(Doing a little challenge to get ready for Nanowrimo, one short story every day for October, here's my first intended to write a horror story, but I'm not sure this counts, kind of turned into something else) My name is Amelia Kemper, and after an unfortunate legal incident, I have found myself having to repay a debt to society by way of a sentence of 24 hours of community service. My sentence is to work six four-hour shifts at a local nursing home. The work is easy. They said I would mostly be in the kitchen preparing food, which didn't sound so bad as I do like to cook. This wasn't exactly cooking so much as heating ready-made trays of TV Dinner-like meals that would be delivered by rolling carts to the various Shady Pines nursing home residents. On my first day, I met my supervisor Anita. She's a five-foot Jamaican woman who came to this country legally, worked hard, and obeyed rules to get where she was. Chief wellness coordinator for Shady Pines. Her accent is thick, and her tone doesn't take any guff. I also met Mr. Montechello. Mr. Montechello wasn't an employee of the nursing home but rather a volunteer resident. He had been a chef in his life before these walls and found some waning success in the eighties publishing his own cookbook. *Gourmet simp'le.* He was actually one of the first gourmet chefs to cash in on the early eighties who cashed in on the then in vogue health craze of the low-fat diet before all the diet scientists who whoever it is that's in charge of telling us what's good to eat figured out that it was those delicious carbs, who made up a good third of next decades food pyramid said was so important to the diet of a healthy and happy worker. While the heated TV Dinners were a far call from the gourmet cuisine he used to prepare, his mind was starting to go a bit earlier than most people, and his money had dried up once the second printing of his book failed to achieve any kind of repeat success in the ever-changing world of fad dieting. Like many patients with his particular mental condition in the home, he had his good days and bad days. On his bad days, he would relax in front of the television, get his daily dose of Judge Judy, and, if he was still awake by two o'clock, he would watch General Hospital with those cute and spry seventy-something-year-old back in the game bachelorettes. But, on his good days, he liked to work with his hands, be productive. He loved getting back in the kitchen as simple as work in this kitchen was. He would stack meals and watch times. He couldn't be trusted to set them, but he would watch them and alert the people in charge of the day's meals just before the timers went off. "Now remember, the instructions say you have to heat it at 250 for twenty minutes," he said, giving me the tour under the watchful eye of Amelia. "I have found, you get a more even cook putting it in for five minutes at 200, and then finish off with thirteen minutes at 275," he said. His voice was raspy and old, the kind of old that could be thought full of wisdom, but also spackled and duct-taped together by a slowly unraveling psyche that the last couple of years were not kind to. "We cook the food for what the box says to cook the food for," Amelia said, "Don't listen to him child, you follow directions," she said. I did, followed directions, was just here to do what I was told to do. Finish my time, and get back to my rather uneventful life as a College drop-out with a part-time job bookkeeping for a company that runs management for home owner's associations. That first day I did what I was told. When the first batch came out of the oven, the one to be delivered to the third and top floor of the senior living community, Mr. Monticello took a small gold spoon, a keepsake from his wealthier days. He took a taste of the mashed potatoes when Amelia wasn't looking. "Came out good, heated evenly, good texture, good flavor," he smiled. He held his spoon up to me, "You know why anyone would have a gold spoon?" he asked. "No, I can't say I would know why anyone would have a gold spoon," I said. "See, this is what professional tasters use. Steel has its own flavor. When your tasting, you need a gold spoon, has a neutral flavor, doesn't confuse your tongue. How's it feel knowing everything you've tasted you've tasted wrong?" he asked, laughing a bit. "I'm not sure," I said as he quickly hid his instrument and worked to get the warm trays on the cart for me to deliver. I made my way up to the third floor as Amelia got the meals for the second floor ready. I met all sorts of people, people with stories, people with worries, and people slowly falling into senility. I got to the last room on this run, room 322, and was greeted by a friendly and weak voice, "Are you here to read to me?" an old, overweight lady with a curled bunch of thinning hair on her head asked through a mouth missing more than less of her teeth. I had learned later her name was Mrs. LeBlanc, and that she was the oldest residence in the care of Shady Pines. "No, not the reader. She should be in later," I said, "it's dinner time," I brought the food to her as she sat up in a bed she probably hadn't left for at least a few months. "Could you read to me? They send a girl like you to read to us," she asked me. "I don't know. I have to get back downstairs to get the rest of the dinner," I said. "Gatsby, I love the Great Gatsby," she said, pointing to the book on her nightstand. "Would you believe I've read that book over a hundred times, but my eyes, they're so old now, I can't read anymore, Gatsby always made me comfortable, you know my husband was in the war too, he came back, and he won me," she said. Her voice was so horse and raspy, raspy like all the old people here. "Just read to me, the last girl didn't read to me, I thought when we had a new girl maybe she would, oh, I would love to just hear the first chapter," she said. I looked at my watch. The next meal wouldn't be ready to be taken up to the second floor for at least another ten minutes, "Okay, I guess I could, just the first chapter?" I asked as I took the book and pulled a small chair up to the bed. I began to read as she ate her re-heated dinner. As I neared the end of the first chapter, she dropped her fork and fell back on her three-layer bunch of pillows and drifted off into sleep, and it appeared to be a very deep sleep. She was out. I shrugged, got my cart, and wheeled it back to the service elevator to get back to the first floor and back to the kitchen for my next set of deliveries. On my way back to the kitchen, I passed one of the rooms, room 106, and an angry, old greybeard with a bald head lashed out at me, "It’s supper time, where’s my damn food,” he said. “It’s coming,” I said, jumping back a bit. He had nasty yellow teeth, most of them missing. Liver spots stuck out all over his skull and his beard was patchy in places, looking as if it had no care or concern for itself. He balanced himself on a cane with a silver wolf’s head on the handle of it. I would later come to learn that this was Mr. Abernathy, the resident grump of Shady Pines. The word I heard from the other residents was that he would just trudge around the common room the few times he wasn’t sequestering himself in his own room. He said he was just waiting to die. His kids were dead, his daughter was killed in a drunk driving accident, she was the drunk, and his son died of an OD after getting his first big acting job as a side character in some science fiction straight to DVD movie. I went back to the kitchen and got the next collection of trays. I delivered them to the second floor. Got my share of kind hellos from the little old ladies and got more than a few lecherous looks from some of the younger seventy-something men who fancied themselves on the market now that their wives were dead and the house sold to afford a nice nest egg for their comfy retirement and enough to leave a bit to their sometimes thankful children. Thankfully, I finished my run on the second floor without another request to read or provide some other such service. And I came back to Ms. Amelia and Mr. Monticello as they were cleaning. Well, really, Amelia was doing all the cleaning, being that it was later in the day, Mr. Monticello was basically taking a wet rag and wiping down the same spot he had been wiping for the last hour of my shift. With my four hours for the day done, I gave my apron to Ms. Amelia and clocked out for the day. When I pulled my civic into the parking lot of Shady Pines, I saw a big black van at the side of the building is loaded with a gurney and a black bag atop it that could be nothing else but a body. When I went inside to clock in with Amelia, I asked about the truck, and she told me that “Mrs. LeBlanc died last night,” she said, “Get used to it. How long you here? Six shifts, you most likely going to see at least three while you’re here, ” she said. Mrs. LeBlanc, that lady to who just yesterday I read the first chapter of the Great Gatsby. “Wait, I just talked to her,” I said, “I mean, I talked to her yesterday,” I said, “Was she really that bad? She looked healthy, I mean, at least I think she was healthy,” “People go when they go, no one controls it,” Amelia said. I shook off the haunting thought of maybe being the last person someone had talked to before they died and focused on my work. I just wanted to finish my shifts and get out of here. Said shifts were pretty simple, sometimes I would work the kitchen, and sometimes when I worked the kitchen, Mr. Monticello would try to tell me how fat is the number one killer in the middle of one of his foggier periods of men younger than he was. How it clogs one’s arteries and leads to heart attacks. He even told me that a heart attack is what put his younger brother in the grave at the tender age of sixty-nine. “You know you’re a nice girl. If my grandson wasn’t married, I would have liked to introduce you,” Mr. Monticello said. “Oh, that’s really nice,” I smiled and laughed nervously. Once again, after we heated the meals to Mr. Monticello’s instructions as Ms. Amelia was busy tending to a disruption caused by Mr. Abernathy, I had one of those bad days that Ms. Amelia warned me that tenants could have here at Shady Pines. I had finished my last delivery of the day, room 122. The door had a well out of date easter decoration, most likely from the tenant’s grandchild, that said the man in this room was a Mr. Schedony, “Is that you Karen?” he asked. I had learned later he was blind, like, blind-blind. “I can’t see, Karen, lovely Karen, just tell me you’re here,” he said. I learned later he was talking about his daughter, who hadn’t visited him in going on six years now. He was put in Shady Pines seven years ago. “I’m sorry, I’m not Karen,” I said, creeping into the room. “Oh