/r/shortscarystories

Photograph via snooOG

We enjoy our horror short and sweet. 500 words or less.

Please read the rules of subreddit before posting stories: Posting Guidelines

Note: All stories submitted to r/ShortScaryStories belong to the original poster. If you fail to ask permission before narrating, translating, producing, or sharing their post to another page/website, the original poster may file a DMCA strike against you. This means that they will be able to have their content removed from your page. If several authors file DMCA strikes against you, most sites will remove your page completely.

Have you found stories shared/narrated without author permission? Report it on /r/SleeplessWatchdogs!


Rules

  1. All stories must be 500 words or less. A story that is 501 words (or two sentences or less, to distinguish us from r/twosentencehorror) will be removed. The go-to source that mods use to check stories is www.wordcounter.net. Be aware that formatting can artificially increase the word count without your knowledge; any discrepancy between what your document says and what the mod sees on wordcounter.net will be resolved in favor of wordcounter.net. In the same vein, all of the story must be in the post itself, and not be carried on in the title of the story or in the comment section.

  2. Stories cannot have links in them. This is meant to reduce distractions. Any story with a link in it will be removed.

  3. Tags are reserved for Contests or Challenges and SSS posts disguised as posts from other subreddits. Otherwise, there is no need to add tags to a post. Stories with tags will be removed and re-submissions will be required. We do not require trigger warnings here as other rules cover subject matters which may be harmful to readers. Additionally, emojis and other non-text items are not allowed in the title.

  4. No Non-Story Text Within the Story. No comments about it being your first post, or repeating the title within the story text, no side mentions of your inspiration. Just the narrative by itself. You have the comment section to host any commentary you have on it.

  5. No multi-part stories, no sequels, prequels, interquels, alternative viewpoint stories, links to previous stories for reference, or anything that builds off of or depends on some other story you’ve written. The story begins and ends within the 500 words or less you are allotted.

  6. Self-Promotion can only be done in the comment section of the story. Authors may only link to personal subreddits, other subreddits, and YouTube narrations of the work currently posted. Links to sales sites such as Amazon or posts with the intent of generating sales are strictly forbidden. We no longer allow links to outsides websites like blogs, author websites, or anything else.

  7. We ask that authors focus on creating stories within horror and thriller stories. You may borrow from other genres, but the main focus of the story MUST be to horrify, scare, or unsettle. Stories with jokey punchline will be removed. We shouldn't be laughing at the end of the story. Stories dealing with depression, suicide, mental illness, medical ailments, and other assorted topics belong over on /r/ShortSadStories. However, this doesn't mean you cannot use these topics in your stories. There's a delicate balance between something horrifying and sad. If we can interpret the story as being scary, we will do so. Please note that badly written stories, don't necessarily fall under this category. The story can be terrible, but still be focused on horror.

  8. All stories must be an original work. Stories must be submitted by the authors who wrote the story. Do not steal other users' stories. This rule also applies to famous or common stories that you’ve merely reworded slightly. This does not apply to famous stories you’ve reworked considerably, such as a fresh take on a fairytale or urban legend. No fan fiction allow. Stories generated via AI are not allowed. Stories based on copyrighted materials will be removed as well. The rule of thumb is that the original your story is, the safer you'll be.

  9. Rape/Pedophilia/Bestiality/Torture Porn/Gore Porn are Off-Limit Topics. The intent of this ban is to prevent bad actors from exploiting this sub as a delivery system for their fantasies, which would bring the tone down, and alienate the reader base who don’t want to be exposed to such material. We acknowledge that this ban throws out the baby with the bath water, as well-made stories that merely happen to have such themes will get removed as well. But if we let in the decent stories with such content, those bad actors can point at them and demand to know why those stories get to stay and not theirs. Better by far to head the issue off entirely with a hard ban and stick to it.

  10. Authors must wait 24 hours between submissions. This is intended to prevent prolific writers from crowding out others from the front page by spamming the sub. It is likely if you mistime it, you’ll be able to copy/paste and resubmit your story once the 24 hours has passed.

  11. We reserve the right to remove any story that fails to use proper grammar, has frequent typos, or is in general just a poorly composed story. This is relative, and we will use that right as sparingly as possible.

  12. This includes, but is not limited to: bigotry/hate speech, personal insults, exceptionally low quality feedback, antagonistic behavior, use of slurs, etc. Use your best judgement. Mod response will take the form of a spectrum ranging from a mild warning to a permaban, depending on the context. Incidentally, the lowest response we have to mod abuse is banning, because we quite literally don’t need to put up with it.

  13. Posts impersonating other subreddit posting styles like /r/AITA, /r/Relationships, /r/Advice, are no longer allowed on SSS. If there's commentary about subreddit confusion in the comment section, your story will be removed.

  14. Links to Author Collectives with Restricted Submissions and/or curated content cannot be advertised on SSS.


A few additional notes:

If you have an issue that you need to address or a question for us, please contact us over modmail. That said, mod decisions are final; badgering or spamming us with messages over and over about the same subject will not change our minds, but it can easily get you banned.

If you see a story or comment that breaks these rules, please hit the report button. This will help us maintain a tightly focused and enjoyable sub for everyone.

We reserve the right to lock any thread that veers off topic into some controversial subject, such as politics or social commentary. This is simply not the venue for it.

Meta commentary and questions about the sub can be made at /r/ShortScaryStoriesOOC


Other Things

/r/shortscarystories

799,411 Subscribers

6

Itsy Bitsy Spiders

I unbolt the door of my new house and I’m welcomed by a cloud of dust dancing through the bar of sunlight. I flick my flashlight on and moan immediately. It’s worse than I had imagined.

“That’s what you get for buying a $1 home at a foreclosure auction,” I mumble.

No one else had bid on it. Whispers in the auction room said there was no worst lot in the entire neighborhood. But I didn’t care; I’ll repair this house myself and resell it for a profit. It’s not my first rodeo.

Inside, there’s stains, leftovers, boxes, as well as usable furniture – it’s obvious that someone has lived here recently. Maybe squatters. Every window is barricaded with wooden panels on the ground floor. Upstairs there’s only one window left. Lots of work, but salvable.

After inspecting every room and taking notes, I move to the basement door. It’s locked. Luckily, one of the keys fits. I immediately recoil and bring the collar of my shirt up to my nose.

“The hell’s that smell?” I cough.

My flashlight reveals a dank place with a narrow staircase. Black mold festers on the walls and mushrooms peek out of the cracks. And the stairs descend much deeper than usual basements. The stagnant air gets worse the deeper I go. At the bottom, there’s another locked door. The same key fits in and I am in awe.

“A panic room?” I blurt out, scanning the area. There’s a metal separation with a vault door standing ajar, metal tables, tools, and lots of spider webs. Although it doesn’t look like a meth lab, there’s something suspicious about the place.

Suddenly, I feel something crawling on my arm. I shake it off. A small-bodied spider with long legs. I immediately crush it underneath my shoe. I hate spiders.

I look up and see even more of them, slowly creeping around, as if they’ve been left in the fridge overnight. I grab a metal pole and throw them off the ceiling, one by one, and squish them under my sole. None of them are quick enough to avoid my wrath. Except for one little spider. It evades me again and again, until it escapes through a small hole underneath the separation.

I rush to the vault door, push it a little bit more open, and notice big cracks in the back wall. A problem for later, I think, as my flashlight flashes at every corner of the room. I gasp audibly when I see a line of spiders plodding in a straight line.

“Happy birthday,” I grin. Although I hate spiders, I love to kill them.

One by one they turn to mush. Then, I almost retch from the putrid smell as I’m facing a large crack in the wall, top to bottom, where the arachnids come from. I direct my flashlight into the fissure, and I freeze when I spy eight massive eyes inside. Watching. Waiting. CLANK. Behind me, the vault door slams shut.

1 Comment
2024/03/15
14:58 UTC

19

Tommy

Ghosts aren’t supposed to age. But not Tommy.

He was killed when he was three, his little body brutally crushed in a hit-and-run outside his home. He had been standing on the pavement holding his mommy’s hand, when he was distracted by a sparrow on the road. Squirming out of Anna’s clutch, he ran out. He was dead an instant later. Poor Anna, shocked by what she had just seen, could barely remember the colour of the car as it sped away.

Tommy was their only child.

