The past few years have been an absolute whirlwind for me. For years, I was a struggling writer, dreaming of becoming the next great American author, but I simply couldn't break into the literary industry. I survived for a time on freelance jobs ranging from article writing and blogging to copywriting and editing. They say every dog has his day. Mine arrived nearly two years ago when my debut horror novel, "Fragments of Fear," exceeded my wildest expectations and became an unexpected hit. It landed on The New York Times bestseller list, with reviews describing it as "an atmospheric and chilling journey into the depths of human darkness."

I hadn't reached Stephen King levels of name recognition, but copies of my book were front and center in bookstores. I even got to go on a ten-city book signing tour and participate in a few talk show interviews.

My brush with fame made me weary of the limelight. So, with the earnings from my book sales, I purchased a two-story house in the suburbs. The house wasn't extravagant, but it was far removed from the bustling city and the demanding publishing industry. It became my sanctuary, a place to find solace, recharge my creative energy, and explore my imagination without distraction. It was an older house and required some work, but I was excited at the prospect of making it my own.

At the top of my to-do list was refurbishing the large backyard. I had always envisioned starting a family and imagined barbecues and children playing in the yard. Unfortunately, years of neglect had turned the backyard into a dense jungle of weeds and poison oak.

I spent the better part of an afternoon meticulously mowing the lawn and pulling weeds. Afterward, I began planting a new garden. While digging a hole in the soil for some potted flowers next to an old oak tree, my spade hit something solid. The metallic clang reverberated through the air. Fearing that I had struck a water or gas pipe, I put my spade down and carefully brushed away the loose soil with my gloved hands. What I uncovered was a small, weathered metal box buried just below the surface. The box was light but sturdy.

A blend of excitement and curiosity took over as I gently pried the box open with the head of my spade. Inside was a collection of old black-and-white family photographs of a couple and their young daughter. There were also trinkets, likely of sentimental value to the box's owner: a tarnished silver locket with a picture of a Labrador retriever, a small vial of sand, and a porcelain figurine of a ballerina. Based on the content, I surmised it was some sort of time capsule.

But what made my blood run cold was a sealed envelope bearing my full name and the current date, written in cursive.

This was impossible. Judging by the photographs, the box must have been buried sometime in the 1920s.

I dropped everything I was doing and brought the box inside. Opening the envelope, I found a letter that read:

"Dear Mr. Travers,

If you are reading this, just know that in five days, your life will end. We know this because we were the ones who brought about your demise.

We apologize for this harsh reality but implore you to understand the desperation that compels us. We seek to bring back our daughter, Lily, from the clutches of death, and your sacrifice is the price demanded.

We deeply regret the burden we have placed upon you, extending across time. Please know our intentions are not cruel, but driven by unconditional love. We understand the enormity of this request. May you find some solace in knowing that your sacrifice holds the promise of restoring Lily's future.

With heartfelt gratitude,Evelyn and William Hastings.

P.S. As a small consolation, we have provided you with a glimpse into the upcoming week.

”A separate sheet listed the dates for the next five days, each with a mysterious prediction:

“July 15th: A stranger will cross your path, seeking a favor.

July 16th: A creature of the night will find its way into your sanctuary.

July 17th: The sky will weep for you, but you will find only darkness in these tears.

July 18th: Your most beloved creation will betray you.July 19th: Through flames, a cherished life will be consumed.”

After reading this, I was left in a state of confusion and disbelief. There was no way this letter could be real, I thought. I'd had my fair share of obsessive fans sending me ideas for my next novel or their unedited manuscripts. It wasn't a stretch to imagine that a deranged fan or a prankster with a twisted sense of humor had discovered my new address and devised this elaborate hoax.

Whoever was behind it, I had to give them credit for their creativity. They had the makings of a great horror writer.

I returned the contents to the box, closed the lid, and set it aside. I made a mental note to change all the locks, then returned to my yard work.

The next day, I was busy patching a crack in my living room wall when I heard a heavy knock at the door. I wasn't expecting any visitors, so I slowly opened the door a crack, keeping the chain lock still in place.

Standing on my porch was a man in his late forties, tall and lean, with disheveled brown hair and a scruffy beard.

"Yes, can I help you?" I asked, warily."

Hey, I'm sorry to bother you," he began. "But my car broke down in front of your house. I think the carburetor is busted." He pointed at a blue sedan with its hood popped up and smoke billowing from the engine.

I sized him up with suspicion. I remembered the prediction about a stranger crossing my path. I hadn't thought the letter had literally predicted a stranger coming to my house and asking for help. Instead, I wondered if this guy was the one who had buried the box in my backyard as a prank.

Cautiously, I offered to call a tow truck for him while he waited outside. He happily agreed. I closed the door behind me and called the towing company. The man patiently waited on my front porch until the truck arrived. He thanked me with a smile and left with the truck driver.

For the remainder of the day, I peered out my window to see if the stranger returned, but I never saw him again. I convinced myself that it was just a coincidence. And as far as coincidences go, it wasn't the most absurd. Stranger things have happened.

The following day, the bizarre time capsule and its unsettling prophecy still occupied the forefront of my mind. However, when my agent called, inquiring as to why I hadn’t replied to his multiple emails, I was thrust back into the reality of my professional obligations. The publisher had been breathing down his neck due to my delay in submitting drafts for my much-anticipated second novel. I was contractually bound to deliver a complete draft by the year's end.

"Just one chapter, Alex," he pleaded. "A rough draft, anything. It’ll pacify them for at least a month."

"I'll have it ready by the end of the week," I assured him, placating his concerns.

Secluding myself in my office, I faced my laptop with grim determination. I vowed not to leave for any reason until I'd accomplished a writing goal of 2,000 words.

By 10 PM, I was sitting in the dark with my laptop screen as the only source of light. I had managed to produce only about a thousand words. Feeling somewhat claustrophobic in my small, stuffy office, I opened the window to let the crisp night air sweep in, carrying the scent of wet grass and the faint rustling of leaves. I took a deep breath and leaned back into my chair, closing my eyes for a moment.

Suddenly, a loud flapping sound jolted me back to reality. I jumped from my chair, my heart pounding in my chest. From the darkness of the night, a shadowy figure swooped into my office. Panicked, I ducked, my mind rushing back to the note's prophecy about a creature of the night. Was this it?

The figure collided with my bookshelf, sending books showering to the floor, and hooted loudly, before landing on my desk. Gathering my courage, I switched on the desk lamp. The room was instantly bathed in a warm glow, revealing my intruder—a barn owl.