you, you talked to Elizabeth,” he smiled, “Oh, I know you, I heard about you,” he said. Elizabeth, Mrs. LeBlanc as I knew her. “You like to read to us,” he sat up in his bed, his head looking around “The nurse brought me this book I had loaned Elizabeth, Great Gatsby, I loaned it to her what, two, three years ago, since my eyes went and I couldn’t read it myself, why don’t you read it to me?” he asked. “Umm, I kind of have to get back to work,” I said. That was a bit of a lie. He was my last delivery of the day. I would just have to wipe down some surfaces and set the oven to cleaning mode before my shift was done, and I could head out for the day. “Oh please, please read to me,” he took a deep breath. It sounded like it was hard for him to take a breath that deep as he fell back against his pillows. “Okay, I can read for you,” I said. I felt bad, this poor blind old man. He just wanted someone to read to him. I would discover soon that all any of these poor tenants wanted was just for someone to read to them. I went to the chair by his bed and took the book that was sitting on the nightstand. “Okay,” I shrugged and opened the book, and began to read the words. “Oh, thank you, such a nice story,” he smiled. I was halfway through the fourth page before he was passed out and snoring. The next day I arrived at Shady Pines, ready to bang out another shift and secretly hoping that I wouldn’t have another awkward encounter with a senior citizen who wanted me to read to them. I read The Great Gatsby in high school, and that one time was more than enough for me. Reading to these octogenarians, I found they passed out just before I finished the first chapter. As I parked my car, I saw the ambulance loading another black-bagged body into its carriage. I clocked in with Ms. Amelia, and sure enough, she told me that Mr. Shedony had passed last night, maybe earlier, the morning check-in at his room found him dead. The proper authorities were called to dispose of another dead resident of Shady Pines. “I got to tend to clean out the rooms of our recent vacancies. I’m gonna trust you with preparing the food. I can count on you, right?” Amelia asked. Mr. Monticello and I were in the kitchen being addressed by her, but I could tell she was only talking to me. It was a simple job, and after three days, I figured out how things needed to be done, and Mr. Monticello told me how things could be done better. I cooked the meals and delivered them as Mr. Monticello prepared the next round for the next floor. On this trip, I wasn’t badgered to read for someone. In fact, the tenants were a bit reserved to accept food from me. The ones happy to be in Shady Pines were at least. When I got to Mr. Abernathy’s room, he scowled and scolded me, “Where were you? Why don’t you do what you’re supposed to do?” he asked, angry and curmudgeonly. “Umm, I am. Here’s your dinner,” I said, handing him his heated tray. “Just bringing me food, can’t even do what you’re good at,” he said. I shook off his scolding and made my way back to the kitchen. Ms. Amelia was still busy dealing with cleaning out Mrs. LeBlac and Mr. Shedony’s rooms. Mr. Monticello came to me after we, I, was done wiping down the kitchen and getting it ready for another day of heating ready to eat meals. “I heard you’re leaving us soon,” he said, smiling. He was always so nice when he was functioning. When the demon of old age wasn’t putting him through the wringer, he really was a nice man. “Yeah, I’ll be here one more day, but yeah, I’m leaving,” I smiled. “I want to give you something,” he said. “No, you don’t have to do that. I’m just working here. There’s no reason for you to give me anything,” I said. “No, no, my grandchildren don’t visit me, my children don’t even visit me, I’m not just going to leave this for them to pan through and fight each other for once I’m gone, and I hope to be gone soon,” he said. “Hey, don’t talk like that. You’re not going to be gone for a while, what are you? Seventy-eight, seventy-nine, if you can crack seventy, that’s a good sign, and you were a health food chef,” I said, “If anyone here can crack ninety, it’s going to be you,” I said. “Oh, I’ve no intention of cracking ninety, come with me,” he said, leaving the kitchen as I followed him back to his room. Room 124, a room I skipped while he was busy in the kitchen. Ms. Amelia would bring him his meal after our work was done, give him some time to rest after a job well done. Once I followed him into his room, he went to his dresser and dug through his socks and underwear to find a trinket, a small pocket watch, gold shell, gold just like his tasting spoon. “This is the only thing I bought with the one big score of money I made. I put the rest in the nest egg that allowed me to retire in all the luxury you’ve seen that I live in,” he smiled and approached me, dangling the watch in his hands. I looked around, a modest, single bedroom. Small, cozy as someone trying to sell a person on living here would say. Spackled wallpaper with a flower pattern and a small bathroom with a walk-in bath lacking a rim that could cause the senior clientele of this building to trip and die before, or maybe after, their time. This room looked exactly like every other room I had seen while delivering food to the elderly resediments of Shady Pines. I reached my hand out. My only thought was to not look rude, not disappointed this poor, nice, old man who wanted nothing more but to give me a gift. He dropped the watch in my hand, and its chain fell into my palm, “I don’t need to know the time anymore. There’s no need for time, not here,” he smiled. “For this gift, I just have a favor,” he said as he took a seat on his bed, kicked off his shoes, and laid back, resting his head on a stack of two pillows. “What’s that?” I asked. Mr. Monticello pointed to his nightstand, “I got a gift from a dear friend, who himself got it from a dear friend, open the nightstand,” he said. I did, and inside the drawer was the well-worn copy of The Great Gatsby. The same copy I read to Mrs. Leblanc, the same copy I read to Mr. Shedony. “I’ve heard you like to read to us, please, would you read to me?” he asked. My eyes were wide as I saw that damn book, as I thought of the fate that the last two people I read this book to was, “I…I don’t know if I should,” I said. “Please, just read to me,” he said, getting comfortable in his bed, making sure he was well supported, in a position with little neck or back pain. “I’d really like to be read too,” he said. I gulped, my heart beating, it was just a coincidence I said to myself, “Okay, Mr. Monticello, I’ll read to you,” I took the book, I looked at the pocket watch he gave me, my four-hour shift was just now over, my last shift as just now over. Right now, I was just a volunteer helping out. I took a seat by the bed as Mr. Monticello folded his hands over his chest and found the sweet spot lying in his bed. I opened the book and took a deep breath, “In my younger and more vulnerable years, my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since. Whenever you feel like criticizing any one, he told me, just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had.” I read to Mr. Monticello, and just before I finished the first chapter, he was passed out in a peaceful sleep. He looked so peaceful. I got up and found a spare tear running down my cheek. I wiped it away and left back to the kitchen to check out with Ms. Amelia. This was the last day of my service to Shady Pines. I had no reason to ever come back here. I came back the next day. I made sure to get there at seven o’clock when the residents awoke the seniors. Sure enough, there was an ambulance there, loading in a body wrapped in a black bag. I rushed inside through the front door. When I was an employee here, I was told to use the side door, but I was no longer an employee here, so I came in through the front. I made my way to the back room where the kitchen was, my eyes looking around, desperate to find Mr. Monticello. “Oh, you want to volunteer now?” Ms. Amelia asked, “You volunteer?” she asked again. “No, I don’t want to volunteer,” I said. The last thing I wanted to do was force myself to carry more of those horrible meals to these old people who wanted me to read to them, “I just wanted to visit. Where is Mr. Monticello?” I asked, “Is he in the kitchen?” I asked. “Oh, sweety, Mr. Monticello is not with us anymore,” she said. I had to collect myself for a moment. I looked down, blamed myself, “He was smiling when he died, child. He was happy,” she said. “Can I go to his room?” I asked. “Child, we ain’t done cleaning it,” she said, “You don’t want to go to dead man’s room. What do you need there?” “There is something there, something that,” I shook my head, I had read the first chapter of that stupid book to three different people, and they had all died after I finished reading to them. That book was killing people. I had to get it out of here. “Can’t let you go into his room, that’s for his family to do, and after his family, we send people in to clean it, he died there, his son in here earlier, asking about some watch,” she said, “You see some watch he had, I have never seen him with some watch,” she said as she went back to her work, setting the oven to 250. I held my tongue, “No, I don’t know about any watch, how did…How did Mr. Monticello die?” I asked. “When someone that age dies, you don’t be asking questions. People that old just die said he went in his sleep the ambulance did, just a death, natural,” she said. “Natural death,” I nodded, taking another deep breath. “Where’s his funeral? Is he even having one?” I asked. Mr. Monticello was so nice, and he was nice to me. He told me that his kids didn’t give a damn about him. I gave a damn about him. He gave me his watch. I was maybe the last voice he heard before he passed. I wanted to go. “His family cremating him, no ceremony, I’m sorry, dear,” Ms. Amelia put her hand on my shoulder. “I just-” I was cut off by the sound of a gunshot ringing through Shady Pines. Ms. Amelia shrieked, “Oh God! oh god!” she cried out as we ran to the common room. Most of the tenants of Shady Pines were in shock, and for a good reason. Mr. Abernathy’s body was lying in the middle of the room, on the ground, a luger held loosely in his hand and a hole in the back of his head as he laid collapsed in the middle of the room. “What happened?” I asked. “I don’t know, I don’t know,” one of the younger ladies said, she was in her late sixties and new to Shady Pines, “He just came in and asked where the girl who reads was,” she said, she was crying, her wrinkly skin contorting as she tried to wipe her tears away. “What girl who reads?” I asked. “The girl who reads, he said, asked where’s that damn girl who reads, he said he just wanted to die,” she said.