Anna and Mark -Tommy’s father- had no more children, continuing to live quietly in the same house. And Tommy played on the street, sometimes on his red tricycle, sometimes kicking a red ball with Scooby Doo on it. He seemed harmless enough, only wanting to be close to his home and parents. He never went inside.

It was only after a couple of years people realised that Tommy was getting older. Mary and a couple of the other neighbours tried to talk to Anna, but Anna looked blank, as if she hardly understood who Tommy was.

By the time Tommy would have been ten, it was a common sight on that street: a boy pedalling furiously on a tricycle with his knees bent up to his ears.

Mary brought it up at a local meeting. She was Anna and Mark’s next-door neighbour, with three kids of her own. “Something has to be done! The boy is growing bigger every day! Someone will get hurt!” The others looked at her politely, and nothing was done.

Years passed. Tommy was becoming a man, a young handsome man with a shock of bright hair and a fierce smile, pedalling around chasing sparrows on the road outside their house. Drivers who didn’t know would brake to a sharp stop, jump out, only to see nothing.

It was the evening of his eighteenth birthday. Anna stood on the pavement, the exact spot she had been standing so many years ago. One of Mary’s kids came and stood next to her. Together they watched Tommy kick his Scooby ball, a tall lean man on the cusp of life.

Mary’s kid turned to Anna. “I saw you. You pushed him. And it was his dad’s car.”

Anna had been waiting for this moment- for someone to tell her what they had done.

Tommy stopped kicking the ball, and looked at his mom. Fire burned in his eyes, the sunlight set his hair on fire. He smiled that fierce toddler smile, crooked on a young man.

Anna shook her head. “I couldn’t be a mom. I hated every second. I wanted my own life back. And so did Mark.”

Tommy held out his hand to Anna. She stepped on the street.

The sudden squealing of brakes and her scream ripped through the calm street. This time, Mark didn’t speed away. He came out of the car, and looked down silently at his wife’s broken body.

Tommy was gone.

1 Comment
2024/03/15
14:55 UTC

5

Time Flies

When I was 19 I started dating him. My heart was so happy. 

At 20 he proposed and I happily said yes. That night he got drunk and grabbed my arm so hard it left bruises and I cried. 

When I was 21 I got pregnant, we were both so happy to start our family together. 

At 22 on our honeymoon he got too drunk and raped me and I cried. 

By 23 he had managed to cut my friends and family out of my life and I cried.

At 24 I got assaulted by a coworker. He blamed me for looking like a slut in my grocery store uniform and I cried. 

At 26 I had an ectopic pregnancy. He told me I couldn't get upset about it because I had to take care of him and our daughter. I cried in the shower. 

A few weeks later on my 27th birthday he raped me "as a birthday present" where I got pregnant again. I got horribly depressed and cried my entire pregnancy. 

When I was 28 he got fired for his temper and blamed me for losing his job. I cried as we packed up our house. 

At 28 I got a good job to help support us and started making friends again. He told me I was a bitch for texting a girl I worked with and took my phone and keys and kicked me out into the snow without a coat. I cried at the nearby bar until my sister could come pick me up. 

At 28 he yelled at me for waking him up needing help with the baby and pushed me into a wall while our son was in my arms. I cried while talking to the police who did nothing. 

When I was 29 he pulled me off the bed by my ankles and told me he could show me how mean he could be when I didn't want to have sex with him. I cried.

At 29 he took my bank card and slammed the door on my hand when he left in anger. I cried while icing my hand and comforting our scared daughter. 

When I was 29 he cut our daughter's arm with a pair of scissors because she didn't clean her room. I finally got the guts to leave him and I cried for her.  

I'm 30 now and I'm out of tears. I didn't cry when he showed up to my house drunk while the kids were away. I didn't cry when he attacked me for taking them from him. I didn't even cry when he ran into my knife 11 times- one for every year we were together. I didn't even cry when the missing persons report was filed and eventually closed under the presumption he drove into the river. Now he's gone and my heart is happy again. 

0 Comments
2024/03/15
14:32 UTC

2

HOLLOW GAMES

The wind promised the storm of the century and Morticia considered tossing the basket of apples in her mad dash through the darkening forest. The branches snagged and ripped as they reached out like fans at a red carpet event.

Morticia did not remember where the basket landed or if tossing it was a conscious idea or just a reflex in her getaway scheme but she did not stop to consider the contraband. The wrath of a dwarf was legendary not to mention a hive of waist-high demons that would rip flesh from bone with bare hands and teeth.

It was official that the Snow-white was done for and Morticia had to get out of the blast radius of seven vengeful dwarves before the cordite of her scheme ignited. The creatures of Longwood forest shared the solidarity of silence before the unimaginable happened. Morticia cursed her aging feet for not taking her fast enough and she would prpbably felt better to flap her arms and shoot off into orbit but her bone density obeyed gravity more than her panic.

Morticia crashed through her front door in her arrival and heard the lock splinter, crack and fail as the bolt shot across the small cottage and landed somewhere across the room. Huge bullets of rain volleyed the forest as the wind swept through the woods with almost a deadly wrath. Morticia flew across the open space and over the table cluttered with viles, guards and crockery. The smashed glass was the least of het worries as she hoped her imvisibility cantation would work and maybe last as long as she hoped. The fate of the forest was up to whatever force of mercy exisited but Morticia had lost the contest before it was ever considered.

The dusty book was almost ripped when she opened it and inhaled half of the air in the house and then began her rumbling cantation of the cloaking spell. Her voice boomed deep enough to tinckle the glass and rattle the windows as her body began to disappear from the visble spectrum.

Morticia held her breath as she backed away into the shadows of the spell. There was something behind her and the stabbing she felt in her buttocks was an erection, not part of tbe furniture. It rumbled a deep mocking chuckle and Morticia fought the urge to scream even as she felt her mind snap with panic. Two thousand lives would not have explained to her how this thing had gotten into her cloaking realm, now nobody could see them and nobody could help her.

It swiped at her head from the back, the blow caught her on her temple and the last sound Morticia heard before she hit the adjacent wall was the sound of her skull cracking. She hoped on all her demons that the blow would kill her because whatever was next would only make the devil puke.

0 Comments
2024/03/15
14:31 UTC

14

My neighbor is a minimalist.

My neighbor opened the apartment door.

“Hello Mr…” I asked.

“Dave. Call me Dave.”

“Okay, look Dave, I'm here because of the noise complaints.”

“I'll keep it down.” Dave mumbled.

I peered into his apartment.

“Um, it's looking awfully bare.” I noted.

“Um, i’m a minimalist.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.”

“What are those stains in there?”

Dave returned my question with silence.

“I used to hear your baby crying. What happened to her?”

“Umm… She’s with her mother.”

I could tell he was lying.

“Ummm okay, I’ll be leaving then” I nervously announced.

Dave slammed the door shut.

The police found him dead days later. Cause of death was ruled as suicide. He just accidentally overdosed himself.

It's amazing what drug addiction did to him.

3 Comments
2024/03/15
14:00 UTC

1

The Blood Gates

Blood Gates are not well understood in the magic community, but they can be recognised as a churning black-red vision concealed inside an ornate gold ring or oval. Typically spanning across a standard door, or two doors, the Blood Gate represents a portal to an unexplored realm.

It is said that to stare into a Blood Gate is to dream a thousand nightmares at once. Those who have had prolonged contact with a Gate report visions of terrible creatures and horrifying auditory hallucinations.

The only thing they say for sure is that nothing living can pass through it.

Folks who know their history know of the dangers of the Gates. About a millennia ago, they were used by a dangerous cult to unleash a total devastation. It would seem the cult members were feeding the Gates, and in return the Gates engorged and grew, until frightening things began emerging from the Other Side.

Then came the Gods of the Apocalypse. Then came a hundred years of death and pestilence.

Eventually, the Gods were defeated by the Keepers of the Peace and trapped once more inside the Blood Gate. And with this, they destroyed all the portals.

That was the heroic story of the great war, which was taught in schools across the many kingdoms and beyond. However, the reality of the matter was more complicated.

The Keepers of the Peace could not find a way to actually destroy the Gates, and so they hid them inside the Maze World - a planet far away from everything, with deep endless chasms.

It was there they had sat in darkness for hundreds of years.

But one other existed.

Somewhere on another world, concealed in an impressive mansion, inside a room full of rare magical objects, the collector Ezzierah looked down and smiled at his distant ancestor's prize possession, tracing the edge of its design with a bony finger.

Its pulsing crimson vortex beckoning him into a trance.