With an eeriness that sent a chill down my spine, the owl slowly turned its head almost 360 degrees, like a scene out of "The Exorcist," observing its surroundings.

I had never been this close to an owl before, and I hadn't realized how large they could get. This particular one was almost the size of a young child.

"Hey there, easy now…" I said, grabbing a flashlight from my desk. I slowly approached it, still crouched, with my flashlight arm extended.

Before I could get very far, the owl spread its wings wide. With a powerful flap, it took off again, sweeping across my office, flying straight out of my window. My meticulously organized notes fell victim to the gust created by the owl's wings, scattering across the room like confetti.

I poked my head out the window and followed the bird with the flashlight beam. I saw it glide into the treeline. It was slightly unnerving how its flapping wings barely made a noise. It perched on a branch, turning its head around to look back at me, its massive eyes reflecting back my light. I jumped back, shutting the window with a bang.

As I paced around the room, cleaning the mess that the owl had created, I felt a sense of unease. One prediction coming true, I could pass off as a coincidence. But this one was so oddly specific.

I was starting to fear for my life. But what could I do? Go to the police? I would be sent for a psych evaluation before I even finished my story.

I couldn't sleep for the rest of the night. Instead, I stayed up, researching everything I could find about the history of the house and the family in the photograph. The articles I found about the house revealed that it was built in the 1880s and had changed hands several times before being bought by a young couple, William and Evelyn Hastings, in 1921. They had a daughter named Lily Margaret Hastings in 1922.

I found a news article from 1927 titled "Miracle Child Thought Dead Wakes Up at Funeral." The article revealed that Lily had fallen into a frozen lake when she was five. She wasn't breathing when her father pulled her out and was declared dead. As embalming wasn't common at the time, her funeral was held the very next day. As they were lowering her casket into the grave, mourners heard faint scratching from within. When they ripped open the lid, they found the child shaken but very much alive.

Doctors were baffled as to how she had survived. The theory posed in the article was that the icy water had put her into a deep coma where her breathing and heartbeat were too faint to detect.

The only other significant thing I found was an obituary for Lily from 2019. She had lived a long, full life and passed away peacefully in her sleep at age 97. She was survived by two children, six grandchildren, and three great-grandchildren. The obituary noted her love for dogs and the beach, and her career as a professional ballerina.

"That explains the trinkets," I muttered to myself.

The obituary was written by her granddaughter, Hannah Sullivan, who was the local head librarian.I glanced at my watch. It was already 5 AM. Morning brought a dense layer of cloud cover. As predicted, a sudden and violent storm swept over the neighborhood, casting a shadowy gloom that echoed my inner turmoil.

My rational side still insisted that this was all an elaborate prank, but the creeping doubt in my mind was growing stronger with each passing hour.

I reasoned that if anyone had answers, it would be Hannah Sullivan. I looked up the library where she worked and saw that it was only a 20-minute drive away. I waited for the storm to break before heading out. By 10 AM, the storm showed no signs of letting up, but I was desperate for answers. I tucked the letter and photos into my coat pocket and ran to my car.

I drove through the rain-soaked roads, the whippers screeching as they move across the windshield. As I pulled into the library's parking lot, I noticed that it was nearly empty, with only a few other cars present. The library itself was a Victorian building that looked like it had been recently remodeled.

Entering the library, I found it almost deserted except for a young woman at the reception desk. She was engrossed in a book, her glasses perched on her nose and her dark hair tied up in a messy ponytail. I glanced at what she was reading and saw that it was a copy of my book.

I approached her gingerly. I was soaking wet and still unsure of how to explain my strange predicament without sounding stark mad. As I neared the desk, she looked up, setting her book aside and offering me a warm smile.

"Hello," she said, her eyes brightening behind her glasses. "Can I help you find anything?"

"I'm actually here to find Hannah Sullivan," I replied, meeting her gaze. "I read that she works here."

The woman looked at me with suspicion. "May I ask who is asking for her?" She asked.

I knew I couldn’t just tell her my true reason for needing to see her. I had one literal card to play. I pulled out a business card from my pocket and slid it across the desk. She read it, her eyes widening.

"The Alex Travers? The author of 'Fragments of Fear'?" she asked excitedly. She checked the photo on the inside of her book’s jacket to confirm.

I concocted a convincing lie about wanting to research local lore for my next novel, and after offering to sign her copy of the book, she was more than happy to lead me to a small office tucked away in the corner of the building. She knocked lightly on the door before opening it. "Ms. Sullivan, there's someone here to see you."

"It’s Alex Travers," the young librarian added in a giddy tone.

Hannah looked up from her computer screen, surprised by the interruption. She was a striking woman in her early thirties, her ginger hair pulled back into a neat bun, freckles scattered across her cheeks. Her eyes, a brilliant emerald green, regarded me with curiosity. She seemed far less impressed with my presence than her colleague.

"Thank you, Amber," she said to the young woman.

Amber lingered at the door, hoping to be a part of the conversation, but she got the hint to leave when she saw that everyone was just standing awkwardly in silence.

"Mr. Travers, please have a seat," Hannah said, her tone cordial but guarded. "To what do I owe this unexpected visit?"

I sat down in the chair across from her. I hesitated, unsure of how to proceed, but decided to get straight to the point. I explained to her that I had recently bought her great-grandparents' house. I reached into my coat pocket and retrieved the weathered photos, laying them on her desk. Hannah's eyes slightly widened as she studied the pictures of her ancestors.

"I found these in my backyard a couple of days ago," I said. "They were in a box buried near the old oak tree."

There was a flicker of surprise on her face, quickly replaced by a look of concern. There was a moment of silence as she traced her finger over the image of the young girl in the picture.

“And the letter…” she started, “Was there a letter in the box?”

I was shocked. I hadn’t even mentioned the letter yet.

“How did you know there was a letter?” I asked, perplexed, handing her the two handwritten sheets of paper.

She examined the letter carefully. “This is my great-grandmother’s handwriting,” she said.

"But… How did she know my name? Or the current date?" I stammered, the fear creeping back into my voice. "I just... I just don't understand."

“I’d heard the stories, but I didn’t think any of it was true…” She spoke, talking more to herself than to me.

“What stories?” I demanded.

Hannah looked at me, her eyes filled with empathy. She sighed deeply and began, "Mr. Travers, my family... has a rather complicated history. My great-grandmother Evelyn was a spiritualist. She held séances, believing she could communicate with the dead. You’ve no doubt read about my grandmother Lily’s story?”