Kate woke up on a bed that was not her own. Her soft bed was gone, replaced by a hard slab of fabric, sitting gently on a sturdy metal frame. She swiftly opened her eyes and was quickie sitting up. As if on queue with her awakening, bright lights shot on, bathing the room is clean white light. Once her eyes adjusted, Kate looked around and was able to get a better understanding of the room she found herself in. The room was small, the walls and floors were made of solid panels, each seemed to be the exact same size and shape, all but one was a stark white. Across the room from the bed was a single black panel at the center of the wall. Kate’s eyes were still adjusting to the light as she stood herself up from the bed. She looked down and noticed her normal clothes were gone, replaced with a simple gray jumpsuit. “Hello?!” She shouted, her brain was running on overdrive trying to figure out where she was and how she got here. A monotone robotic male voice echoed across the room. “Subject is awake. Please confirm.” The voice seemed to be without a source, as if there were a thousand invisible speakers all echoing in perfect unison. Kate looked around, the adrenaline from being woken up was quickly fading as the fear of what was going on began to take hold. “Wha.. What is going on? Who are you? Where am I?” She stuttered through her words, unsure which question she really wanted answered, worried the answer might be alot worse than whatever her mind might think of. The voice returned. “Confirmation accepted.” The voice paused. An eternity of silence passed in a heartbeat. “Make progress, or termination will be permanent.” Kate yelled out, “What does that mean?” The voice was annoyingly silent, that seemed to be all the answers she was going to get. Kate looked around, and noticed the black panel had changed. At the top, a timer had appeared and was counting down. 3 minutes were left. Underneath, there was a message; ***What walks on four legs in the morning, two legs in the afternoon, and three legs at night?*** Kate stared at the board confused as to why she was being asked a simple brain teaser. She thanked herself that she knew the answer, and unable to think of another way to answer, Kate spoke out the solution to the riddle. “The answer is man.” The timer stopped, and the message disappeared. A moment later, the loud voice returned. “Progress has been made.” Kate was unsure of what exactly *progress* meant, but making it seemed like a good thing, as the timer began to tick upwards until it hit 13 minutes, before it began to count down again. Then, another message appeared. ***LOCATE WHERE THE PATTERN REPEATS*** Kate looked at the message, then around the room for any sort of pattern she could find. The walls and ceiling remained unchanged, however when she looked down she noticed the floor had changed. It was no longer the same solid white, now a variety of black shapes scattered across the floor. She scanned the room, but couldn’t find any sight of a pattern. She spoke to herself “Okay, ‘Locate where the pattern repeats.’ Just gotta find it.’ How hard could it be?” Kate wasn’t sure if it was the nerves or the riddle, but she was just thankful that she had something else to focus her mind on. She quickly began to scan the ground, looking for any sign of a pattern, and where it might repeat. The clock had ticked down to 2 minutes, and Kate was still scanning the floor, but she couldn't find any sign of a pattern. Her mind was racing, and she began to panic. “There is no pattern! This doesn't make sense!” She yelled out, a small part of her brain was desperately hoping that maybe she had found the answer, but the voice was silent. Kate stared at the message, and suddenly she noticed something odd about the letters. She ran over, but before she could analyze them, she remembered the clock, and realized it had 5 seconds left. Kate froze, she tried to look at the letters but the pressure of the timer was too much, she couldn’t focus enough to find a pattern. The final seconds ticked away. The clock hit zero and the message disappeared. The ominous voice returned. “Time has expired, commencing termination.” The hard white light of the room was quickly replaced with a dim red. Smoke began to seep out from the floor. The room was quickly flooded with toxic gas. Kate tried to hold her breath, but eventually her body betrayed her, she took a deep breath in, she felt her body quickly begin to fail, until she completely collapsed. There was a flash of white, then suddenly Kate was once again standing in the center of the room. She took a deep breath, confused as to what just happened to her. “Make progress, or termination will be permanent.” Kate quickly realized she was somehow right back where she started. She looked at the clock, and saw it begin to count down from 5 minutes, with the same message as before. ***What walks on four legs in the morning, two legs in the afternoon, and three legs at night?*** “Okay, so as long as I make progress, I somehow end up back where I started.” Kate said to herself. She didn’t understand the how or the why, but at least there were rules she could follow. “The answer is man” This time the voice did not return, the message simply disappeared, and the clock began to tick upwards. This time settling at 14 minutes. “And it would seem that time gets added every time I solve a puzzle. Got it.” Kate was beginning to feel slightly more confident, as the next riddle appeared. ***LOCATE WHERE THE PATTERN REPEATS*** This time Kate ignored the shapes on the ground, and went right to the letters. At the bottom of each of the letters, there were small shapes. Under the L was a square, the O had a circle, the C had a triangle. Square, circle, triangle. This pattern repeated under each letter across the whole riddle. She made a point to note every spot where the pattern repeated itself, and nervously spoke out her answer. “The pattern repeats every 3 letters.” The message vanished, the clock stopped, then the voice returned. “Progress has been made.” 10 minutes were added to the clock. This was how it continued, puzzles and riddles continued, sometimes entire rooms would open up, but each one had the same black panel, with a clock and riddle. If Kate could solve the puzzle, she could move on, and every time she solved a new one, the robotic voice indicated progress had been made. The once ominous voice began to take on a more calming presence to Kate, as each time it echoed, she knew she was now safe to fail a puzzle. Each failure led to a death of some type, but each time Kate woke up back at the start.


#Welcome to Serial Sunday! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join.   *** #This week's theme is Vice! This week we’ll explore the theme of ‘vice’. Vice is all about immoral wicked behavior. Some things that come to mind when we think of vices are addictions and bad habits. But this isn’t limited to just those things, it can extend to any bad behavior. As we enter October, this seemed like an appropriate time to explore this in your stories. People are not good all the time, neither are their thoughts. What kind of wickedness is afoot in your world? What kind of trouble will your characters get into? Are the other characters aware of the goings on or are they oblivious...until that one domino falls? Maybe this is the moment that the Big Bad enters the picture and turns the world upside down. I can’t wait to see where you take this. These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. |   *** #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I release the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. * October 3 - Vice (this week) * October 10 - Insidious * October 17 - Storm   *** **Previous Themes:** | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | *** #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Please make sure to read *all* of the rules before posting!   *** #The Rules: * **All top-level comments must be a story inspired by the theme (not using the theme is a disqualifier).** Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt/post is not allowed. * **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. **You may include a *brief* recap at the top of your post each week if you like, and it will not count against the wordcount.** * **Stories must be posted by Saturday 6pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. * **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread (on two different stories, not two on one) to qualify for rankings every week.** The feedback should be actionable and **must** include at least one detail about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. (Verbal feedback does not count towards this requirement.) **Missing your feedback two consecutive weeks will exclude you from campfire readings and rankings the following week.** You have until the following Sunday at 12pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements each week. * **Keep the content “vaguely family friendly”.** While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of family friendly for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask! * **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalogue. Please note: You **must** use the exact same name each week. This includes commas and apostrophes. If not, the bot won’t recognize your serial installments.   *** #Reminders: * **If you are continuing an in-progress serial, please include links to the prior installments on reddit.** * **Saturdays I host a Serial Campfire on the discord main voice lounge**. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * **You can nominate your favorite stories each week**. Send me a message on discord or reddit and let me know by 12pm EST the following Sunday. You do not have to attend the campfire, or have read all of the stories, to make nominations. Making nominations awards both parties points (see point breakdown). * Authors who successfully finish a serial with at least 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the subreddit. Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). * There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news!   *** #Last Week’s Rankings - - u/Zetakh   - - u/GammaGames   - - u/rainbow--penguin   - - u/Sonic_Guy97   - - u/ReverendWrites   - - u/Bavarianlageryeast   - - u/chunksisthedog   *** #Ranking System There is a new point system! Note that you must use the theme each week to qualify for points! Here is the current breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 60 points - Second place - 50 points - Third place - 40 points - Fourth place - 30 points - Fifth place - 20 points - Sixth place - 10 points **Feedback:** - Written feedback (on the thread) - 5 points each (25 pt. cap) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 5 points each (15 pt. cap) *Note: In order to be eligible for feedback points, you must complete your 2 required feedback comments. These are included in the max point value above.Your feedback must be **actionable**, listing at least one thing the author did well, to receive points. (“I liked it, great chapter” comments will not earn you points or credit.)* **Nominating Other Stories:** - Sending nominations for your favorite stories - 5 points (total)   *** ###Subreddit News - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday. Check out to learn more! - Sharpen your micro-fic skills by participating in our brand new feature, - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts.