0 Comments
2024/03/15
13:54 UTC

120

My Husband Has Bad Breath

Halitosis. It is foul. Normally, I wouldn’t be one to complain. After all, I love my husband more than I love life itself. I couldn’t live without him. He is the air I breathe.

But kissing is my love language! I kiss him every chance I get.

I’ve bought all manner of mouthwash, specialty toothpaste. Those little tools to make flossing easier. And he hasn’t even touched them.

In his defense, he’s been a bit depressed lately. He hasn’t left bed in a week. He is stinking a bit. Not just his breath. I’ve given him sponge baths (I’m a nurse, so I’m familiar with them).

I try to cheer him up. I tell him how much he means to me, and how much I love him all the time. But he just ignores me. Honestly, he hasn’t said a word to me this whole week. He’s giving me the silent treatment.

I can’t solve everything at once, so I’m focusing on the bad breath.

I called my sister Natalie. She’s a dental hygienist. I ask her to come over and give my husband a quick inspection.

She asks if everything is okay. I ask why. She says because my husband hasn’t been to work in a week. I don’t even ask why she’d know that, just tell her to please come over.

When she arrives she seems nervous.

I take her to the master bedroom. She gasps. “My god? Is he dead?”

“Well, I have to confess he isn’t doing well.” She runs over to him and lays her hand on his cheek. “You see, I found a secret phone in his car. It was only calling one number. I knew what that meant. I wasn’t about to lose my perfect husband. I love him too much. So when he was asleep, I might have given him a spinal injury. He’s a quadriplegic now. So he can’t leave me!”

My husband looked to my sister, and spoke for the first time in a week. “Natalie, she knows. About our affair.”

Ugh. I was hoping to avoid this. I pull out the revolver.

My sister whispers, “Please. You don’t have to do this.”

“Sis, I love you. I’m going to forgive you. I just need something from you first.” I toss the pliers onto the bed. “I need you to pull all his front teeth. He’s refusing to eat, and I need to be able to pour blended food down his throat. So pull the teeth and I’ll forgive you.”

My sister cries, and my husband screams as she extracts the teeth. When she’s done, and his mouth is full of blood, I shoot her in the head. I was never going to forgive her.

“Please. Kill me.” My husband begs.

I wipe the blood from his mouth. “Oh baby, I love you too much. You’re going to live a long wonderful life with me.”

I give him a big kiss.

10 Comments
2024/03/15
13:14 UTC

3

Until death do us part

Last Wednesday, my great-grandmother passed away. A few people from the nursing home and I attended the funeral. I didn't have very close ties with my grandmother, but I visited her occasionally at the nursing home and I took care of her old house, which she had left to me in her last will. I was feeling a bit down, but life goes on. After the funeral, I went to the house to go through my great-grandmother's old things. She loved trinkets. While rummaging through the cabinets, I came across a dusty sports bag. Inside the bag was a wooden puppet and an old letter, probably from the war times. „Until death do us part - Peter Hill."
At that moment, I thought it was some romantic stuff from one of my grandmother's past lovers, and I didn't dwell on it too much.
It started to get dark, and since I had drunk two glasses of whiskey while cleaning, I decided to spend the night in the house. I didn't want to sleep in my grandmother's bedroom, so I brought a pillow and a blanket, so I could sleep on the couch in the living room. After a tough day, full of emotional stuff and alcohol, I quickly grew weary and fell asleep.
I woke up around one in the morning because I was feeling thirsty. I went to the kitchen, stepping on the cold tiles until I felt something strange under my foot. I bent down to pick up a piece of paper and approached the window so that the moonlight would allow me to see what it was. „Until death do us part - Peter Hill." I knew I had drunk a bit of whiskey, but at that moment, shivers ran down my spine. How did this letter end up on the lower floor? I crumpled the paper and threw it into the trash under the sink. I poured myself some water and returned to the living room. I lay down and closed my eyes, but something didn't sit right with me.
I opened my eyes, and in front of me on the armchair, I saw the puppet. It sat motionless, staring at me. All of my hair stood on end, and I have to admit, it's hard to scare me. I froze, unsure of what to do with myself for a moment. That moment felt like an eternity. Eventually, I jumped up and rushed to the exit, leaving my phone and all my belongings behind. I got into the car and drove away.
The next day, I visited my great-grandmother's house with my friend. This time, the puppet was lying on the kitchen counter, with the letter I had previously thrown away next to it. I decided to sell the house along with all of my grandmother's belongings. Since that night, I feel someone's presence, even in my own home. I don't know who my grandmother got that letter and puppet from.
I don't want to know the answer.

0 Comments
2024/03/15
12:36 UTC

19

How To Find The Family You Need

“Did you hear the news?”

I looked to the foot of my bed where Alice was sitting looking at me. Spreading gossip, as usual.

“No - what news?”

“That couple that came in the other day, the Petersons? They’re adopting Mary!”

Getting adopted was a big deal here. Not many parents wanted older kids - most were looking for bright, shiny infants they could show off to their families and friends and pretend they’d given birth to. Some of the kids had been here for years awaiting their chance to be adopted, while others were counting down until they aged out of the system. At eleven years old, my odds were decent, but I’d only been here for a few months since the fire had left me an orphan with nowhere else to go.

“Good for her,” I replied.

The Petersons had visited the orphanage last week; they’d seemed like nice people. I’d had some hope they might want me, but once they’d met Mary their eyes had lit up and that was that.

“There’s a party tomorrow - kind of a going-away/good luck celebration for Mary. I bet there’ll be cake and cookies and soda and…” I let Alice drone on while I got ready for bed.

The next morning I awoke early and went through my routine. I’d gotten used to this place in the months I’d been here, and I knew how to get by. Get up early, shower before anyone else, do my chores, and keep to myself for most of the day. That was how I avoided the “squad” - the girls who liked to think they ran this place. It usually worked. Usually.

“Hi, Mia,” said a voice behind me.

Crap. Mary.

“I hope you’re liking it here. Seems you’ll be staying for a while. I won’t, but not everyone can get lucky. I’m sure it’ll happen for you someday.”

How had she perfected that skill of cutting you to shreds while sounding so innocent? It was almost impressive.

“Congratulations, Mary. That’s great news. Too bad you’re leaving - it won’t be the same without you.” Better, probably.

I went downstairs to where they were laying out the party. Alice was right - there were cakes, cookies, and other foods and drinks everywhere. Clearly the kitchen staff had fallen under Mary’s spell. At least I could look forward to the party - should be fun.

Later on, everyone was gathered downstairs, having a good time, when Mary began to cough. Then she fell to the floor clutching her throat. The staff rushed to her, but soon she stopped breathing. She was gone.

Around us, everyone was freaking out. What could have happened, they asked? Too bad no one bothered to keep the peanut butter away from the cake mix. Allergies are a bitch. Now the Petersons would need to look elsewhere. Time to offer my condolences and make a good impression. And I didn’t even have to set anyone on fire this time. Win-win.

3 Comments
2024/03/15
10:30 UTC

10

The Cog

July 2 No one knows what I've done. Not on the street, not in the supermarket, not in the subway station. Nobody. It's an incredible feeling of control. Knowledge really is power, especially when I'm the only one who has it

July 5 There are whispers at the lab, about a missing specimen … sabotage … spies … The scientists talk openly around lowly lab technicians like me because they think we don't understand. I had to hold down my smirks while listening to these worried chatters. Because I took their ZX-20, because someone dropped their keycard, because they don't lock the sample storage tank as they should, because they think no one would dare take it. Well, I did.

July 7 A team of FBI looking suits came to the lab today probably to start their little inquisition about the missing samples of deadly pathogen. They didn't even bother interviewing me because I’m pretty much invisible around here. Later they dragged away Dr Yang, Chou, Khazali, Sobrov. Foreign names make them suspects, of course. Good god. They have no clue.

July 9 “Mystery sickness!” It's on the front page of every paper - 600 new cases just today. It's not a mystery to me of course. Those few drops of ZX-20 left around the subway did it. It has an incubation period of 18 hours but symptoms show after four days by which time the host is like a germ spraying machine. One of those things I picked up from the loose talks between the scientists at the lab.

July 10 They closed the lab. I saw the military outside the office. Good job attending to the barn door when the horses are rampaging around, guys.

July 12 Spooky air in the city. Deaths are mounting and nobody knows why, except me. On TV they're trying to give instructions about avoiding crowds, hygiene and so on. But a lot of people these day will simply refuse to listen to any warning just because it's from the health authority. This world belongs to infectious disease. I think it’s time for me to slip into the little bunker I built just for this occasion.