I nodded in confirmation.

"Well, there’s a family legend that when Lily drowned in the lake, her mother made a deal with the spirit world to bring her back,” she continued.

“What was the deal?” I probed.

“A life for a life,” she answered. “Not the life of anyone she knew, but that of someone who would live in the house in the distant future.”

I thought about what she said for a moment, and suddenly it all clicked. “Wait… So you’re saying Evelyn traded my life to save her daughter?” I asked.

“In a sense… yes,” she confirmed.

“This is my life. Do I not get a say in this?” I argued.

Hannah sighed, “You have to see it from her perspective. She was getting her only child back, in exchange for the life of a complete stranger who wouldn’t even be born in her lifetime. What parent wouldn’t make that deal?”

“This is insane! Is there any way to reverse this?” I asked, anxiety in my voice. The rain outside echoed my desperation, fiercely hitting the library's windows.

Hannah’s face fell. “I don’t know. This isn't something I've ever dealt with. As far as I know, no one's ever tried. You can’t just undo three generations of my family’s existence. I…”

Her words were cut off by a sudden crash of thunder. The room darkened as the power went out; only the sporadic flashes of lightning illuminated the space.

“Damn it!” I shouted, more from fear than anger. I got up abruptly, knocking my chair to the floor. “Are you messing with me? Is this your idea of a joke?” I accused, fumbling in the darkness towards the door.

Hannah gasped, clearly taken aback by my reaction. “No, I swear! I wouldn’t joke about something like this. I…”

I didn’t wait to hear the rest. I pushed my way out of the office, navigated the dark library, and found my way to the exit. Outside, the storm was raging, but I didn’t care. My mind was spinning, caught in a whirlwind of fear and disbelief. The rain quickly soaked through my clothes, but it did little to dampen the fiery panic consuming me.

I sat in my car, staring at the list of prophecies. The next to the last one worried me almost as much as my own impending demise.

As I read the phrase "Your most beloved creation will betray you" one more time, a shiver ran down my spine. My first thought was of my book, my characters. But how would fictional characters turn on me? I wondered.

I spent the rest of the day in a daze, trying to piece together the cryptic prophecy. I pored over my manuscripts, searching for any character or plot point that could possibly betray me. I didn't know what I was looking for.

I don't even remember falling asleep, but I was awakened by a news alert on my phone. The headline sent a chill through my veins: "Fanatical Reader Commits Heinous Murder, Recreates Scene from 'Fragments of Fear'." It felt as if the floor had given way beneath me. As I read the gruesome facts of the crime, my heart pounded frantically.

The fan, a man named Robert Miles, was reportedly obsessed with my work, especially the serial killer character, Orion West, from my book. He had been apprehended after strangling his wife, which he claimed was an homage to one of Orion's most brutal killings.

Feeling nauseated, I dropped my phone. My mind was racing.

In a state of panic, I contacted every spiritualist, paranormal expert, and occultist I could find. All were either incredulous, dismissive, or too eager to exploit my desperation. None were able to offer anything concrete or even plausible.

I contemplated boarding a plane and fleeing to the farthest corner of the world. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized how pointless that would be. The prophecy wasn't tied to the house. It was tied to me, and there was no escaping myself.

On the morning of July 19th, I woke up with a sense of dread. The final prediction was to be fulfilled that day. Despite the comfort of daylight, the threat felt imminent. The morning passed in a blur, my thoughts consumed by what was to come.

The knock on my door in the afternoon startled me. When I opened it, I found Hannah standing there. Her green eyes were filled with a strange mixture of apprehension and hope. She held an old book in one hand and a large bag slung over her shoulder.

"Mr. Travers, I’m sorry to show up unannounced," she began. "But I couldn’t stop thinking about our encounter yesterday. I think I might have a solution for you."

"Do you?" I asked, trying not to raise my hopes.

"Yes, if I may come in…" she said.

"Please come in," I responded, leading her inside.

Once inside, she laid the book on my dining room table.

"I spent all night going through my great-grandmother’s old books of spells and rituals," she explained. "And I found this…"

She opened the book, directing my attention to a particular page.

"‘Life Transference Spell’?" I read where her finger indicated.

"I believe Evelyn used the spell to transfer Lily’s death onto you," she explained.

"Is there a ritual or something to reverse the spell?" I asked.

"There is, but there's a catch," she replied, looking at me seriously.

"What’s the catch?" I asked nervously.

"If we do this... it will change everything," she warned, her voice grave. "You'll effectively erase all the events in your life that led you to this house, to this moment.”

I looked at her. "What do you mean by 'erase'?"

"The spell, as it works, will shift the trajectory of your life away from your current path," Hannah clarified. "Your memories and experiences – they will all remain intact. However, to the world around you, it will be as if 'Fragments of Fear' never happened. You would have taken a different path in life, one that wouldn’t have led to you writing that particular book and the fame it brought you."

"But... but this was my life’s work, my dream," I stammered, feeling a lump forming in my throat. "I dedicated years to writing, to getting my work out there. And now, you're telling me I have to give it all up?"

Hannah's expression softened, her eyes showing a glimmer of sympathy. “Mr. Travers… Alex… I’m so sorry you had to be put into this position. You did nothing to deserve it. It's an awful decision to make, but there's no alternative.”

Hannah's revelation was a punch to the gut. I had been prepared for many things – a bitter battle against unseen forces, a final plea for mercy to the spirits – but not this. I was being asked to forfeit the very foundation of my identity, my successes, my accomplishments. To live on, but as a phantom in a life that could have been.

“What’s the point of living if I’m left with nothing?” I wondered aloud.

Hannah placed a comforting hand on mine. “I know it’s a lot of pressure to put on one person… But you’ll still have you, with all your hopes, dreams, and passions. You’ll still have the capacity to love, to feel, to experience life... Isn't that worth preserving?” she asked.

I kept my head down, considering my options. Finally, I looked up, meeting Hannah's worried gaze with resolve. "All right," I declared, my voice steadier than I felt. "Let's do it. What do we need to do?"

Hannah let out a relieved sigh before giving me a weak smile. "I’ve brought most of the items we need for the ritual already. We’ll also need a copy of your book.”

“Okay, I’ll get it,” I said.

We cleared a spot under the oak tree in my backyard, formed a stone circle, and built a fire in the center. The sun was already setting when we finished.