"I know it sounds stupid," The man said. The bar wasn't busy, but he still had to raise his voice a little to compete with the clamor of small talk, 90's alternative, and Monday night football that filled the place. He took a shot of something clear and winced, then wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his crisp, blue linen shirt. "But I just don't feel the spark anymore." "The spark? Bullshit dude, life's not the fuckin' Notebook. How long you guys been together?" The bartender asked. "Ten years." She clicked her blood-red ballpoint a few times before sticking it in her shirt pocket, right below a nametag that read “Rebecca”, then grabbed an expensive-looking bottle of vodka from the shelf. She gestured toward it with her free hand. The man nodded his head in affirmation. “Ten years? Dude what do you think, it’s gonna be honeymoon shit forever? Do you love her?” "Yeah I love her, of course I love her. It's just that things aren't the same now, you know? We don't even talk anymore. At least when we used to argue, I felt something." He tapped on the rim of his beer glass anxiously while she poured him another shot. "I'm sorry, I know you're in here all the time. What was your name again?" "Tim." "Tim," She said teasingly, "Are you telling me you wish you and your girlfriend argued more?" "No, of course I don't want to argue more, but she gives me nothing. We never do anything. It's a hassle just getting her out of bed these days." Cheers erupted from the corner of the dim room, a small group of college students celebrating a touchdown. One of them stumbled to the bar and set his empty glass on the counter. He waved his hand to signal that he was ready for another. “One sec, hon.” Rebecca went to serve another cheap, watery pour from the complicated looking ten-tap beer tower at the other end of the bar. It’s getting late, Tim thought, looking at his watch. He wondered if his wife would be waiting for him to get home. She probably hasn’t noticed I’m not. "Maybe she's depressed. When I get depressed I don't feel like doing shit." Becky's voice cut into his thoughts as she reappeared in front of him. "I'm sure you shower, at least," Tim said, sardonically, "She doesn't even take care of herself anymore." "Did something happen? Someone die or something? Like, you said things used to be good, right?" "I wouldn't know if something did happen. She doesn't tell me anything anymore. But yeah, they were great. Really great. I’d do anything to get that version of her back, you know?" Becky’s gentle, rosy face took on an expression of grave seriousness. “Then what are you waiting for, man? Go get her.” Her expression broke and she launched into hysterics. “I’m sorry, dude, you set yourself up for it. I always wanted to say some dramatic shit like that," She said, dabbing away the tears that had been formed by her laughter and making an effort to gather her composure. “Seriously though man, you want my advice? Just talk to her. If things aren’t gonna work out then they’re not gonna work out, but you say you want it back, so just try,” This time, the look of seriousness was more genuine. “You say you work a lot, right? Maybe what you need to do is take a little time off and just be with her. Spend some time together." Tim looked at his drinks contemplatively. "See if you can find that ‘spark’.” Becky added, mockingly. "You're right, honestly. I haven't been the greatest partner either." "Not trying to bust your balls or anything, but think about it. You are literally sitting in a dive bar complaining that your marriage isn't fun anymore while your wife is at home by herself. Go fix it, dude." "Yeah when you put it like that, I do kinda sound like an asshole, huh?" He chased the vodka with the rest of his Pabst Blue Ribbon. "How much do I owe you?" He asked, putting on his black jacket. "Just gimme ten." He laid a twenty on the bar. "Thanks for being real with me." "Anytime bud. Good luck." Tim crossed his fingers in the air behind him as he pushed open the frosted glass door and walked out into the orange-pink glow of the setting sun. The soles of his oxfords clicked against the cracked sidewalk on his way to the old grey Buick, where he fumbled with the keys for a moment. He drove carefully and methodically, sober enough to know that he'd had too much to be behind the wheel of anything. The lights were off when he opened the door to the townhouse that he shared with his wife. He flipped the switch, bathing the room in bright white, and called out. "Honey?" There was no response. He took off his shoes and left them by the door, and hung up his coat. Flies whizzed past him as he made his way down the hall, loosening his tie. He swatted at one unfortunate insect who made the mistake of landing on him, splattering it's tiny body against his shoulder. Inside the bedroom, his wife lay facing away from the door, her stringy, matted hair beginning to fall out. "Hey sweetheart. Sorry I'm late," He said, gently. He unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it in the clothes basket. She didn't move as he crawled into bed next to her. Her blue, grey, and yellow skin was falling off in places, and maggots wriggled in the open wounds. "I've been thinking," Tim whispered into her decaying ear, "I love you, and I know things haven't been so great lately, but maybe that's my fault. How about I take next week off and we can spend some time together?" "I'd like that." He whispered back.


Jack was a man of no particular talents. His appearance was inconspicuous. At second glance, some women said that he had a handsome face but they mostly did not notice him at first glance. He was of average height, slim, not athletic. Brown hair, a muddy color. His teeth were neat, like an orderly front yard because he took brushing and flossing very seriously. In winter, his hands became dry and inflamed and he never used lotion so they always hurt. He had a simple head but the wisdom to know that. He had made up his mind about the world in relatively shallow but sufficient fashion. His position was clear to him and, should not occur some drastic change, would be so for the rest of his days. He had missed the few big chances he had had but was just fine with it. He worked in an office in a minor administrative position and brought home a salary that was right in line with any statistic about the lower middle class. He enjoyed watching TV. He knew that it wasn’t an enriching activity but what, he asked himself, did he need to be enriched for when work was done? He knew that he would not contribute anything particular, anything striking to the world and had stopped deceiving himself about that truth long ago. He was born to be a gearwheel, and so he would not hurt anybody, would not disrupt anything, do his job and remain quiet. One day he would find a woman that was as attractive as him, probably occupying a minor administrative position and he would marry her and have some children, and all, if nothing out of the ordinary happened, would be born to be gearwheels, neat and nondescript, turning until the day they stopped. The world would be spinning the same with the genepool of Jack Edgar roaming its surface, or not. All of these things would sound terribly depressing to the dreamer out there, might his dreams be an end in themselves, who knows, because the world would have you believe that being a dreamer is essential. Jack increasingly settled, increasingly became comfortable, more and more liked what he saw in the mirror. He got up and smiled in the morning. Why shouldn’t he consider himself handsome? There was the broad forehead and the prominent cheekbones. There was the stubby little nose and the thin lips but the shadow of a thick beard could conceal these pretty well. He thought back and recalled quite a number of compliments he had gotten throughout life. He decided to make it a ritual to recall them every morning to feel better. Why shouldn’t he be fine with his job? Most of his colleagues were nice and with some of them, upon meeting them in the office, he enjoyed a pleasant little chat. And as time went on, he himself, and other people, discovered the humorous side of him and the ability to make those around him laugh in some of the right moments. When he came home, he usually switched on the TV and let anything that it showed pour out of it, while leisurely letting his attention wander through the talk shows and movies and sitcoms. Then, one night, he never knew what had driven him to do it, he opened an old box with belongings of his late grandfather and examined the contents. Next to a bunch of photos, the pipe, the old man’s favorite hat, there were some dusty books. He investigated them, not in the least eager, but remembered some of the names from school and then found out that they all were established classics in english literature. Half ironic, he took one of them ‘The picture of Dorian Grey’, opened it and in homage to Frank Edgar, took the pipe between his teeth and half died of a coughing fit, for he had inhaled some particle of old tobacco. Recovered, he began to read and fought, like every person unaccustomed with reading, through the first strong onset of boredom but on page twenty was gripped by zeal. He finished the book in three days, picked up the next, finished that and became somewhat of an avid reader and discovered the meaning and the value of an enriching activity, which he had, so long, dismissed. He never touched the pipe again. He eventually even joined a book club, where some locals got together and read and discussed what they had read and Jack made friends there. Fine people, philanthropists, working in soup kitchens and buying christmas gifts for the poor children. There was a world beyond, Jack realized. Your own personal horizon, he understood, wasn’t the end, and for the first time he grasped what it meant to broaden it. He lay wondering oftentimes now, when in bed at night, about that future wife and the kids that would somewhere down the line, enrich his life like books had done and the people in the book club. And maybe, he liked to think, one of them would do something special. He would teach them reading right away, so much was certain.


Sipping their cup of tea, they looked up as they heard a loud rumble outside. It sounded... different than the thunder. It sounded deeper, more like it came from the earth itself. They slowly stood up, carefully placing their cup next to them, feeling confusion and curiosity rising from within them. Forgetting to put anything able to withstand the rain on, they walked outside into the streaming rain, barefoot, their long garments dancing behind them, carried upwards by the winds. Without looking behind them, they slowly walked into the woods, ignoring the rain trying its best to warn them. They kept on walking, slowly, gracefully, nearly looking like someone of royalty. They felt how their hair swooshed around them, in all directions, but they paid no mind to it. They kept walking, elegantly stepping over fallen branches, and entire logs. Deeper inside the woods, the rain lessened, but the wind continued to push around them. They were able to concentrate on the sounds. The leaves being blown around, and raindrops still falling towards the ground, being slowed by the plants and moss covering every free surface. They inhaled deeply, smelling the crisp air that always hangs in the air during rainfall. They smelt the greenery, but there was an underlying scent. It smelt... ancient. There was no other word to describe it. It smelt like deep caverns, like plants, slowly decaying. It smelt kind of sweet, but at the same time very clean. Their curiosity now piqued, they walked further, paying no attention to the path they were taking becoming wilder and wilder, filled with more plants with every step they took. They didn’t stumble, how, was beyond them. The light kept fading more the deeper they walked into the woods. But suddenly, the light became brighter again. When they looked as to why, they saw it. Thousands of mushrooms, glowing a soft yellow light. When they looked further along the trail, the glow became more intense. They suddenly heard the low rumble again, but this time it was so loud, it became too much for them. They covered their ears quickly, squeezing their eyes nearly shut. When the rumbling stopped, they started walking again, picking up their pace. They hurried along the trail, their heart thundering in their chest. Then, they came to a sudden halt. They saw a giant beast, illuminated by the soft glow of the mushrooms. It looked like it had the colour of moss, ranging from a deep green to a muddy brown. They took a step back in amazement, when the giant creature slowly looked their way. Big yellow eyes slowly slid over them, taking up every inch. They couldn’t see any pupils, sending a shiver up their spine. Slowly, the creature spread its wings, making it seem even taller. By doing so, it revealed that it had all sorts of plants and mushrooms growing over its body, making it seem like it had been in a slumber for thousands of years.