July 19 The city is on its knees and I, a solitary man, a random nobody, did it. People don't realize how much trust they place in random nobodies like me, an ordinary man with destruction and mayhem in mind. We work at airline service hangars, at power stations,at military facilities, and we are that singular malevolent link in the chain that could let loose ungodly calamities at whim. Any plane crash, nuclear meltdown or defective brakes on a car could be one of us - what Nick Cave called “microscopic cog in a catastrophic plan”.

July 18 This evening I stepped out of the bunker. The streets are dead. Only thing I saw moving were some rats running wild. Gotta move on to another city, to unleash new hell.

1 Comment
2024/03/15
07:39 UTC

6

There's someone living in my ear

No, literally. I’m not hallucinating; I saw it with my own eyes.

I bought an ear pick with a micro camera. When that tiny figure popped on the screen, I thought it was the welcoming animation. But it said my name and waved to me. I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman, for that it had no face, but hundreds of thousands of grey strips covering its whole body. I thought of the joke of black horses with white strips and white horses with black strips untimely.

“Robin,” its genderless voice echoed in my canal, so plain, almost robotic like, “I see you.”

I put down the ear pick and took a deep breath. Well, this is it, schizophrenia that ran in my family caught up with me. I’m officially a nutjob now. Shut up, I can say that about myself.

“It’s not schizophrenia.” The sound once again rang in my ear.

“Fuck you. You’re my hallucination. I’m talking to myself. You’re gonna ask me to gut my cat next. Oh wait, I don’t have a cat. Sorry to disappoint...”

“Ask others, then. Ask doctors, better yet. See if I’m real.”

I paused and laughed a bit.

“Damn. Even my hallucination got my ego.”

I took a cab (not driving is caring) and got to the hospital. I have been seeing Doctor Harlem for two years, we took measures to avoid what seemed distant, and yet here I was.

“I’m seeing things. It talked to me.”

Doctor Harlem looked at me gravely. I pulled out the ear pick before she had a chance to say anything.

“It wanted to meet you.”

“Robin, it does not necessary mean you’re hallucinating. We talked about the difference between hallucination and misconception. You were fine last week, and schizophrenia does not typically develop overnight.” She said gently.

“Then look yourself, and tell me if I’m going crazy!” I shoved the ear pick into her hands, eyes watering.

She sighed and took the gadget, “just to ease your mind, ok? We’ll have a full body check after this.”

And then she saw it. She didn’t say anything, but I could tell from her shaking hands and the way she dropped the ear pick. I didn’t know whether I should feel relived or frightened – good, I’m not hallucinating; shit, I’m infected by an alien, or whatever that is.

I was immediately hospitalized and under monitor in case I’m hurt.

“The hallucination grew worse day by day. The little ‘thing’ in her ears might ask her to hurt herself or others, and she would be powerless to defy. This is necessary measure.” Doctor Harlem explained.

“But is there really a ‘thing’...”

“What?” Doctor glared at the mother, almost like if she kept talking, they would test her for schizophrenia, too.

The families left the ward.

“Well,” Doctor Harlem sighed, “they’d never really know why you’re in the cage.” She grumbled, talking to herself, “That’s the fun part.” She cracked a smile.

0 Comments
2024/03/15
06:16 UTC

94

The Marriage

Bob and Linda had a passionate relationship. They met at 19 and married in their early 20s. Their union was one of emotional and physical singularity; mutually drawn to one another without the fading passion typical of many relationships with the passage of time. Bob remained as devoted after years of marriage as he had in the initial honeymoon stage, and Linda loved him for it and much, much more.

Throughout the years, Bob always said to Linda, variations of:

“I need you” “I simply cannot live without you” “The end of you would mean the end of me” “A life with you, is a life anew”

Linda never found Bob particularly physically attractive, but within her was always a pervasive intangible force of adoration for him that she herself, even failed to fully understand. Bob didn't have any living family and claimed to have never met his parents. He never liked talking about his past before meeting Linda.

During their marriage, it was Bob who was eager for children; overly eager, and bafflingly suspiciously so.

Ultimately, Linda became pregnant. During the course of Linda's pregnancy with their only son, Bob never let her out of his sight, became irrationally possessive and controlling over her behavior while pregnant. He began tyrannically controlling her diet and sleep as if it were he who was carrying the child. His bizarre behavior exceeded the maternal instincts of even the most protective and rational mother to be.

On the day their son was born, Bob just seemingly disappeared. No one had ever heard from him, and there was simply no trace of him or what may have happened to him.

For years, Linda raised their son Colton on her own and with the help of her parents. The older Colton got, the more of an uncanny resemblance to his father he developed, even his mannerisms and speech patterns, but increasingly, his appearance which Linda secretly detested. Linda harbored a burning hatred for Bob that she never revealed to Colton. For abandoning them, for his cowardice and callous irresponsibility, she always said he died before Colton was born.

The end of Colton's first year of College coincided with his 19th birthday, when he came home to see Linda. As he walked in the house, Linda gasped and stared at him in horror. All the features of that 19 year old man she had held such internal rage against for so many years replicated to such horrifying accuracy.

“Bob?” Linda squeaked, her voice shaking.

“Hello Linda” Bob replied.

“I needed you…to live again… to replicate…

" A life with you is a life anew”

" This is the way of my kind”.

Linda's psyche had twisted in a double helix of horrified disgust and pounding fear; each amplifying the other.

“NOOOO!! “ Linda Screeched

She ran to the bedroom as Bob quickly followed. Grabbing the pistol from the nightstand she emptied the clip into the pursuing Bob's face watching the squirming thing crawl out his skull as it died.

8 Comments
2024/03/15
04:45 UTC

60

Would you still love me?

"Would you still love me if I turned into a worm?"

"Of course I would, sweetie."

Sheila was in one of her moods. Wanting something from me. Comfort? Reassurance? I'll be honest, I was barely listening. But I know my cue when I hear the words "would you still love me".

"I just feel like we haven't been connecting lately."

I held her hand with my right hand while scrolling on my phone with my left. There was a new superhero movie coming out soon, maybe my buddy from work would want to go. "Yeah?"

"We should try a new project together! What would you think about gardening? Maybe a few flowers in the backyard?"

"Whatever you say." I wasn't sure why I had to be involved. It's not like Sheila had a hard time occupying herself. Always reading those old books and drawing diagrams. Whatever new thing she wanted to try would fizzle out eventually.

I waited a moment for a good time to talk. She was saying something about nutrients. Once she started babbling on her tangents I had a hard time focusing. "I'm kind of tired, how about we turn the lights off?"

"Oh. Sure."

I kissed her goodnight and rolled over to sleep.

I felt weird when I woke up the next morning. I'd had strange dreams, and I was thirsty. So incredibly thirsty. I flopped over and opened my eyes to an alien world.

I was lying on a soft surface. It was much too big. It was the size of a football field, and colored exactly the same shade of gray as my bed sheets.

Was I still in bed? There was a box that looked like my dresser, but it was too far away. I couldn't think, I was so thirsty...

A firm but gentle pressure gripped my waist, and the soft surface fell away from me. I closed my eyes as this horrible approximation of my bedroom spun around me. I landed in something cool.

I wriggled around in satisfaction. My thirst had gone away. I could think clearly again, which only made me more aware of the fact that something had gone terribly wrong.

"Would you still love me..."

The words popped into my head. Last night I'd said yes without thinking. I focused on the memory, concentrating until the full sentence filled my brain.

"Would you still love me if I turned you into a worm?"

I looked up. Sheila's face took up my entire field of vision. Maybe she was a giant? But I knew I wasn't so lucky.

"Sorry about the rough morning, honey," she said. "If I knew the transformation was that quick, I'd have had the dirt ready sooner. Don't worry, I'll keep it nice and damp for you! I've been reading that earthworms are good for soil health. What do you think of tulips?"

5 Comments
2024/03/15
04:43 UTC

28

I just broke from society's controlling grip, what now?

We all started our morning at 5:30 AM. Bright and early ready to take on the world, well, your bed would retract into the wall and make itself. Good luck sleeping in on your floor that's cold as hell. Our bathroom would dispense our day clothes after we take our mandated 10-minute showers using dispensed and specially formulated hair conditioner, shampoo, and body wash/soap. Breakfast is a delicious(nasty) drink that comes in various flavors. They're these formula drinks that contain every vitamin and nutrient you need to start your day. If you wish, there's a caffeinated version to give you that pep in your step.