Holding a copy of my book in my trembling hands, I exchanged a glance with Hannah. The enormity of our decision hung heavy between us.

“You have to do this. This is your life,” she reiterated, her voice shaking with emotion.I nodded, unable to muster a response.

I held my book over the flame, the heat nipping at my fingers. My heart sank as I remembered the countless hours, days, and months I had invested in creating this story. It was more than just a book to me; it was a piece of my soul. And I was about to watch it burn.

Before I could second-guess myself, I dropped it into the flames. The book caught fire instantly, the pages curling and blackening in the fire. A sharp pang of loss shot through me, but I pushed it aside.

Hannah interlaced her fingers with mine as we watched the fire. The atmosphere grew warmer, the flames reflecting in her emerald eyes. She started to chant in an unfamiliar language, her voice growing louder and more forceful as she went on. I watched in awe as the fire seemed to dance in rhythm with her words. I could hear the echoes of other voices, disembodied and inhuman, chanting along with her.

As she continued, I felt her hand growing cold and her grip weakening. Then, her hand seemed to slip through my fingers like a fistful of sand.

She raised her hand. I could see her horrified eyes through her translucent palm.

"What's happening?" she cried out in terror.

I hesitated for a moment, then turned my gaze back to the flames. Her eyes followed mine. The fire had burned through the cover of the hardback, revealing pages crossed out with a marker and her grandmother’s silver locket hidden between them.

"I'm sorry, Hannah," I confessed, my voice choked with guilt. "I just couldn’t give it all up."

"You... you altered the spell..." she stammered, her form flickering and gradually fading. "You erased my family..."

"Yes," I admitted, my heart heavy. "I had to. You said it yourself, a life for a life.

"The look of betrayal on her vanishing face was unmistakable. She opened her mouth, perhaps to say something, but before she could, she disappeared completely, leaving me alone in the cool summer night. I stood there staring at the flame until it burned itself out. I felt alone, inside and out.

I went back inside and out of morbid curiosity, I looked up the obituary for Lily Hastings. It stated that she had died at the age of five after falling into the frozen lake. There was no miracle. She was simply dead.

I did feel remorse for Hannah. She was just trying to help me and didn’t deserve to be wiped from existence. But I hadn’t asked to sacrifice my life for her grandmother. My life had been hijacked, used, and manipulated. All I did was reclaim it.

My next novel, 'Echoes of the Past,' was another critical and commercial success. The world saw the triumphant return of a favorite author, not knowing the ghosts that lingered behind my success.

Out of a sense of guilt, I dedicated the novel to Hannah Sullivan, Lily Hastings, and all those forgotten.

Original author: PageTurner627

There is a certain critical black mass of condensed human thoughts that, if reached, results in an intellectual entanglement possessing psychogravitational properties: capturing all nearby thoughts and transforming them to reinforce the averaged opinions of the mass, all while allowing each respective thinker to maintain the illusion of his or her cognitive independence.

The entanglement manifests in the world as smog, and is best observed over big cities.

It cannot be moved, affected or destroyed, save by the psychogravitation of an even greater neighbouring entanglement, into which the lesser entanglement shall eventually be subsumed.

There are those who believe that human history is merely the interplay of these entanglements, and that progress itself may be defined as the gradual decrease in the total number of entanglements in existence.

It has been observationally verified that the total number of entanglements is decreasing at an accelerating rate.

The hypothesized end state of the theory of black mass entanglements, and therefore the end of human history (and perhaps time), is what philozoophers refer to as inert uniformity; or, more colloquially, The Gates of Hell.

For further reading, see:

Błłu, Escherery. Particles of Thought

Błłu, Escherery. New Particles of Thought

Ovzvynskii, B-Boris. "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was weightless: A Prehistory of Psychogravitation." In The Handbook of Phrontisterical Heresies

van Dyke, Kaye Phillipa. "Black Mass: The Which Over Wichita", Journal of Cognitive Physics 94, no. 2: 131

Original author: normancrane

My family loved decorating the house right before Christmas. It was our tradition and we all were very excited about it. We had a lot of brilliant lights, smiling snowmen and even a huge Santa, that we’d bought over the years. I was glad this year my parents let me and my brother decorate it all by ourselves. I had no doubt we were going to make it the most beautiful in the world. All the decorations made the atmosphere spectacular and the house looked incredible.

I’d always wanted to see my house in the local newspaper, so that everyone could see how amazing it was and appreciate our hard work. But it never happened. It seemed like people didn’t really care, no matter how much I loved it. Yet I wanted everyone to know about it and enjoy it the way I did.

I didn’t let the sadness and hopelessness stop me from adorning the house with all my heart. Everything was perfect, just like Iknew it would be. “I’ve almost finished”, I thought to myself, carefully arranging the last lights.

And suddenly, something told me that our lovely house would be in the papers after all.

I took a deep breath as I pushed my little brother off the roof.

Original author: stefana\_

"..... on my old Kentucky home...."

They still sang the song, even though Kentucky had ceased to exist, along with all the other States, over five hundred years before. They still gathered at the same ancient, oval track, to watch the best horses in the land race, every first Saturday in May. Nearly every other game that had been played in Ancient America had long ago been forgotten, but in the New America, the America after the War of Wars, a fast horse was a highly valuable commodity, and people appreciated the value of breeding, keeping, and racing the animals.

No-one remembered when the hounds had been added to the race.

It had likely been soon after the Great Plague had swept the planet like wildfire, nearly four hundred years earlier. The human population had been severely reduced, and in the new, nearly lawless world, a well-trained hunting hound was as valuable as a swift horse.

The hounds were stationed in packs of four each, at four points around the infield of the track. Great, hulking brutes, they snarled and danced in anticipation.

The twelve colts entered in the race pranced out onto the track, in front of the throng of spectators. Highly bred, sleek, and well-trained as the hounds, they too were keen with anticipation. They lined up at the rope, and at the drop of a flag, tore away down the track, a galloping frenzy of hooves, gleaming hides, and whips.

The first pack of hounds was released just as the horses came into the first turn. At once, the beautifully galloping animals turned into a churning, confused heap of screaming, kicking horses, snarling, snatching jaws, ripping flesh, snapping bones...three colts were dragged down by the pack, and brutally ripped apart. Their jockeys, with nothing but racing whips for defense, were soon torn apart as well.

The rest of the field continued the race. They had been trained to run or jump over the hounds, rather than swerve away, and met the next pack with the same bold gallop. Two more colts and jockeys went down, then another three at the top of the stretch.