#Welcome to the Spooky Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, song, theme word, sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **** *Bonus Constraint (worth extra points): The word “ravenous” is used.* This is the second week of our ***Five Weeks of Spooky for Spooktober*** challenge. Each week will involve a horror or Halloween themed prompt/constraint. Keep in mind you are not bound to write horror. If the prompts inspire you to write something different, go for it! But for those who live and breathe horror, or want to give it a shot, this is your chance! This week’s challenge is to use the theme of ‘phobia’ in your story. It (or the idea) should appear in some way within the story. I have provided an image as additional inspiration. You may include the theme word if you wish, but it is not necessary. Use of the image and bonus constraint are not required. You may interpret the theme any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   *** #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some actionable feedback.** Do not downvote other stories on the thread. Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - **Send your nominations for favorites each week to me, via DM, on Reddit or Discord by Monday at 2pm EST.** - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire and Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on the discord server. We read all the stories from that week’s thread and provide verbal feedback for those authors that are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join in. Don’t worry about being late, just join! Everyone is welcome. - You can nominate your favorite stories each week, by sending me a message on reddit or discord. You have until 2pm EST on Monday (or about an hour after Campfire is over). You do *not* have to write or attend Campfire to submit nominations!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied I have made some significant changes in the ranking system. We’ll see how this works over the next few weeks and make adjustments where necessary. Here is a current breakdown: - **Use of Constraint:** 10 points - **Upvotes:** 5 points each - ***Actionable* Feedback** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Bonus:** Up to 10 pts. (This applies to things like bonus constraints and making user nominations)   *** #Rankings: This Past Week - - Submitted by u/rainbow--penguin   - - Submitted by u/katherine_c   - - Submitted by u/nobodysgeese   - - Submitted by u/Say_Im_Ugly   - - Submitted by u/katpoker666   - - Submitted by u/Nakuzin   - - Submitted by u/rolfkto   *** ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


She had been so happy with *him*, feeling at peace with herself for the first time in her life after meeting *him, a* friend of a friend. After years of longing for a deep, intimate relationship, he suddenly appeared right before her. Both of them had rather melancholic temperaments, so sadness was a well known acquaintance to both of them. He especially suffered from depressive episodes, but when they held each other tightly, their negative emotions seemed to disappear. He tried his best to always come to her aid, and she tried her best to be always there for him. She allowed herself to accept the thought that maybe, just maybe, life wasn't as cruel as she had imagined. She needed him and he needed her, so everything was perfect. They spent most of their time together, periods of time where in their minds everyone else disappeared from the surface of the world. An objective observer would have probably declared this relationship as a mutual dependence, but she would have taken this as a compliment, as a symbol for their deep love and affection toward each other, for the fact that they were able to keep going simply by supporting each other. For her, life reached a high point when he gave her a key to his flat, allowing her to come by whenever she felt like doing so. And so she did. She craved his love, his presence, his smell. She loved being dependent on him. But she always feared that she was unable to make him happy, as an aura of sadness still surrounded him, while she herself felt great. So she made an extra effort to cheer him up, to be a shoulder he could always lean on. And so the days went by. Until he said to her how he thought they had slowly stopped existing as individuals, and how it would be beneficial to their relationship if they started to spend more time being separated from each other again, in order to keep the spark between them alive. During the first moments, while processing what he had just said, she felt deeply saddened and alone. But she could nevertheless understand where he came from, and since her worst fear was losing him, she agreed to his proposal, all while holding back her tears. After this conversation, something changed within him. Texts she sent him were met with a reply hours later, calls were often not returned, visits to his flat were short-lived because he often told her about the plans he had made in the afternoon with his friends. She felt as if their relationship was nothing but a shadow of its former glory. But what had brought about this sudden change in his behaviour, in his feelings? Had she been too clingy, too affectionate, too needy? But maybe he was just busy, which of course may be a logical possibility, she thought. That was what he had texted her before, telling her how much he missed her. And like that, months went by. She finally reestablished contact with her best friend, someone she had neglected for such a long period of time. She felt disgusted regarding her behaviour towards the girl, but nevertheless her primary thought wasn't about her guilt towards her best friend, but about the growing distance between her boyfriend and herself. She confined in her friend about the changes, his eagerness to get rid of her, his short replies. After thinking through was just had been said, her friend brought up something she would have never wanted to hear, never wanted to think about, never had allowed herself to even consider the possibilities. An affair. Tears shot down her face, because she instantly realised that this had to be the truth. An affair. But with whom? With her boyfriend being „away on a visit to his parents“, she had more than enough time to think thoroughly about the possible candidates. Was it this girl from his Biology course he had mentioned a few times because of her unnatural long hair? A mutual friend? Maybe an old flame from his high school years? Who was she? It all made sense. He never wrote her back because he felt guilty, he always practically chased her out of his flat because she would afterwards come over. He put a distance between them because he wanted to spend time with this side fling. He switched wearing simple t-shirts for long-sleeved turtlenecks which made him look like a pretentious follower of Sartre, probably in order to hide the love bites she had marked him with. He became less affectionate because his love was now directed at another woman. He was probably spending the night making love to her in a hotel instead of visiting his parents. How could she have been so naive? Shortly after, she got a text from him, stating how much he loved her, how much he craved her presence. Liar, she thought to herself. Liar. The first text she had received in two days. Liar. After a sleepless night nearly breaking her head about his affair, about the identity of this woman who had stolen the man she loved, she realised what she had to do in order to come close to the truth. With trembling hands, she dialled the phone number of his family home, and after some seconds which felt so endless they took away her breath, his mother answered. Forty seconds later, she learned that her boyfriend was, in fact, not at his parents home. Her heart skipped a beat. He had, in fact, lied to her, straight to her face. He had lied. He had lied to her. It took minutes for her to comprehend this. She picked up the keys to his flat, still laying on the table where she had put them five days ago. It felt as if years had passed since her last visit. Now he was staying there with another woman. Liar. She opened the door silently and listened. No one was talking, no trace of perfume was in the air. There were no moans, no laughter. Just a deadly silence. Had they heard her coming into the flat? It didn't matter to her. Still, she tried to make as little sound as possible while she made her way into the bedroom. As the distance grew smaller, she noticed the faint sound of a female laughter coming from the room. The light also seemed to be on. So he was there after all, and in his company was a woman. She didn't bother knocking on the door, entering it fully expecting seeing him on top of the long haired girl from Biology. But instead, she saw him sitting on his bed. The first thing she saw was him wearing a t-shirt again. The second thing was a blood soaked tissue he firmly pressed onto his hand. Then she saw his arms, covered with fresh red marks. The third thing she noticed was an empty syringe, laying next to him on the bed. The sounds emitted by the television instantly faded into the background as she took a look into his eyes, his eyes, so far away, which formerly were so full of love. No, not formerly, she realised. He was still in love. Not with her, not with the girl from his Biology class, but with what seemed to be heroin. She realised that while he was able to give her everything she needed to be happy, she herself had been unable to do the same for him. So he turned to something else in order to give him what he craved so severely. Yes, they were both dependent. But obviously to very different things.