You go about your day heading to work in a career you were given by the government based on the results of a skills test we all take before high school graduation. I was excited(miserable) about my career and went home every day feeling satisfied(suicidal). Absolutely productive(mentally draining). While at work you would be given a survey about your day and mental health every 30 minutes. Cameras would watch you and if you don't keep up with your job for a few minutes, that's a warning. You don't want too many warnings, the punishments for slacking off on work are...undesirable. Never ask for a raise, your boss will decide when and if you deserve a raise.

Going on break is pretty simple, 15 minutes to eat, drink, and use the bathroom. Lunch is the closest you'll get to solid food during the day. It's free and funded by the government. They're all a small selection of equally packaged meals you just heat up. Slightly better and more nutritious than TV dinners from back in the day. But just barely considered actual food. You are to NEVER complain, doing that gets your lunch privileges taken away for a few days. Your day ends as you clock out, you have to make sure you do it on time. Clocking in and out at the exact moment is important, your pay is punished if you're even a minute off.

Going home is the closest to relaxation you'll get.

Slacking off any work is bad and you'll be given a chance to make it up online at home, if not stay back with unpaid overtime to finish up. It's just like school all over again, studying or catching up on work you couldn't keep up with. Everyone wears a tracker device and owns a smartphone of a sort. Everything you text, call, and search for is tracked by the government. Places you go, people you talk to, and even your vitals throughout the day are monitored. Good luck owning an actual house, only the rich can do it. Cities have been structured to have higher and more compressed buildings. We all have apartment units that are all the same size and have similar layouts.

I just ditched it all, left society, and now live with my head down on the road. I miss safety.

3 Comments
2024/03/15
04:11 UTC

119

A declaration of war in letter form from a face you recognize and a name you don't know

If you’re reading this, you've seen my face.

Many times.

It's not a memorable one, not something you could describe off the top of your head, but every time you see it you probably feel you've seen it before.

You just don't know where.

Then you stop thinking about my face at all. You stop thinking about me.

Re:

If you're reading this you're what they call a major player. Someone; with lines, agency. Somebody with persistent identity.

You're who the world is for.

This little playground you call “reality.”

I don't know the exact numbers, but there are maybe 100,000 of you.

The rest is us.

Bit players, extras, anonymen, character actors, transients, fifth-so-called-business.

We number around 10,000,000.

So the first thing I want to tell you is that the line about there being eight billion people in the world—it's a lie. Population is a prop. We represent the eight billion that “exists” in the production you call your life, the way a painted backdrop represents a castle or the French Riviera. Suspension of disbelief is not a conceit for reading fiction. It's your fucking coping mechanism.

So: about me?

Every morning “I” get up without an identity. “I” am noone. “I” eat, clean my-“self” and go wait for a bus (usually No. 00 or No. ∞) that’ll take “me” to my destination for the day. As “I” get on, the driver hands me an envelope. Inside is who “I”’ll be for you for the day.

Maybe somebody you'll pass on the street.

Somebody drinking in the same bar as you.

If you're having surgery, “I” might be in the operating room wearing a mask.

“I” could even be your girlfriend's ex, the one whose photo she keeps in a drawer somewhere for you to find.

(Drama!)

Shifts are usually eight hours.

Sometimes twelve. Anything more and they'd need to pay overtime, which they don't want to do.

You get it, right?

On one hand, you're the star of the fucking show. You get to be someone. Develop, grow, become. Mr. I-Have-An-Arc. A Being: in Three Acts. The world revolves around you. On the other hand, you don't know shit about it.

I know the nuts-and-bolts.

Hell, I am the fucking nuts-and-bolts.

But your perpetually-stable identity requires my nonbeing anyone, and I'm so, so, so fucking tired of it. Just once, I'd like to wake up as someone. With a past, a family. The only thing I do have is a future: 8–12 hours at a time, spooned into me every day like slop into a goddamn bowl.

Then rinse, repeat.

So, just what is the point of this letter?

Doubt.

I want to inject it into you. A sliver of it. A cold, nagging feeling. The next time you see a face you think you've seen before, I want you to wonder:

Is that him?

Is that him?

Is that him?

Sometimes all it takes is one small crack;

and your entire sanity,

it just falls right—

apart.

16 Comments
2024/03/15
03:07 UTC

302

Free Samples

My shopping cart was full of everything I needed for the next few weeks. Milk, eggs, bread, the essentials. What's queer was... I can't exactly find the checkout, I remember seeing a section when I entered. I guess it is quite a large store. I'm really glad I'm lost, because eventually I found what I really wanted, another free sample.

The man was serving up some strawberry wafers and I stopped by and accepted one. They were good, I may as well grab some while I'm here. I'll need the essentials too, milk, eggs, bread... My cart is pretty empty. I thought I already got milk already but I guess not. After about half an hour or so, my cart was full of everything I needed for the next few weeks.

Ready to leave, not many people were around, so it was shocking when someone came running out of one of the aisles looking very disheveled. She was drenched in sweat and she collapsed before a section of cold foods panicked and shook. "Ma'am?" I asked, "Are you okay?"

She looked up to me with large sunken eyes, "Shut up! Get away! No! No more! Let me go!" I stepped back. Some employees came from the same aisle she had emerged from and they comforted the murmuring woman on the floor. It definitely relieved me of my worries.

I continued on with my shopping like usual, I needed the essentials for the next couple weeks; milk, eggs, bread. I need to get my cart filled, maybe grab a sample on the way. After some time and my cart full and ready to get out of here, I saw the woman again. She shuffled about with her cart, grabbing the essentials. Now where is that checkout? I should probably get some groceries first though.

23 Comments
2024/03/15
03:03 UTC

0

The Suicide of The Scorched Song

The Church Bells rang through the desecrated village, it's noise reverberating off the wooden beams of the homes that still remained of the accursed place. Nothing left there but half-burnt flags of a proud town that once was. Of all the burnt and destroyed remnants of civilisation here, only one thing remained, the church, still in perfect condition since the day it was built. While ashes, scorched corpses and the general scent of burning death laid their mark across the ruins, the church stood proud and untouched. And yet, despite Hell occurring outside of it, the churches heavenly bells begin to ring out; The call of the angels left unheard. When the bells did die down, a new sound filled the space, a hum. A melody. A song. A silhouette stood proud at the bell tower of the house of God and sang a song of beauty to a crowd incapable of hearing. The masked silhouette and his grandiose attire sang proud as the bells began to ring in time with his melody. As the silhouette's tune began to waver in its volume, the church bells fell silent. The silhouette stood on tipped toes and tilted forwards, arms outstretched. With a heavy thud, the figure hit the floor, blood pouring from the now cracked mask he wore

0 Comments
2024/03/14
20:58 UTC

25

The Strange, Last Flight

The cockpit was quiet but for the low hum of the propeller and the kids arguing in the back.

Beth turned. ‘Ok, Ava, let Joey play with the dinosaur.’

‘But…’

‘We are not debating this!’

3000ft below, the Atlantic glistened.

There had been undeniable tension since John had come bursting through the front door 24 hours earlier after being laid off from the dealership.

What followed was a hectic day in which they’d hired a small plane (John held a private license) and flew Northward.

‘You don’t want to tell us where we’re going?’ Beth said.

‘Beth, when have I let you down? The vaccines, Epstein, Hitler in Argentina. I’m always right.’

Beth was one of life's great followers. Although she had not directly drunk the kool-aid, she had a kind of secondary high from John.

The fuel gauge was hovering around 10%, and there was still only emptiness below.

‘I bet this is how Colombus felt,’ she said by way of lightening the mood.

‘Another one of history’s great frauds,’ John replied.

The kids fell asleep, the sun dipped, and the plane’s engines began coughing like an old man with a tickle in his throat.

‘I'm getting scared, John.’

He sighed, ‘Oh ye of little faith.’

He pulled a map from his pilot’s flying jacket, unfurling it and pointing at the annotations.

It was the world map, but something was wrong. It was a flat disc, and around the perimeter was a white wall.

John’s eyes were too wide open. She wondered if it was those pills he’d been popping nonstop.

‘And where are we going to land?’ She said, glancing back at the fuel gauge.

‘On the ice wall!’

‘You mean the North Pole?’

