
Mr. Glass was huddled like a cowering child into the corner of his soft, cushioned seat, his hands quivering much more than they had been earlier; his eyes darting around like the hooded man's quick bullets. The thing stopped dramatically right before him, his weapon hanging down at his side, and his figure imposing.
"What is it you want? is it money? I'll give it you!" Mr. Glass's voice shook, his heavy German accent revealed and a fear-like paralysis overpowering him.
"Mr. Glass, did you receive my message perchance?" Glass gulped, his eyes wide with terror. "I want your life, Mr. Glass... your life." He positioned the pistol to his forehead, death only waiting on the lazy pull of a finger, "Your crimes against humanity must be re-payed." The thing shifted. "Do you remember the children?"
"I will change, I will!" He yelled, blocking the ghastly figure out of sight with his now violently shaking hands.
"Even in the future, Glass, you would be comfortable reliving that time again; if you are honest, without the slightest hesitation of conscience." The thing paused. "It's not personal to me, Glass, but to them, it is." And the gloved finger pulled the trigger, the "phwact" of a silenced bullet once more ripping into flesh and finding the softer contents it housed. For once on this entire ride, Mr. Glass's body relaxed; his back bent the other way now, the tie resting on his slightly round stomach; the hands were still, finding sweet rest for eternity; and the eyes... the eyes were un-moving. The wicked figure moved the computer screen to his point of view, an early form of the email displayed on the screen reading:
All in this world have forgotten your crimes, Glass. All except one. Me.
If the creature had a face, then an evil, malignant grin would have lifted its lips; but it did not have one. The murderer of these three men lifted his hood, and a face bare of skin, of eyes, of muscle, of hair, bare of any organic tissue, was revealed. The face of a skeleton was revealed, and in fact, an eternal smile was plastered on its sickly white face, a trait all intact skeletal remains share. The evil creature bent over Glass and closed his lids with two of his long, gnarled fingers.
"I hope you enjoy burning in the pit tonight, Glass. I really do." His white, jaw bones clacked out the words, and a wicked, wicked laugh filled the entire plane with terror and shadow.
Rental Jet number 164 never showed up at one of the many Paris airports in time. It showed up in France, sure, but instead of landing safely it washed up to shore in wrecked, twisted peices.