The nightmares I had kept on coming. I'd say they occurred about once every week or two. Some of them were harsh, such as the one where I had to live through my murder again. Others weren't nearly as bad but still caused me to feel sick to my stomach, such as witnessing several life-changing moments in which I pushed family away. yelling at them to not interfere with my work. I was convinced for some time that the nightmares I had were, in part, punishment for my actions in life as a cruel and negligent man. There are still many questions I have that I am unsure how to answer, so I may seem uncertain a lot of times. In truth, life after death doesn't truly answer our questions about the universe. I've no clue if this experience happening to me is similar to other spirits. Thus, with no comparison to offer, I cannot offer with certainty that events such as this will be similar to what you readers will experience. When last year's Halloween arrived, I was filled with hope once more. It was a promising day, and I would pray that someone would dare enter my home. Again, I saw the kids in their plastic masks and neat costumes skip down the road for a night of trick-or-treating. Just like every year before, they would go up to a neighborhood house, knock on the door, and joyfully accept their delicious treats. The night went on, the kids got their candy, and they all avoided my house once again. A frown formed on my face as I lost hope once more, realizing that it would be another boring Halloween for me. I hung my head low and made my way over to my spot on the floor, lazily sitting with my legs spread out haphazardly. I leaned my head against the wall and listened to the sounds of the children's fun dissipate. The moon had risen once more, and the children made their way back to their homes. Exhaling slowly, I prepared to fall asleep once more. Until I heard a strange noise outside the house, that is. I opened my eyes and shifted my head toward the back door where the sound originated. I saw several shadows moving around outside the window, with soft murmurs accompanying the motion. I sat up, my interest piqued. Could it be what I thought it was? Could it be what I had been hoping for, for all those years? I got my answer in the form of the window near the back door sliding open and a small boy stealthily making his way into the house. He couldn't have been more than 15 years old. I smiled wide as I stood and made my way over to the boy. Finally, a daredevil! As expected, he couldn't see me. The boy clicked his flashlight on and methodically traversed the house, jumping at every small creak and groan the old house made. I could see his skin crawling; He was quite uneasy in the rickety old place. Smirking mischievously to myself, I gently knocked on the wall next to the boy, causing him to jump in fright. He made his way out of the room and towards the bottom of the staircase, looking up into the darkness beyond. I made my way besides the boy and scratched the wooden walls. "H... Hello? Is anybody in here?" he whispered softly under his breath, somewhat unsure. I remained silent as a dead man, not wanting to chase the poor kid out of the house too quickly. This was my first haunting after all, and I didn't want to ruin it. The boy allowed his light to shine up the stairs as he ascended to the second story, each bump within the night causing him to noticeably wince. I followed him upwards, passing through his body at one point, causing him to shiver. Once he reached the top, he made his way down the long corridor and to my room. Before he could reach the handle, I opened the door ever so slightly, beckoning him to enter. "Heh... it's just the wind. Don't be a wimp, man, you can do this," the boy spoke to himself. As he shined the light around the room, I snuck behind him and stood silent, grinning ear to ear. When he turned around to face me, his face turned completely pale. This confused me, so I turned around to see if anything caught his eye. There was nothing. Looking back, I stared directly into his eyes. He stared right back into mine. He could see me. I didn't know how, but suddenly he could see me. He backed away slowly, his lip quivering and his eyes as wide as humanly possible. Then, he abruptly released a blood-curdling scream and ran in the opposite direction. I followed quickly as the boy rushed down the corridor. Apparently, he didn't pay attention like he should have, because I heard a shrill cry before the sound of a body tumbling down the stairs echoed throughout the house, followed by a sickening crack. I rushed down to the boy, my mouth agape in pure shock. There, at the bottom of the stairs, sat the body of the boy. His neck was turned in an unnatural position, clearly broken. His eyes were wide open and unmoving, and his chest was completely still. He wasn't breathing at all. He... was dead. I had to sit there and watch as the paramedics and officers took the child's lifeless body away. The crushing weight of guilt caused tears to form within my eyes. I had never intended for something like that to happen, and I will never get over it. My perception of time seemed to drastically slow down after that event. I wrote down that event into my computer, my mind unsure of what to think. This guilt has been weighing me down for some time now. Of all the awful experiences I have had, both in life and death, this tops them all. I am a murderer, and nothing will change that now. Whether this was an accident or not is inconsequential. The blood is on my hands, and I can't help but wonder about the boy's family and how they must feel. It tied a knot in my stomach just to think about it, and it always will. A while after those events happened, I found a new application on my computer. It was nothing that I had ever downloaded, nor was it something anyone else could have placed there. Sure enough, upon opening it up I saw a list of download links to videos. The same videos that were on the white computer, in fact. There was, however, one video that I didn't recognize. One placed directly after my death date on the timeline. My eyes widened as I read the date underneath the download link. It was Halloween... the same day I had caused the death of the poor boy who entered the house. I already knew what the contents of the video would be, and watching it only confirmed my suspicions and made me sick to my stomach. That night is all that I can think of any more. There seems to be no more room for any sort of contemplation, aside from what I could have done differently. All I can ponder now is if there was something that could have been done to mitigate this entire mess... if a mess is even an appropriate term for this. Now, I wish that I could stop thinking altogether. A child died within the house, and word spread quickly throughout town. The police will be sure to be on top of this place again, but the truth is that I'm stuck here forever, until further notice. If kids don't try sneaking in again soon, they will after the fuzz dies down. Someone will come in, and I'm deathly afraid that there will be another accident someday. I will feel that way until the end of time... or until whenever this damn house is demolished. I'm not sure what I will do when that time comes, but this afterlife is slowly shaping into a hell far beyond what I had imagined. I type this to you now because in a life and death of eternal torment, nightmares, and guilt, it's all I can think to do. There is nothing else for me, so perhaps this account of my life and afterlife will hold some value to you. Whatever the case may be, wish me the luck I so desperately need. Maybe in time I'll forgive myself and move on, but I can't be certain. I don't really know anything anymore. All I had wanted was to set aside my selfishness for a single night... and look where that got me. I just hope the kids stay away from this place. All it has to offer is bad news. Take care now, and be safe next Halloween. Please don't do anything stupid.


Pre-face: I’ve lived a long and prosperous life. Oft times, I sit in a chair near as old as myself and reflect. The neighbors seem to harbor fear or distrust for me as I stare blankly from my stoop. The lingering stares as they pass don’t affect me. I know of their secrets. I can see further and clearer than most, despite my current state of withering. The man across the way is an adulterer; he has even laid with his lowly maid. The neighborhood children are the cause for the pets gone missing. The neighbor to the left pockets the silverware when at others’ homes. The woman down the street had widowed herself. But they still pass, unaware of the ubiquity of a life long lived. My housemate is among them. He sleeps during the day and benights himself in the shadows as he prowls the streets at night. I watch him closely, for he seems the most disturbed on the street. And he watches back. I keep him out of reach to ensure my safety. I make sure he is comfortable and fed. When I rest my head and all-seeing eyes, I latch my doors and sleep facing the entrance. These securities I take may be superfluous, but they feel necessary. I awake to subtle sounds, those of mice skittering beneath the wooden floorboards or the chirping of a lost, lone cricket. Frequently, I have dreams of being watched. A man who peers around corners as I browsed the open markets. A child stuck in the corner of my eye. A bright light will shine on my face. Faint noises of metal scraping and creaking. These visions feel like more than a decaying man’s unconscious delusions and more of a warning. A warning that fell upon deaf ears. A warning I should have heeded. Half a fortnight has passed of these queer dreams before I was startled awake by a familiar sound. A sound that echoed from my fantasms; the creaking of an iron latch. The sanctity of my bed-chamber was compromised, and the door swung open. The silhouette of the man who breaks my bread ingresses and hovers to the foot of my bed. The housemate was leering above me. He bounds towards me with unremarkable speed. The lantern crashes to the floor. He grips my ankles and yanks my decrepit body to the floor. I let out one final cry, the last utterance of a life long lived. I hear a crunch and blinding pain as bones break upon impact. He drags the heavy metal frame over me, snuffing out my frail worldly existence. The pain fades rapidly and a darkness unknown creeps across my vision. I see nothing, but I can hear the thumping of a beating heart. One that is no longer mine. The beating softens to a whisper, then to a deafening silence. I can hear his heavy breathing as my chest falls for the last time with a rasp of stale air. His hand lies above my immobile heart for minutes. I am being dragged and am lifted into the porcelain basin. A stridulent sound arises as a saw grinds through my limbs, then my neck. I hear the strain of floorboards being pried up, and I tumble, piece by piece, into the emptiness below. I lie there cold and alone, bewildered by my inanimate awareness, for an indiscernible length of time. A knock comes from the postern and the falling of multiple feet enters my lodging. My slayer’s voice is booming with arrogance as he leads the officers to my dormitory. His deceit was clear to me. It appears he has meditated on this macabre act for a while. A chair is placed above my wooden sepulcher. His lies accumulate like snow rolling down a mountain. I am not simply out of town. His confidence staggers and the officers make a hushed note of it. My clothes still hang, my books still opened, my jewelry still displayed. I hear a thumping again. A heartbeat I long to have rests above me, thrashing uneasily in the chest of the man who ended a life long lived. Thu-thump. Thu-thump. Thu-thump. The officers rise to their feet, erected by their suspicions. The murder casts aside the chair covering my false grave. “Villains!,” he shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed! Tear up the planks! Here, here! It is the beating of his hideous heart!” A familiar creak came from above and the officers uncovered the remains of a life long lived.