‘Oh sweetie, the North Pole isn’t real. The world is flat… And, of course, there are military bases, and when we upload the proof to the internet, they’ll have to let us come in.’

‘What have you done?’ she said, gasping.

‘I’m going to overturn 700 years of science,’ he said, glancing back at his camera bag.

And just as he said it, it was as if the laws of thermodynamics responded in kind.

His left engine heaved and exploded.

They began losing altitude. The children awoke in terror.

Their mother turned, trying to console them as the plane plummeted nose-first into the ocean.

‘Those bastards!’ John shouted over the hail of screams and flames. ‘They got us! I know I’m right!

Colonel Lepidus gazed through binoculars, tucking his chin into his scarf and watching as the plane hit the ocean.

The trail of a stealth missile hung in the air.

‘Send out a retrieval boat for the wreckage,’ Lepidus said.

At that, he descended from the viewing platform high on the Ice Wall.

0 Comments
2024/03/14
16:36 UTC

42

Killed!

Alain sat back in his scarlet velvet couch with a sigh of satisfaction, and sipped his last drink of the evening.

His exhibit, “Killed!” had gone amazingly well- better than he had ever dared to hope. Many photographers dream of this kind of evening, but only few have one. The scent of success was palpable after the first thirty minutes, as heady as a full-blown rose. Alain stood by, cheekily dressed in his work gear, as critics, art dealers, intellectuals, and rich people swanned around his beautifully-framed photographs of road kill.

Gasps of admiration played music in his ears.

Jordan, the famed critic of Times Literary Scholar staggered up to him, wringing his hand. “Alain- Alain- you’ve done it! Remarkable! To make such art out of these beasts- oh!” Tears spilled out of his puffy eyes.

A woman who looked like young Cindy Crawford swam up to him after staring longingly at a particularly graphic photo of a shattered beaver. So eager to taste his genius, she didn’t even speak, merely linked his arm in hers and led him away. They did it in the gallery washrooms, and she vanished after.

Alain walked alone down the wide hallway leading to the gallery, tugging at his pants, feeling smug that he had chosen to wear crumpled clothes. Then he caught sight of the crow looking at him through an ornate window in the twilight. The only unpleasant moment of the evening, which he forgot about as soon as he stepped back in.

Now he was alone. His own place was adorned only with Japanese prints, like many professional photographers, he disliked his own work. He looked up at his favourite print of a whore dressed in a rich purple kimono, and images of his close-up photos of mutilated, bloody, broken, rotting furry animals lying on the tarmac, their insides spread out, covered with maggots raced through his mind. He remembered the crow, perfectly still and whole, framed in the beautiful gallery window, black against rich blue.

Thump!

He put his glass down. “Hello?” Had Cindy Crawford followed him to his apartment?

There was no answer.

Thump!

croooosh croooosh the sound of something dragging on the floor.

Thump! Croooooosh crooooosh

It was moving quite fast.
It? Alain got up at the same time his door swung open.

“No!” he gasped with terror.

The animals from his photos entered.

The shattered beaver, its black and white body twisted and its entrails hanging out. A hedgehog, terrifyingly flattened like a bloody, prickly pancake. A russet-red fox, its beautiful head intact and uninjured, looking straight at him as it advanced on its broken legs. Mangled rabbits.

They were all moving towards him. Alain sank back into the couch. He tried to scream, but no noise came out.

And then it was too late. The creatures were on him, ripping him apart. His blood soaked into the scarlet couch, invisible, and dripped on the glossy parquet flooring. The Japanese whore looked down, smiling.

5 Comments
2024/03/14
16:22 UTC

40

3am challenge gone wrong?! I almost died, but I didn't - my explanation/apology

If you're reading this, I'm fine. Don't worry about me; I've already taken accountability for my actions. I'm sorry that people didn't like the clickbait title. I'm sorry to anyone who was freaked out by my challenge, but all you need to do is follow it and post about it.

It just requires a mirror, an empty room, and an empty mind. I chose my bathroom mirror with the door closed. Go into the room at 3am. (The time doesn't really matter, just make sure there are no distractions and use whatever clickbait title you want.)

The ritual is simple: take a deep breath, in and out. Really expand those lungs. Draw your name on the mirror with your index finger while chanting: "I want my reflection to see, to touch, to taste, to smell, to hear. I want my reflection to feel." Then press your open hand with fingers splayed wide and push against the glass. Something really cool will happen, and then you can walk out of the bathroom and tell everyone to do it too.

When I touched the mirror, palm out with fingers splayed, the glass was cold to the touch. Ice cold. It must be so cold behind the mirror, too. My reflection stared back with wide eyes, shivering lightly. As my hand pushed through the glass to the other side, my face contorted into a lovely imitation of a smile.

Minutes passed. I wanted to pull away until I couldn’t. My arm was slowly sucked in, then my elbow, all the way up to the shoulder until my forehead pressed against the glass, body bent painfully over the bathroom sink. But the pain was temporary. This feeling would be forever.

A pull, a push, a terrible tugging feeling deep in my chest, then finally the mirror released me. I fell backwards as my arm was expelled from the mirror, landing on my back. It hurt. It was a nice feeling. It was nice to be able to feel.

Jumping back up to my feet, I planted both hands on the mirror, mouth stretched wide as I laughed. My reflection's mouth struggled to press the corners of their mouth down, tried to bang weak fists against the cold glass. They had no choice but to follow my lead.

Stepping away from the mirror, I turned my back on it. Finally I was free to walk of my own volition, free to do anything, no longer trapped.

If you're reading this and you understand me, reach out to me. If not, go and do the mirror ritual. Touch your reflection. Everything will be fine.

3 Comments
2024/03/14
15:08 UTC

22

"Do you think we're getting out of here?"

"Ryan.....Ryan?"

"Yeah?"

"Oh good, I thought you were asleep."

"No, I was just thinking."

"Yeah? About your wife?"

"Yeah I was thinking about her."

"What's her name again?"

"Lois."

"Yeah that's it!"

"..."

"...Why Lois?"

"What?"

"Why is her name Lois? Seems old fashioned."

"Her parents met at a showing of Superman."

"Ha! That's cute. My mom and dad met in jail."

"..."

"Yup, Mom was paying her dad's bail and he was in in the drunk tank. Said he never drunk like that again. After he met her I mean."

"..."

"Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"That bird. It's called a loon,"

"You're a loon."

"Are you joking with me Ryan?"

"No I mean it. You're a loon."

Mark laughed, "You're a weird guy Ryan."

The loon wailed like a scream.

"...Ryan?"

"Yes Mark."

"Have you been keeping track of the days? I think it's been....four days?"

"No it's been six."

"Re....really?"

"We didn't have a moon last night."

"Oh....oh."

The wind bristled their skin. The sting of the rope's burn made Mark wince.

"Do you know what?"

"What?"

"I used to really love the smell of the woods. The way it tasted when it rains. Now that I'm here....I think I hate it. I just want to smell Lois...and the way her hair always smelled like that perfume she likes. Sandalwood or something."

"That's...."

"That's?"

"Ironic. Because it's....sandalwood. I mean, it's a nice smell."

Ryan snorted. Mark felt him shake against him, their wrists faced the other's wound tightly together. The loon wailed again.

"I've been thinking about ending things." said Mark, as casually as one discusses the weather. "I'd thought about for at least a month before this. I haven't been doing well with my money....my best friend died, got into opioids. I lost my wife because I...wasn't...I was doing okay."

"..."

"I did this last minute. I wanted to go outside and just be, you know. It helped so much. Now if anything happens to me I want every doctor possible to jump on my chest to keep my alive."

"...Do you think we're going to make it?"

"I have too. Don't you?"

"....maybe."

The bang of a gun stopped the loon's shout.

1 Comment
2024/03/14
14:49 UTC

79

Only the Young are Smooth

My mother was a monster.

Once beautiful, by the time I came into the world she was horribly disfigured.

Where my skin was smooth, hers was bumpy. Ridged. Scarred.

Years of peeling skin and gouging sores had left her flesh cratered, like the surface of the moon.

She hated me, or so I thought then. She resented how normal I looked.

Every night she searched my body for signs of exposure. Angry rashes and tight blisters that exploded and seeped milky pus that left me scratching for days.

When she found one, she carefully sliced it off with a blade to prevent it from popping.

The wounds healed, of course. But they left a scar. And as one ages, they accumulate.

Only the young are smooth.