The remaining horses thundered down the stretch, the crowd roaring encouragement. The last hounds surged onto the track just an eighth of a mile before the wire, and the jockeys, frantic to finish the race, rained blows down on horses and hounds alike. One colt tripped, and two others, tiring, lagged, and both were gone in a heaving mass of fur and fangs.

The crowd drowned out the rider's cry of joy and relief, as the one colt flew under the finish wire, alone and victorious.

They still, all those centuries later, led the lathered, prancing winner into a winner's circle, and covered him in a blanket of roses. He would be led back to his stall, and tended carefully, like the champion he was.

After all, there were two more Triple Crown races coming up....

Original author: Queenofscots

"You'll know when the right one comes along," her mother had said, all through Renee's teenage years. "Don't be in such a hurry...."

Well, now she had found the right one. He was wonderful, and here they were at the carnival, on a beautiful day, and everything in her world was perfect. She was so absorbed in her happiness, she almost walked right by the little sign...

``` PALMS READ!

Fortunes Told! See What Your Future Holds!

```

Renee paused, but Mike tugged her along: "I already know what your future holds, beautiful," he said, kissing her. But--suddenly, she didn't want to be tugged along, and talked out of a palm reading. She pulled away, almost irritated.

"It'll only take a minute; I want to." and she wisked into the dusty old tent.

It was dim and cool inside, with an odd, spicy smell, not unpleasant. A hideously wrinkled and hunched old woman sat at a little table, and motioned to the chair opposite. She silently held out one claw-like hand, and Renee put a five-dollar bill in it, almost cringing. She felt compelled to hear what the woman would say, however, and let her hand be taken by the crone.

"Ah, you've found The Right One," she croaked, grinning toothlessly at Renee. "I don't see you holding him long, though. Another will come along and take him, if you are not careful..."

Renee shuddered--weren't these fortune-tellers supposed to tell you what you wanted to hear? She tried to pull her hand away, but the old woman's grip tightened painfully, crushing Renee's hand. The ugly old face wavered in front of her, and Renee felt suddenly, horribly disoriented. The fortune-teller's face seemed to melt, and reform into a younger, beautiful one, and Renee stared in shock back at her own face. Looking down, she saw her own hands as withered old claws. She felt stiff, and old....

The thing that now looked like Renee rose, and lithely sauntered toward the tent opening. It turned back , once, and said, in Renee's voice,"Don't worry. You'll be able to switch one day, though it may take a long time. But you'll know when the right one comes along..."

Original author: Queenofscots

Original author: Camiona

“Does it hurt?”

Of course, it does. She never liked syringes.

“Well. There’s not much that I can do about that.”

Silence. She’s bored, clearly.

“The docs are good, right?”

Still nothing. Still boring. Gotta add some excitement.

“Shame, they don’t have a TV in this room. You heard about the last match? Some game it was! De Grandhomme clobbered Stokes for 25 in the last over! And then…”

That should work, right? Talking about stuff that she loves that she hasn’t been able to watch. It works, doesn’t it?

God, I’m stupid.

“Luke Combs released a new single. It's good, heard it on my way over. Here, listen.”

No response. The song didn’t hit her like a hurricane.

Her lips are grimaced. Must be the injection. Never works, does it?

No. Enough with this charade. I pull her sheets back.

They haven’t looked after her well. Most of her gashes are blood-clotted, still healing. Blame is on me, too, I’m lousy with knives.

There! That’s a good one on her stomach, all healed. That’ll work. I pry it open with my knife. Fresh blood gushes out.

Wonderful. I grab the pouch.

“Tada!”

Is that a smile on her face? Well, she should be happy. I’ve had trouble finding her stuff.

“Told ya, I’d work something up. I know, it’s late. I’m sorry, babe. But you know. It’s not easy to find healthy, universal good ol’ O-negative juice in this market.”

Her laceration chugs it down in one gulp. I’m forgiven, I think.

“Hey, listen, I think- “

The slamming of the door breaks our privacy. A nurse.

“Ah, good, I’ve been meaning to speak with the staff. Why haven’t my wife’s wounds been cleansed?”

She looks frightened. “Who are you? What are you doing near Mrs. Sullivan’s body?”

“She’s my wife, alright! And from what I’ve seen, I’m the only one here who’s committed towards her recovery. Now- “

“Why is there blood on your hands? Where did you-”

“Oh, don’t you try bossing me, miss. It’s disgusting, really, your policy towards patients. I swear, the second I’m out of here, I’m gonna drag your sorry asses to court- “

“What patient? Mrs. Sullivan died from a road-accident three-months ago!”

My heart drops.

“What?”

“Internal hemorrhage. A suitable O-negative donor couldn’t be arranged on time. She died. That’s why she’s here- in the morgue.”

Stacy was dead?

Her finger is at the door. “You need to leave. Now.”

This couldn’t be…

“She… didn’t live?”

“I’ve already disclosed too much. Please leave.”

“Three- three months?”

“Yes.”

Wait…

“You’re saying my wife’s been dead for three months? That’s outrageous! I don’t believe you!”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Sullivan, but- what are you- “

I yank the sheets off Stacy’s body.

“Are you calling this a corpse?”

“I’m gonna have to call- “

“Answer me, god damn it! That- is a dead body to you?”

Pause. “Yes.”

A grin creeps on my face. “Tell me then, miss nurse. I carved this gash on my Stacy three weeks back. To fill her with blood. I was late, I know. But I had to try.”

Her eyes are wide open.

“I would’ve stopped after my pathetic, first try. But then I realized something. Those gashes I made- they were healing.”

My cold voice has the edge of an ice shard. “So I ask you, nurse. If my wife is a corpse. How did the wounds of a corpse heal?”

Original author: Percybhowal

From: Principal Ellis

Welcome to Franklin Elementary School. We are so glad you joined our faculty as our new elementary teacher. Our school is a little different than others, but follow these rules, and your time here with the kiddos will be wonderful!

1. Kids will be kids, so they will inevitably get hurt. If it’s something you can handle, take care of it yourself. There is a first aid kit in each one of the rooms. As thankful as we are for our school nurse, some of her experiments can get out of hand.

2. If a child acts up or performs poorly on an assignment, do not send them to see me. Send them to the cafeteria, and the lunch ladies will be sure to take care of them. We can’t have anyone ruining our school’s perfect scores!