As I was drawn towards the door, I made one final check of the cavern around me. Behind us the floor trailed off into a pile of rock and debris that looked unmoved for centuries. To our right, the small stream continued running a rivulet across the floor until the concrete stopped, and the water disappeared down a hole much too small to enter. The only way forward was the door. The corners showed finely made metal hinges. Panels were welded together with perfect precision, not a single mistake in their execution. It had rusted over the years, copper undertones slowly seeping through to the surface. There was no way this was the work of Stetguttot Heath. This was from the old world. I held my hand against the metal handle. “We enter, right?” I turned to Alessia, checking for a final confirmation from her. She nodded and I pushed down hard on the metal bar. It creaked and it was stiff, but the handle hadn’t rusted to a locked position. This door had been opened some time recently. I peered into the lightless space, only making out the vaguest of shapes. Squinting, I stepped over the threshold and immediately four small bulbs in the corners of the room hummed on, an orange-hue cascading across the room. Ahead, small red lettering appeared intermittently on the wall behind a glass case. *AUXILIARY POWER* “What the…? How’d you turn that on?” I asked. “I didn’t,” Alessia said, her mouth flat and her eyes wide. “You didn’t do anything?” “Didn’t touch a thing,” I said. Alessia merely shrugged, and so I turned back to inspect. It was a large room, maybe some ten metres square. Across the outside walls sat a mixture of desks and large contraptions I had no hope of understanding. In the middle of the room there were desks too, these had large glass squares encased in plastic. The glass was black, lifeless. Long cables ran from the back of the machines, disappearing into the desks. In front of many of the screens sat buttons; the letters of the alphabet jumbled up. Elsewhere, there were other switches that simply read "Start", "Stop" or some other instruction. Moving closer, I could see that several of the glass squares were broken, sharp fragmentation lines contrasting against the obsidian surface. The desks too were damaged. The buttons had been pounded in, the casings recessed into the desk. Letters would be missing or disjointed, strewn across. I noticed that while a layer of dust coated the surfaces it was fine, not coated deep like that in the library. The centuries of grime and dirt that should have built up in here had been moved whenever those tables were hit and the glass squares broken. As I tracked across the room, I saw faded painted lettering against the rear wall. I couldn’t make out all of it, but I tried to read what I could. N RS R Then underneath in smaller lettering Seismology Research, K ell r I walked closer, trying to see if I could spot any more letters in the faded paint, when I jumped back suddenly, my peripheral vision recoiling as I noticed the skeletal remains lying in the corner. The bones lay approximately in the shape of a human, with the head, neck and ribcage in a small pile as though the body, many years ago, had once been slumped against the wall. The bones were slowly decaying, the whiteness sucked from them leaving them bronzed and brittle. Slowly, what remained was breaking away, cracked open, hollow fragments becoming dust. I walked backwards away from the body when I was distracted by a loud fizzing noise. “Ow! Shit!” Alessia cried out. “What are you up to?” I called out to Alessia, my eyes feeling guilty for abandoning the skeleton. “You know anything about electrics?” “No.” “There’s a whole cupboard of wires down here. I’m just sort of ramming shit together, trying to see what does what. But looks like our *friend* decided to try and damage as much stuff as he could on the way out.” “Not natural you don’t think?” “Nah. I can see where some of this stuff has been ripped out from,” Alessia said. I walked over to find her on all fours, her entire front half lost in a cupboard. “At least we know where his money came from now.” “What?” “There’s a bunch of wires missing. And the ones that are left are made of good materials: gold tipped and stuff.” “Reckon he would’ve made enough?” “Add to that the instruments he probably stole and sold as artefacts? Oh yeah, plenty. You should’ve robbed this place instead of Kadear.” I could sense Alessia sticking her tongue at me from behind the cupboard door. “Okay. But no idea why he destroyed thi-” There was a brief clicking noise, and the room became marginally brighter. I turned around to see a few of the glass squares light up. They flickered in broken greens and blues, trying to display something, but nothing coherent appeared. Alessia crawled back out the space and stood up, looking round the room. A voice appeared from the walls around us. “Playing bootup message.” We looked at each other for a moment, as another voice spoke. This time it was a woman’s. The voice was calm and scripted. But it hid something, as though a more natural, more raw message was being overridden. “Hello. My name is Dr. Tenshi Ito. I was on duty here…” the speaking briefly cut out, vague vowels and consonants played out for a few seconds before normalcy resumed. “...recording to play on the event that the laboratory was rebooted, so that I could relay to you all we know. I am sure I do not have all the information available, but I hope this message will aid in your understanding. At around thirteen-twenty on Wednesday twenty-eigth of June, twenty-seventy-three we detected…” The recording stopped again. This time complete silence took over. The glass squares returned too to their apathetic blackness. I looked at Alessia as our eyes searched the room, praying for the voice to return. Then a smell caught my nose. Faint at first, but as I sniffed the air it became more distinguishable. Smoke. Alessia and I turned back to the closet where she had been fiddling with the wires and pulled open the doors. Grey plumes bellowed out from the space, catching the back of my throat. I bent over, coughing hard, my lungs retching with the acrid air. As soon as I recovered, I turned back to the cupboard and dived towards it, trying my best to blow air onto the flames. But as soon as one extinguished, another flick of yellow burst from another wire, and then another. The flames grew in number and strength, and soon my futile attempts to blow them out seemed to merely fan them. I reached out, trying to snuff them in my hands, gritting my teeth as the heat burned my palms. But still, I was fighting a losing battle. “We’re not gonna win this,” Alessia said. She pulled me back and slammed the cupboard doors shut. There was peace for a second before hints of grey smoke began to appear around the edges of the cupboard. “Shit,” she muttered. I pulled my sleeve up to my mouth, trying to filter the air through the fabric as I spoke. “We need to get out here.” We turned and headed to the exit door. We pushed on the metal frame hard, but the door didn’t budge. We pushed again, and once more the door remained firm. I could feel the room getting dimmer as the deathly air began to blur the orange lights. My heartrate spiked, the sudden realization of the moment catching up to me. Alessia tried pushing once more. A desperate grunt, as she thudded against the metal slab. The door gave out an unsympathetic thud but didn’t heed. I looked at the door, tracing my eyes across the surface, and then it hit me. “Out the way,” I said, pushing past Alessia. “We’re being stupid.” I turned the handle and pulled. The door opened towards us. I ran out into the cave, feeling the temperature of the air drop, as I let out another hacking cough; my lungs clearing themselves of the toxins and gasping in replacement oxygen. Alessia pulled the door behind us. The great metal slab creaked on its hinges, before finally sealing shut with a furious bang. “You okay?” I asked. “Yeah.” She bent over, taking a few long deep breaths. “I may never recover from not realizing I needed to pull the door, but…” She lifted herself back up and her lungs wheezed as she laughed out the smoke from inside her. “We’re never going to hear that message are we?” I sighed. “No. I’m certain that Sannaz heard it. But until we find him, we won’t know what it said…” “You think that’s what led to him murdering Deer Drum?” Alessia paused ,then shook her head. “Not entirely. But… maybe the final push. Heard something that made him take that final step.” I looked back at the door, imagining the slowly fanning flames the other side. “So now what? Dead end?” “First, let’s get out of here,” Alessia said, her lips turned upwards but her shoulders slumped. “That door will hold back most the smoke but not much room down here, don’t fancy chancing it.” I agreed and we started heading back up the narrow passageway towards the sinkhole. We trekked our way back through the caves until we could look up and see the afternoon sky above us. We reattached ourselves to the harnesses, and pulled on the ropes to send the signal. We waited for a minute or so, but eventually I felt the tug on the line, the rope straining as I was lifted up into the air. It was a slow, frustrating few minutes, watching the cave disappear as I reascended. We were supposed to find answers to what Sannaz Lytta was after. What we found was more questions; hints at a bigger mystery, but without anything concrete. Instead of being closer to the truth, we just found the world was much larger than we first thought. We ascended in silence as I tried to think of what our next move should be. Tracing my memory for some small lead that could get us closer to Sannaz. I came up with nothing. Eventually we emerged topside. My knees found the ledge of the hillside and I was able to pull myself up to the ground, the strain on my waist finally releasing. I untied myself and walked over to Cameron and the team of three people who had helped pull us up. “You better still have that bag,” Cameron said walking over towards us. Alessia smiled, and took the rucksack off her shoulder. “You did your job. Thank you.” Cameron walked over, squinting, with slow movement as he took the bag from Alessia. He took a couple of paces back and opened it up, making sure the book was still there. “I said we’d give it back. Just, try to do some good with that thing, okay?” Alessia said. “I intend to make enough money to not have to go down the mines for a year or two. That good enough?” Alessia chuckled. “Not what I had in mind, but… you do you.” Cameron redid the clasps on the bag and walked off towards the town. I waited until we were alone and turned to Alessia. “We still have no idea where he is, why he did it, nothing,” “We know a bit more. But it will take time,” Alessia said. “We need to find out where he went next.” “He could’ve gone anywhere.” “True,” Alessia nodded, looking at the town in the distance. “So what now?” “Best chance? There’s an island about four days south of here. Talin Barier.” “I know it,” I said quickly, before a flicker of hesitation crossed my face. “Well, I’ve heard of it. From the traders at Kadear. Major trading hub, one of the largest in the Archipelago.” The corner of one of Alessia’s lips raised. “Yeah. There’s plenty of places the boat he got on could’ve gone, but... best chance is there.” “Seems like a stretch,” I said, my teeth braced. “It is.” Alessia said. “But even if he didn’t go there, so many traders go through that island there's a good chance *someone*‘ll have heard something. Word travels fast at sea. Stay there, speak to enough people.. We’ll find him” I looked at the settlement at Section F. In the distance, I could make out Cameron disappearing between the buildings. To the far left, I could see the mine entrance, now barren and empty. A quick breeze blew past, stirring the thistles and grass by our feet, and sweeping the dust along the paths in front of us, clearing our route back to the harbour. Slowly, we began our trek.