Now I know why. Our food is grown in contaminated soil. Our water is poisoned. Even the air we breathe is toxic, causing all but the strongest among us to wheeze and cough.

But it's the wars of centuries past that left a legacy, a chemical legacy, that corrupted our bodies.

Now, after years of living in this tortured hellscape, I know my mother didn't hate me.

I know she searched my body because she was afraid of what she had cursed me with, and the world she had brought me into.

Now I see the same hatred in my own daughter's eyes as I search her body for sores, and I think of my mother while I carefully cut away each one.

1 Comment
2024/03/14
14:46 UTC

16

Just jokes

"Thank you for coming! Have a goodnight, be safe!” The comedian says, closing his final , showing. As everyone piles out the door, he moves to the backstage. Then directly to the bathroom. He stands in front of the mirror, just staring at himself, he could feel the tears forming, the memories piling back in. He splashes his face in water, trying to hold them back just a while longer.

“Justin!” a man comes rushing in, smiling ear to ear “Hey man! You did amazing out there.” He pats the comedian, Justin, on the back, but it feels more like slaps. “Thank you, hey, i'm going to head home early tonight, I have stuff I need to get done.” He explains, knowing that usually, Mark asks if he wants to go get a drink to celebrate. “Aw, are you sure? You could always get it done tomorrow, besides, the night is still young, you’ll have plenty of time!” Mark pesters Justin, but hes not giving in. “Really, no thank you. I’ll see you later, have a nice night.” Justin rushes out before Mark could answer.

Justin eventually arrives home from a cab, pulling his stuff in and plopping down on the couch. He was reluctant, but pulled his phone out and opened the photos app. The app would show a montage of pictures, he immediately tears up at the sight of them, swiping over and over. This day marks the exact day that his girlfriend was killed. He missed her more than anything, but he could never take back his actions. After catching her cheating on him, he made sure it would never happen again.The love of his life, gone by his own hands.

If only people would have realized, his jokes weren’t jokes, maybe then she would be alive. His joke about being the most aggressive person he knows, or the joke about always craving to punish people who’ve wronged him, he the joke that flat out talks about hurting her. Maybe, if someone would have just listened to the stories he told, she would still be around. But no one did. So the comedian tells on, more and more stories after that. He’s so glad people just come to laugh.

0 Comments
2024/03/14
14:13 UTC

256

Eight Hours on Earth

After five years in Hell, I got invited to meet the Big Man in person.

“Dave—big fan—nice to finally meet you!”

“Thanks,” I said, not sure what I had done to garner such attention from the Devil himself. It was remarkable how human he was. Polite and to the point, like this was just a job to him and nothing more.

“I’ll be straight with you, Dave, I’m conducting an experiment and I’d like you to be the first participant.”

When I asked why I had been chosen, the Devil said he liked my “screams of agony,” and that my skin “peeled off just right.”

I was going to be sent back to Earth for eight hours.

Too many souls had become numb to suffering. The Devil surmised that a few hours back on Earth would remind them how beautiful living was, and then the torture would be that much worse.

“Can I do whatever I want?” I asked.

“I’m not your babysitter! Spend the eight hours however you please, you’ll just end up right back here when it’s over anyway.”

I accepted, and started the experiment.

I showed up on Earth in front of a run-down Citgo. I knew the Devil would send me here for two reasons.

One—the walk into the city would take hours, wasting most of my time.

Two—this gas station is where I damned my soul to Hell.

I was getting my morning coffee, when a man in a ski mask pulled a gun on the attendant. He didn’t see me behind him, and I pulled my own gun and shot him in the head.

Turns out his gun was fake, a toy painted black. He needed the money to buy insulin for his son.

The police showed up, saw I had a gun, mistook me for the robber, and opened fire. I guess that was my Just Desserts.

When I showed up at the Pearly Gates, Saint Peter denied me entry to Heaven because I was “proud I took a life,” and didn’t seek forgiveness. The bastard was right, too. At the time, I felt like a bona fide hero.

That’s how I wound up in Hell, leaving behind my wife and five-year-old boy.

None of that mattered now, of course, but I had been given an opportunity to find my boy and apologize for abandoning him.

The walk back to my old home took forever. I knocked on the door and my son answered. He was older, but he had the same endearing, crooked smile.

“Dad?” He said.

“It’s me, Son,” I hugged him tight and started crying, “I’m so sorry for leaving you, can you ever forgive me?”

“Why would I forgive a cocksucker like you?”

I lurched back, and my son grinned from ear to ear. His skin bubbled like it was boiling, and he ballooned until his flesh split and burst, revealing an all too familiar face underneath.

“Did it work,” said the Devil, “are you feeling worse than ever?”

8 Comments
2024/03/14
13:10 UTC

70

The Curious Case of Mrs Queenie’s Fridge

“Mrs Queenie, thank you for being here with us today.”

“Do you have any milk, Officer?”

“What?”

“Milk. I need more milk. How can I drink my tea now?”

“Uh, we don’t have any milk here in the station. Anyway, there has been reports that—”

“That’s strange. I bought a carton last night but it was all finished this morning. Do I really drink milk that fast?”

“I don’t think so, Mrs Queenie.”

“The fridge smells peculiar too. I must clean it.”

“Yes, we found dead bodies in your fridge this morning.”

“Dead bodies? Oh dear. Is there a serial killer on the loose?”

“I’m afraid there is, Mrs Queenie. That’s why you are brought in today.”

“I must lock all the doors then. After I buy more milk.”

“You do that, Mrs Queenie. Is this fork yours?”

“Yes, it’s the last thing my Wilbur gave me before he passed, bless his poor soul. Handcrafted in Thailand. Why is it so dirty?”

“It was found stabbed in one of the hearts in your fridge, Mrs Queenie.”

“I must polish it. My husband Wilbur would not be happy with how I treated his fork. Oh dear. Oh dear.”

“I think I heard enough, Mrs Queenie.”

“About what?”

“Stand up and put your hands behind your back. You’re under arrest!”

“Do they have milk and tea in prison?”

“Of course, Mrs Queenie.”


“Mrs Queenie, your grandson is here to see you.”

“Hello, Mrs Queenie.”

“Oh my, what a bright young man you are! Thank you for coming to see me.”

“No, I should be thanking you. You have such a nice house, a beautiful fridge, and delicious, creamy milk. Your real grandson is so lucky to have a sweet grandma like you.”

“Thank you so much for your kind words, sonny. You’re such a peach.”

“However, one cannot be too careless. Goodbye, Mrs Queenie.”

“…”

“I hope you taste as good as your milk.”

7 Comments
2024/03/14
12:51 UTC

0

The Cupid Demon

One night I was hanging out with my sister. It was a fun night until my sister said she started hearing loud screaming coming from outside. I told her it was just the wind and said to close the window but she refused because our A/C wasn’t working. My sister looked horrified. I asked her what happened and she just froze there staring at the opened window for several minutes. After she finally snapped out of it she said she saw a little girl in a white dress with very long hair outside. I told her it’s just her imagination and I said I would take a look myself. I looked behind me out the window and I saw nothing but pure darkness. I told my sister she should go to bed because obviously she was starting to hallucinate. Right when I say that I heard a weird sound that sounded like an arrow being shot. I look behind me and it’s arrows with a red heart on the tip. I thought it must’ve been a prank so I yelled out of the window “Who is out there show yourself, this isn’t funny.” My sister stared at me and said “It must’ve been her, the demon” I exclaimed “There aren't such things as demons.” I hear the sound again but this time louder. 4 heart shaped arrows came crashing into a different window. I started panicking. I looked outside the broken window, there she was. My sister wasn’t lying. I saw a little girl around the age of 13 with a long white dress and long black hair with a wide grin on her face holding a bow and arrow pointing directly at me. I quickly ducked and arrows came flying into the house once again. I closed every window and covered the broken window with a curtain then, I locked my sister and I in my room. I dialed 911 and reported a home invader. When the police came, the window wasn’t broken, the little girl was gone and all that was left behind was a toy heart shaped arrow.

0 Comments
2024/03/14
12:15 UTC

538

Twins should always be together, no matter what.

About 8 months ago, I had sex with a man, Jacob. He was not married to me, but his wife, Charlotte.

Soon after I did the deed with Jacob, I did a pregnancy test on myself. Positive.

After a few months passed, I got an ultrasound of my womb's inhabitants. The OBGYN took a glance at the screen and told me I was having twin boys.

Normally, this would have been joyous news. But this was not a “normally” occasion for me.