3. As a elementary teacher, your day is dedicated taking care of and teaching the children. Unfortunately, there are no breaks. Any staff member who says otherwise is lying. Do not go with anyone into the break room.

4. You will have 20 students in your class. Make sure no more return to your class after recess. If one slips by you, leave your class and come to my office immediately. You won’t be able to save all 20 children.

5. Do now allow the children to play on the monkey bars any time after 2pm. They are always occupied.

6. Sometimes you will enter your classroom and see only one child seated in the far back corner. This will only happen rarely. When it does, remain calm and go about teaching as if you were teaching an entire class such as putting assignments on each desk, asking questions, etc. Do not acknowledge this student. However, she will say and do anything to get your attention.

7. Only interact with teachers of your same grade level. Other faculty have been given different sets of rules, and you never know what they may do to you to keep themselves safe.

8. Our school is proud to be founded on the blood and sweat of our staff and faculty! Do not look for other places of employment unless you want to be part of that legacy as well.

9. Once every quarter you will have a staff evaluation meeting with me. If you walk into my office and I am writing with my left hand, I am gone. Promptly explain you need to go back to the classroom, and leave. It is imperative that you don’t let him catch you before you make it back to your room. He’ll be watching you from outside, but you’ll be safe as long as you don’t move.

We have our full confidence in you that you will be an effective educator. Study these rules as much as you would study your lesson plan. Good luck!

Original author: parker\_thor789

I'm not crazy.

​

It's just your eyes playing tricks on you, they said. Maybe you need to lay off watching TV before bed? As if what I've been seeing and hearing over these past few months has been all inside my head. How can they dismiss me? How can they not understand the danger I'm in? How can they not comprehend the immediate threat to my very life and ignore my pleas for help?! I'm so very tired, and I just don't know what to do anymore.

​

I'm writing this as a final effort, one more try to figure out what is hunting me..watching me..always watching me.

​

I'm not crazy, I'm not crazy.

​

It started as something I would see out of the corner of my eye, it would be so quick but I know what I saw was real. Over time it became more obvious, the flashes in the far reaches of my vision became quick reflections in the mirror. I'd blink and it would be gone, but the terror of what I saw would remain. I would see its dark, pale, and yet almost..beautiful eyes watching me. Staring at me from vents, from other cars as I drove, in my phone's camera when I'd go to take a picture, just watching me. Always watching me.

​

Forever silent, but so deafening I could not focus on anything else. Invisible to all else around me, but in plain sight.

​

I'm not crazy, I'm not crazy, I'm not crazy.

​

I tried seeking help. My friends, family, and co-workers all told me it was in my head. that I was making it up. I spoke to the police and I was laughed out of the station. Of course, they didn't believe me. They thought I was playing a trick or that I “might be crazy”. I thought maybe they were right, I sought out the aid of a shrink who was little help himself. I'd lay on his soft leather couch and tell him about the things I'd see. All while those dark, pale eyes and beautiful eyes were watching me.

​

Always, always watching me. It never sleeps, it never blinks, it never breaks its gaze on me and I even see it in my dreams.

​

I'm. Not. Crazy.

​

Now I'm just..so tired. I'm so tired of trying to explain, trying to rationalize, and trying to fight. I'm just so very tired. I can see it now, it's right in front of me. I see it as clearly as I can see this screen. It's staring at me over my laptop as I write what was supposed to be my last-ditch effort for help, for an explanation. Now, I think this shall be my eulogy. I feel a sense of calm washing over me as it's beginning to creep towards me. I can see all of it now. It's horrifying and yet...magnificent. All this time, I was afraid. Afraid of why it was watching, always watching.

​

Now, it's offering a hand. It wishes to take me away from all of this. As I stare into it'd dark..pale..and beautiful eyes. I feel...I feel...nothing. Absolutely...nothing and it's so...it's...so...peaceful.

​

I'm...I’m...not..crazy.

Original author: thedreadfiles

One day there was no street, and the next day there was. Freshly paved, with a sign and a name. A new street isn’t amazing, of course, it’s just something that happens. But when it seems to happen over night? Well, that’s odd, but not the kind of thing people really wonder about. The typical response is, “Huh, when did they put that in?” accompanied by a shrug.

Some people, however, are always curious, and other people just need to go in that direction. So, down the street they’ll drive their cars, looking ahead, looking around, not really paying attention to how the curbs begin to rise and move closer, quickly becoming much too cramped to turn around in. Or how the manhole covers grind open, all on their own. Or how the sewer grates widen and leer like hungry old men with cracked yellow teeth. How they hiss.

If you happen to look down the street from outside at that moment, you might see those cars stop and begin to back up in alarm. But then, if you blink, the street will be gone.

To where?

You never know. The next time it appears, in another place, it might look like it’s been there for years. It might be paved, cobbled, or made of dirt. It might even have a different name. Perhaps something other than Swallow Street.

Or perhaps not. Streets like that are funny.

Original author: IPostAtMidnight

It’s always two in the morning when I would usually wake up because of my blanket shifting beside me. I would open my lamp to check but before I could, her little arms would start to hug me.

”Mommy, I can’t sleep again.”, her voice was so scared and sleepy at the same time that I hug her back and hum her favorite tune until she would finally fall back to deep slumber. This has been happening for a few weeks and I actually got used to it.

I would open the lamp then and check if everything was okay with her, like I did every night. I’d caress her face, kiss her on the forehead and then she’d wake up. ”Something wrong, honey?” I’d ask her and she would gently shake her head and stand up.

She would walk out, stop at my door and wave goodbye with her golden hair, still braided with red ribbons and that pink flowery dress she was buried in, last month.

Original author: None

What does it take to kill?

The thought resounded about my blank mindset almost as loudly as my voice against these concrete walls.

What does it take to kill?

I thought it over.

For some, it only takes a dagger in hand and a chest full of rage. For others, all it takes is a misplaced pill, dropped in a drink. For the professionals, all it takes is a wad of cash. For not so professionals it might only take a gun. Even for the lesser, it might only take one needle too many, or one pill too few.

A part of me pondered why I was haggling myself like this. Why ask?

But all the same, the question bounced about my mind.

What does it take to kill?

What does it take to kill?

I paused.

What did it take for me to kill?

I sighed.

Such atrocities had been committed. A mother, child, a pensioner and a father. A whole family. My friends. Slaughtered. And all it took, all it took for me to kill, had been three bottles of beer.

And some car keys.