This is the first time I've tried to write a sort of story, I feel it'd be embarrassing to ask anyone to read it so I wanted to see if anyone on here would enjoy or criticize it. I opened the door, things seemed almost unfamiliar. I stepped in the house I called my own and it hit me. “This house,” I whispered, “It’s not mine, is it?” Although the key worked, it still didn’t feel right. The smell, the taste of the air, and even the creaking sounds of the floorboards were different. But the house looked the same, all the flower pots and pictures of my wife and I are still here. Before my wife died she was diagnosed with severe OCD. Her parents never took her to get a diagnosis. They thought if she was diagnosed with a disorder the people in this small town would look at her differently. She would label everything on its bottom. All of the flower pots had a number that matched their spot on the table. One went with one, two went with two, and so on. The plants themselves matched their spot, but as I lifted them up the number ‘one’ on the table didn’t correspond with the ‘9’ on the pot. “Jacob” I heard a voice similar to my wife’s wearily say, “is that you love?” It was followed by a small laughter. She always did find it extremely cliché to call each other ‘love.’ It was the laughter that caught me off guard though, I could almost feel it. Even as the hot sun rays came in through the open door the chills I got were incomparable to any winter cold I’ve ever felt. I was distracted, how I had gotten so off track was almost bewildering to me at that moment. I continued to walk around the house. Why was it so unfamiliarly familiar? As I entered the kitchen this sort of ravenous stench entered my nose. The smell was neither good or bad, but I felt as though it was consuming me. It drew me to the basement so I followed it. Even then I knew I shouldn’t have followed my curiosity, but I couldn’t help myself. My hand slowly got closer and closer to the knob almost like it was magnetic and my hand was made of iron. My hand finally reached the knob after what felt like a lifetime of going towards it. I couldn’t feel that endlessness again so I turned the knob and opened the door as hastily as I possibly could. I thought something greater would have happened but it was like any other door to any other room in the house. I flipped the switch but no light came on. I tried flipping it a few more times but all I got was a small zap. With no light in the basement I went to go find a flashlight from the kitchen drawer. She labeled these sorts of things too. I began to remember the number I used to see on the flashlight. “46,” I told myself “I really hope it does say 46.” I opened the drawer with the label ‘21’ and lifted up the light but it was numbered ‘64.’ But I could have just forgotten, maybe switched the numbers up in my head. To this day I still don’t have an answer for that. Regardless, I went back to the basement and turned on the flashlight. What I saw was horrifying, something that my brain could have never switched up like a number. There was a mirror, with a reflection of me next to my wife, the both of us were hanging from the tree out front. If my mind was playing tricks on me, I will never forgive it. I didn’t know what to do. I was stuck, with tears rolling down my cheeks and into my mouth. The salty taste of my tears must have brought me back to reality as I almost immediately threw up into the kitchen trash can labeled ‘53.’ While the dim kitchen light only barely lit the trash can, I could still see the red, I was puking blood. I screamed for my life when I saw it. I wasn’t scared, because that was nothing compared to what I had just seen. “Joseph, come back.” The same voice whispered. Instinctively I ran for the front door. It closed slightly with every step I took. “Could have just been a breeze.” I told myself, even though deep down I knew it was a lie. “It’s fine my love, just come back to me and everything will be fine.” “Who are you?” I answered reluctantly. “How could you forget me,” I heard which was followed by a slight sob, “we’ve been married all this time and you forget me just like that?” But there was no way it was her, it couldn’t have been. She died more than two years before then, but I tried my best to believe the voice with the ounce of hope I had left. But the hope was overpowered, what could I possibly be hoping for, she was gone and I had to leave. So I did, running for the door all I could think of was the reflection I had seen in that basement. A part of me was saying that if I did leave now, I could never come back. That was fine though, in the moment at least, because no matter what happened next I would always have the memory of my wife. I got to the door, pulled it back open because it had nearly closed, and took a step back outside. The door slammed behind me, which startled me slightly but I was already terrified so that couldn’t compare. Going outside and seeing the tree from that reflection, it almost made me throw up again, but I didn’t. I turned around, locked the door and left, never to return. It’s two years later now, I’ve seen hundreds of therapists, almost using every paycheck on each of them. But nothing helped, no matter how hard I tried there was never a difference. What I saw was real, if it wasn’t then why was it just that once that it happened, in that old creaky house. The only real therapy was visiting the hospital bed where the doctors tried to save her. She had killed herself. Slit her wrists and drowned in our bathtub. I begged the doctors to save her but no matter how hard they tried, there was no hope. That hospital bed is my last memory of her. To this day I’ve never taken off my wedding ring. I couldn’t go through that pain of losing again. So I make it clear to everyone that I’m still married. Women say constantly that I look good, or any other compliment they can think of, but I never listen. The past three years I haven’t spoken a word to a woman. It was almost a trigger to me, all the memories seem to come back and hit me like a train. My boss sees I'm struggling, he knows the story of what happened in that house. He never believed it but tries to comfort me as much as possible. His name is Jerimiah, a nice, clean, and business-like man. He tries, and for that I will forever be in debt. I could never help him if I tried, how would I be able to if I can’t even help myself. I work in a police department, most of what I do is paperwork. I used to go to the crime scenes a lot for more insight, but I lost motivation for doing so. Especially since the last time I went to one, it was hers. There are men in my department that believe it wasn’t suicide, they say there's evidence it was a murder. It was never conclusive but it was ruled a suicide. But still the cruel men and women blame me. It was unbearable listening to them go on and on the week after she died about how it could have been me. But it wasn’t me, it couldn’t have been, I was at work the whole day. So from my point of view, it came down to suicide, or whatever was in that basement. I’ve been keeping up to date with our old house since I sold it, which was the day after I last went in. There have been 10 or more people who've bought the house and left within a month. All of them said that something was off, or that they didn’t feel safe there. I understood their emotions, more than they ever could. The part that scared me the most was the most recent owner had told me that the basement door is bolted shut. Nobody else has said this so it must have been recent. I contemplated returning there to see if it was true, but evidently, I was horrified to do so. “I guess I’ll wait until the next owner buys and leaves to see what they say” I told myself. So I did, and two months later the next owner died. The station made me look over the evidence, and as I read the autopsy report and saw the pictures, I burst out into tears. He had died the same way my wife did, the exact same. The slits were in precisely the same spot on his wrist as hers. He laid the same and even the blood, for some reason, looked so similar. I decided to go with them to the crime scene. It was the only way I would be able to go there again and come out alive. Jerimiah and I entered the house, nothing was the same. Now there was a reason to speculate if it was my old house or not. Every single thing had been changed, from the carpet to the ceiling type. It was so strange to see, a house so familiar yet so different. Rather than go upstairs to see the actual crime scene, I went to where I witnessed the worst thing I ever would. The previous owner was telling the truth. The basement door had been bolted shut. “Jerimiah!” I called out. “Yeah what is it?” He asked while hastily walking over to me. “Something happened in this house after what I saw, somebody else saw something, that must be why the door is like this.” I said almost excitedly. This was the first bit of proof I had towards me not being crazy. “Ehhh Jacob I don’t know man, this could be from anything.” He had a disappointed look on his face. It was like he got scared I would never be well again. I walked away slowly, looking at the dreadful expression on his face. “Wait did you hear that??” He asked suddenly. “No,” I said with a confused tone, “what was it?” “There was a voice, it screamed for help, and then there was a scraping on the wall close to the door.” I was shocked, he was describing it like it was written on paper and he’d been reading it every day over and over. It was hard to tell if he was making a joke or not, but as he turned around to look at me it was like he had died of fear. His face, which usually is a bright and pretty one, was so shockingly pale I almost jumped back. “Jerimiah are you alright?” I asked worriedly. “I don’t think so, call over some more people,” he said in a tone like that of death, “we’re getting this damn door open.” So I did, we grabbed some crow bars from the cars out front and began working at the door. After five minutes or so the door had opened. Following it was a darkness like no other, we all were knocked over and left with slits in our arms exactly the same as my wife and the most recent victim. That terrible darkness that scarred us all had gone straight for the front door. I couldn’t make out a figure but it was there, and somehow person-like. I could see the door locking itself almost like it was being forced to. The shadowy figure slowly merged with the door and it became a pure black. Slowly, the windows and the walls were all consumed as well. That same ravenous smell came back as I sat on the floor surrounded by darkness and the other frightened officers. The basement door was the only other visible thing. I was drawn towards it again, and I think the others were as well. One of them got up and started walking to it. “GET AWAY!” I yelled in complete frustration with her. It seemed so stupid of somebody to be in a situation like this and still think to follow that great darkness. But with me yelling the shadow ran back to the basement as fast as it had come. We were back in the house again, the bright sun shining through the kitchen window. The girl began to cry, it was like she realized that she almost killed us all. Leaving the house was the worst part, blood dripping down are arms in similar streams with the same cuts on all of us. It looked like we were some sort of satanic cult. How could anyone believe what we had just seen? We would look like lunatics, then again we already did. The second I felt the outside air hit my arm the cuts and blood all cleared up. Slowly the blood on all of our arms had vanished, and we were left with nothing but the memory. Even with that memory trigger of talking to women, the girl that stood up had something about her that drew me close, wanting to learn more I went with that feeling. I pulled her aside asking her what she was thinking. I needed to understand what she heard and saw. I felt as though if I couldn’t understand, I would never be whole. “I heard my husband, telling me to come closer, and there was this frightening smell, it was in some terrible way consuming me.” I gave her a hug, the most comforting way I possibly could, and went straight to my apartment. As I entered my small rundown apartment I felt as if I needed to take a bath. I went to the bathroom and turned on the faucet. I sat on the couch for a few minutes waiting for the tub to fill and when it did I got undressed and got in. As my foot touched the water my arm started to burn, but by the time I looked at it I was fully in the tub. The cuts had reappeared and with it the darkness filled the room, I was bleeding heavily as I felt a strong hand drag me into the tub. I looked down and the tub became an endless ocean. I went to pull the hand off of me and as I did I saw the shiny ring that was on its finger. It was my wife's ring, I knew because the diamond had her name in big blue letters. ‘Delilah,’ it read. Reading her name on her ring made me give up. I stopped struggling and trying to swim away. I let myself be taken away and eaten by the darkness. And with my final breath of air I whispered to myself, or to her even, “I’m coming, my love.” As I slowly drowned in the endless waters, I laughed for the first time in years. Thinking about how my last words were the ones she loathed the most.