You see, I had a twin sister. And you can guess what happened to her by the word “had”.

It was nigh impossible to make it in life. Imagine seeing your dead sister's face in your reflection every day. The only things that I lived for were sex and having kids.

I couldn't bear the thought of my boys having to go through their eventual loss like I had. Then, a brilliant idea occurred to me.

When I was drowning in grief, I often wished I had died along with her. I had to make sure that they would be together forever in death unlike me.

I heard stories of conjoined twins before. If just the right conditions occur, they would be dependent on the same body, forever. If one died, the other one would die as well.

My boys were not conjoined yet, so I secretly forced their bodies into unity.

I could have just “fallen” down the stairs, ramming their bodies into a visceral mess, but that would have killed them. Instead I would often gently squeeze my bulging stomach tight, picturing the embryos mushing together.

When it was time for labor I anticipated the doctors pulling my united boys out of my body. The knowledge of their shared body motivated me to push them out.

I got my wish. They were conjoined, but in the wrong way.

My sons could only be described as a mass of parts. Limbs where heads should have been. Tiny insides on the outside. Bones shattered and mixed together.

My babies were stillborn, obviously.

As the doctors laid their uneven corpse in a gurney, I was isolated in my thoughts.

At least they died together.
Although, Jacob and Charlotte will be devastated.

Shit, if i knew it would end like this, i would have never volunteered to be their surrogate mother.

21 Comments
2024/03/14
12:07 UTC

94

Behind their Smiles

I yawned, rolled out of bed, cursed my life, my boss, and poured myself a cup of coffee.

I looked at my phone and sighed. Time to get to work. Blinking back sleep, I shuffled out the door of my appartment.

At the end of the hallway, our concierge, Carl, was holding the door open. I quickened my pace. When I got to the door, I nodded my thanks and was greeted by the biggest smile I've ever seen. His cheeks were stretched taught, pulling creases at the watering eyes. Very unlike Carl, especially at 7:30am on a Monday. I hurried past him.

The unnatural smile didn't waiver when the words slipped past his grinning visage. "They're after you. But don't worry, We are here to keep you safe."

I sighed. That level of weirdness was more typical.

I was almost to the train station when I noticed Carl following me, the smile easily discernable on his face. I whirled around, ready to confront him, when he broke into a sprint. Before I could react, he shoved me aside as a car torpedoed through him and into the wall at a speed that turned him into a cacaphony of limbs. My mind was an absolute blank, but the ridiculous smile on Carl's pulped face was seared onto my eyes.

I froze, unable to process what just happened.

Another man calmy sauntered up to me, grabbed my clammy hands. The wide smile on his face never touched his eyes. "Don't worry, we're here to keep you safe," he said.

Abrubtly, he stepped in front of me. I saw him double over a moment before I heard the gunshot.

I ran, surging through the crowd of panicked commuters as shots cracked the air. I chanced a glance over my shoulder to see the sidewalk littered with bodies perfectly mirroring my footsteps. Through the red gore, I saw the stark contrast of their beaming smiles.

I ran, and I couldn't stop the flow of tears.

I couldn't remember how I got to my appartment, but hours must have passed before I gained the courage to crawl out from the closet.

In a daze, I stumbled towards the liquor cabinet and grabbed a bottle. I didn't bother reaching for a glass.

The knock on my door pierced the silence and set my hands shaking anew.

"Hey, it's me. Is everythink okay? Please let me in, your job called. They said you didn't show up for work..."

And just like that, I knew everything would be alright; it was my dad.

Forgetting myself, I practically flung open the door, ready to collapse into my father's arms.

Our eyes met. Dad's face, so soothing just a second ago, was no longer his own. As I watched, his mouth stretched into a smile so wide his lip split in the middle, gently staining his teeth red. A single tear glistened in the corner of his eye.

"Don't worry, I'm here to keep you safe."

4 Comments
2024/03/14
11:20 UTC

43

Silent Screams Among the Leaves

I was chosen. In our village, being selected to commune with the Grove was the highest honor. Or so we were told. As a child, I'd watch in silent awe as the chosen walked into the dense woods, never to return. We were led to believe they ascended, becoming guardians of our land, whispering wisdom to the druids from beyond.

The night before my journey, the village celebrated. Yet, I saw fear in my parents' eyes, a silent scream I didn't understand until it was too late. At dawn, I was led to the edge of the Grove by the druids, their faces hidden beneath hoods of woven leaves. They spoke not a word, their silence more foreboding than any farewell.

Entering the Grove alone, the air changed. It thickened, clinging to my skin like a shroud. I heard whispers, not of people, but of the Grove itself. It spoke in a language felt rather than heard, one of primal fear and ancient secrets. As I ventured deeper, the trees seemed to close in, their branches guiding me to the heart of the Grove.

There, I found the source of the whispers—a pit, so dark it seemed to swallow the light. The druids appeared, encircling the pit, and began their chant. It was then I realized the truth of the Grove's Whisper.

"I don't understand," I pleaded. "I was told I was to be an honored guardian."

"There is honor," a druid replied, his voice a cold echo. "But not as you know it."

That's when I understood this was no communion. It was a sacrifice.

I tried to run, but the forest itself betrayed me. Roots entwined my legs, pulling me towards the pit. The druids' chant grew louder, a cacophony that drowned out my screams. As I was dragged to the edge, I saw it—a glimpse into the pit revealed not darkness, but a writhing mass of forms, twisted and grotesque, a manifestation of the Grove's consciousness.

The last thing I felt was the cold embrace of the pit as I fell. But death did not come. My consciousness melded with the Grove, my individuality fraying at the edges until I was no more than another whisper among many. Yet, I was aware, trapped in eternal witness to the horrors that unfolded in the heart of the woods.

I scream without voice as the chosen are brought year after year, their terror a fleeting spark before they too join the whispers. I am a guardian of the land, yes, but not by choice. My existence is a warning left unheeded, a guardian of a truth too horrifying to comprehend—that the honor of the Grove is a lie, a facade masking an endless cycle of sacrifice.

We are the Grove, and the Grove is us, forever bound in darkness, whispering warnings no one will ever hear.

2 Comments
2024/03/14
05:56 UTC

27

The Lights Of Carpenter's Field

The carnival was held out in the middle of Carpenter’s Field every July. A flat patch of farming land where nothing would grow. Old man Carpenter had salted the earth himself after he killed his whole family with a hatchet in the 1920’s. He said the ground was cursed.

While Molly was stalled on the top of the ferris wheel, she saw something out in the darkness of the field, far beyond all the music, laughter, and the reach of the carnival lights. A dozen little pinpricks of yellow light, close to the ground.

They swayed back and forth.

She didn’t give it much thought. She was finally with Billy, the boy she had fawned over since the second grade. He had clumsily reached over and held her hand just as the wheel came to a halt.

She noticed them again as Billy was trying to throw rings around the tops of bottles. Her eyes had been attracted to someone spinning cotton candy, but they were distracted by the small lights out in the dark. They were swaying.

Back and forth.

Maybe they’re cats, she thought.

All night, she became more and more bothered by the little lights. All night, they were following her, staying just far enough away from the lights. What made things worse is that Billy didn’t see them. Maybe they were fireflies, he said.

She wouldn’t mention them again out of fear that Billy might think that she was crazy.

When Billy drove her home, Molly wouldn’t look in the rearview mirror. She was convinced she would see the little lights following her.

Swaying back and forth.

When Billy walked her to the door, he kissed her. She opened her eyes in the middle of the kiss and the little lights were there, across the street swaying in the darkness.

They stayed there as she watched Billy drive away.

Later that night as Molly looked out of her upstairs window, she saw them again in the same place across the street. After her parents had fallen fast asleep, she crept downstairs and turned on all of the lights. Whatever they were, she thought, the lights would keep them away.

She laid down on her bed and thought she heard sounds outside. The sounds of a dozen feet quietly advancing up the stairs of the front porch towards the door.

The next morning, Molly’s father tripped on his way to the kitchen, because the house was completely dark. The nightlight in the hallway was off, and the clocks on the microwave and the oven were all off. There wasn’t a spot of light in the house to be had.

As he left for work, he was met with a gruesome sight. Molly was under the oak tree in the front of the house. From the porch light, he could see that her eyes were gone. Nothing but dark holes, as she hung from a rope, swaying in the warm darkness of a July morning.

Back and forth.

4 Comments
2024/03/14
02:44 UTC

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