Original author: Mr\_Halloween

It was a beautiful night for a walk in the small town of Albion. A married couple walked down Main Street, hand in hand. They were so focused on each other they barely noticed the group of strangers standing at the end of the sidewalk. He smelled them before she saw them. A gasp escaped the wife as they stopped abruptly in front of the strangers. They did not move, they only stood there and stared at the couple with lifeless eyes.

“Excuse us.” The husband said.

“To escape the Darkness, we must Spread The Light.” Answered the stranger in the middle. He was holding something, it looked like a lighter.

Suddenly, there was a scream from the next street over and a burst of light could be seen through the houses. It was then the husband realized what he had smelled.

“To escape the Darkness, we must Spread The Light.” All the strangers chanted in unison. The spark from the lighter set them all ablaze and the couple screamed as the burning group ran towards them.

The Preacher watched the town burn, from high up on a hill, with a twisted smile. The screaming was only slightly muted by the crackling of the growing inferno. The smell of gasoline watered his eyes and burned his nostrils. He could taste the ash in the air and he felt the glorious heat even from this distance. All of his senses were ablaze and he could barely contain his excitement. Soon he would be the only one left. Then, he would move on to the next town, where he would share his doctrine. And Spread The Light.

Original author: Sebastian\_Wolf

"Here, have a turn on mine...." sleds flew down the hill, and were dragged back up, in an endlessly moving parade. Cassie had just moved to Pennsylvania from Florida, and was loving winter-time more every day. Sledding, snowball fights, sliding on the frozen pond....

The kids in her neighborhood all seemed pretty nice, happily introducing Cassie to the fun of a cold-weather winter.

So Cassie was surprised that none of the kids would play with the small girl who showed up, quietly standing at the edge of the group with her sled.

"It's Maria! Don't talk to her, just pretend she's not there...."

"She'll go away, as long as nobody talks to her....."

They all seemed almost nervous, and shortly after little Maria's arrival, they all left, hurriedly tripping through the snow to get back to their warm houses.

Cassie stared indignantly after them. She hated to see anyone being picked on. She tried a smile, and Maria smiled back, pointing to her sled.

"Do you want me to sled with you?" Cassie asked.

Maria nodded, and they dragged the sled uphill. Cassie squeezed on in front, and away they went.

The sled was breathtakingly fast. Cassie squealed in delight....

It was terrifyingly fast. Almost unnaturally so....Cassie couldn't get enough breath to squeal, and through streaming eyes, she saw that the sled was heading towards the pond.

The ice, which had been so solidly strong all week cracked treacherously as the sled careened onto the pond. It seemed to open like a great mouth, and Cassie felt icy water swallow her....

Maria wasn't in the water. Cassie could see, hazily, a small, lone figure, watching from the pond's bank, but she was too numb to even call or struggle.....

``` *********************************

```

The neighborhood kids looked solemnly out at the pond the next day. It's surface was clean, unbroken, and fresh snow covered all the previous day's tracks.

"Maria got another one", one of them whispered.

"We tried to tell her...."

"Come on, try to forget about it. Here, you can have a turn on my sled....."

Original author: Queenofscots

I tried to contain my excitement and stare out the window. I was waiting for my daughter. Every year she had made a card for me on valentine’s day .

It had all started with the valentine’s day 17 years ago, when the nursery teacher had asked the class to make cards for people they like. While the rest of the class had made cards for their friends and classmates, my Sona had made one for me. She had run to me that day after school, proudly presented her work and said, “I love you the most, papa”.

Ever since then, it had become a tradition of sorts. During the first week of February, she would hide in her bedroom and work on a beautiful card and handcraft a gift for me. At dinner, I would try and guess what she would give me . It was a delight to see her dissolve into giggles and turn red with joy. She would then surprise me on Feb 14 before leaving for school.

Things changed last November. She was driving home in the night when she was hit. Died on impact, they said. The other driver was drunk, hadn’t paid any heed to traffic signals and had just rammed into her. He was apprehended, but what was the use of it? A life gone can never return.

I was devastated. 20 years is all I had with her. I’ve done everything to stop myself from going mad. I cremated her, put her ashes in an earthen urn and buried it in a rose garden nearby. I regularly visited her there and watered the shrub growing over her ashes.

However, today, I’ve had this warm feeling within me. That Sona will come and present me with a card as she always did in the past.

I wasn’t wrong. While eating my dinner, I heard a knock at the door. There was noone when I looked through the peephole. I opened the door to find a yellow rose on a mound of dirt.

Original author: He\_Who\_Must\_B\_Named

...not dead but dying."

"Want me to play it again?" the fat man asked, his hand hesitating above the audio cassette deck.

"No," the blonde woman answered, trembling. "The meaning's clear. We need to tell Father—

The cop paused the VCR.

The faces on the TV monitor froze: distorted, fuzzy. "I'm gonna ask you one more time, Larry," he said. "Do you recognise either of them two?"

Larry looked down at the empty cup on the table in front of him. He'd been here for hours. "I swear to God I don't know nothing."

The cop sighed and looked at the far wall.

On the other side of the two-way mirror, a pair of bored detectives chewed gum.

"What if he's right?" one asked.

"He ain't. Don't believe a word comes outta that dirty cultist's mouth."

"But—but…" Larry said from the other side of the glass.

"But what?" asked the cop.

The two detectives stopped chewing, leaning in closer.

"...is it true? Is it really goddamn true?"

There was a pause.

Then: "Fuck!—" The lights dimmed. "I fucking forgot my line."

"Again?"

The actor playing Larry got up and kicked the wall. It wobbled.

"Easy there," said the director, entering the set.

"My memory…"

The director patted him on the back, whispering, "You were golden. You'll be golden again." And, turning to the remaining cast and crew: "Fifteen, everyone. We'll pick up on the suicide scene."

—and cut!" yelled the movie director.

Everyone relaxed.

The PA refilled the cup on the table behind which the actor playing the actor playing Larry had been sitting.

A blonde woman ("Excuse me, Mr. Evans—") came up to the movie director; but he ignored her, brushing past to confer with the DP.

Or he tried brushing past her:

Because they had gotten in each other's paths. Immobilised, with their torsos caught in a jagged, looped motion; jagged, looped motion. "Excuse me, Mr. Evans—" "...use me, Mr. Evans—" "4bu53 m3, mr. 3v4n5—"

The programmer punched his keyboard.

The screen flickered.

The error message mocked him.

He'd run it a thousand times. It had to be sabotage.

He ripped off his headphones: his head filling with the incessant clicking cacophony of keys depressed on the keyboards in the cubicles beside his, and the ones beside those, and…

Imagined that the entire floor was a neighbourhood /

A city /

A planet /

An entire galaxy /

Maybe even the universe /

Buzz. Buzz. Someone's cell

seen under microscope ("Malignant.") in an operating room by masked figures, standing beside a body on the operating table.

"Weak but stable."

"He'll exist," one of them says, stretching her glorious wings.

[...]

In a white room, God lies bound; His bandaged wrists saturated with ichor; His face as smooth and featureless as a lightbulb, save for a sole central eye. Every few moments, the eye blinks: disturbing existence, like the drop of a single tear into a still pond; creating waves: sound waves, which say: "I am God. I am...

Original author: normancrane

Leslie Franklin was a stupid, selfish, inconsiderate woman. She was a terrible wife and a worse mother. She had no job, no maternal instinct, and no sense of responsibility. Instead of being a parent, she leaned on her mother, father, and husband to take care of her three year old son Joey.

One hot summer day after the temperature had peaked to 102 degrees (Fahrenheit) and while her husband was at work, she decided to rendezvous with her boyfriend on the side. She had been sleeping with this man for six months under her husband’s nose. Leslie strapped young Joey into his car seat in the back of her 2002 Chevy Cavalier and pulled out of the garage. She must have been terribly excited to see her beau because when she arrived in his driveway she ran inside leaving her son in the car with the windows rolled up. Just a few hours was all it took for the heat to bake little Joey and when she returned later that evening she found her son dead, still strapped into his car seat. The paramedics arrived far too late to revive him.

She took her own life just a few weeks later. Her friends and family said it was grief, but in reality it was shame and fear of the legal ramifications she was facing that drove her to do it. Her husband sold the vehicle to a used car dealer in Dayton and moved half way across the country to start over, hoping to purge all memories of the nightmare that had become his life.

How do I know all this you might ask? The answer is simple. I bought that 2002 Chevy Cavalier from the used car dealer in Dayton and Joey tells me this story every time I drive it.

Original author: Vincent\_VenaCava

BUTTERLY HOUSE!

Beautiful Butterflies From All Over the World!

Exotic, Newly Discovered Species!

"Mommy, can we go in here?" Penni had been dragging her mother around the carnival for nearly two hours. Relieved at the thought of a short break, her mother agreed.

"Enjoy, ladies!" the elderly man taking their tickets smiled.

Penni burst through the tent flap enthusiastically, running ahead of her weary mother. "Honey, wait--don't touch any of those bugs--", but Penni was already giggling delightedly as a small flock of colorful butterflies fluttered daintily around her.

""Mom, they're just butterflies, sheesh! Butterflies never hurt anybody," at nine, Penni was all fearless curiousity, and she held her hands out to the lovely, bright green greatures that were beginning to swarm towards her. They flew in pretty, circular patterns over her head for a few seconds, then began to land on her hands and arms. She noticed that the other butterflies seemed to flit away, as more of the green ones came toward her. "Hey, don't chase the others away!" she said, laughing....

Her laughter was choked off abruptly, as she felt a hot sting! on her shoulder. "Hey! Ouch! Mom! I think a bee must've-- OUCH! Hey, get offa me--OUUUUCH! MOM!" Hot little stings suddenly were injected into her, all over. "Honey, are you all ri--", her mother's concern was cut off as she, too, was suddenly covered by thousands of jewel-bright, fluttering wings. "PENNI!! RUUUUN!"

Penni was helpless to answer. Her throat was swelling up, and when she tried to open her mouth, the nasty creatures started crawling in, stinging all the while. Penni's arms and legs began to feel heavy, she was dizzy, and she could see nothing but the flicker and flutter of green wings. As she and her mother collapsed to the ground, the butterflies began to stop stinging, and start inserting their proboscises into the rapidly softening flesh of mother and daughter. Several minutes of slurping later, the only thing that remained was their blood-stained summer sundresses.

An hour or so later, the tent flap opened again. The elderly man looked in, nodded, walked calmly over to pick up the rumpled, ruined clothing. The lovely green butterflies hovered amiably around his head, and he whistled cheerfully as he stuffed the dresses into a plastic bag. "All right, you lot, you've eaten for the week, now tomorrow, remember, back to fluttering nicely, all right?"

Almost as if they understood every word, the dainty creatures lit sweetly on his arms, then flew gently away, circling in pretty patterns as they went.

Original author: Queenofscots

\_Beep!\

You have 7 New Messages.

First Message at 10:43 pm

“Hi Stacy, its Troy from the 3 Kings Bar. Yeah, so just got those digits from you and I didn’t see you leave, so I’d thought I’d hit you up. Just wanted to apologize again, for spilling that guy’s drink on you, he should have realized that you were taken and that I was busy working my magic, haha. Anyways, I’m just chillin outside the bar right now. They won’t let me back in after pushing that guy away from us. Again, sorry if I lost my cool, I don’t ever yell in people’s faces like that. Well, just hit me up for that coffee later.”

\_Beep!\

Next Message at 11:11 pm

“Hey Cutie, it’s Troy again. Didn’t want you forgetting about me…where did you head off too? Maybe we can finish that dance at another place? It’s getting a little boring out here. I hit up another bar to grab a drink and this skank tried to ask me what time it was. I knew what that slut was trying to do; she was trying to get yours truly. Don’t worry baby, I’m all yours. Left that bitch high and dry. Soooo, where you at? Call me.”

\_Beep!\

Next Message at 12:04 am

“Staaaaccccyyyy, it’s your man, Troy. Girl, where you at? I hope you’re not trying to ditch me. Hey, where bout’s do you live again? Maybe we can have us a night time romp, if you know what I’m saying, haha. If not, that’s cool. I’m just playing with you. I am, the truest of gentlemen babe, trust me. Seriously though girl, hit me up. Let’s see where love takes us, haha. Call me.

\_Beep!\

Next Message at at 12:47 am

“Stacy! I don’t know if you’re trying to play me but I swear we had some kind of connection back at the bar. I can’t just ignore that. You and me girl, we were meant to be together. I felt it once I saw you and when we started vibeing together on the dance floor. I remember every beautiful detail about you and I can’t get you out of my head. I even remember where bouts you said you lived…412-something Kressner St. right? I hope you call me soon. I’m struggling over here without you. I keep rubbing the spot on my cheek where you kissed me. Damn, you have some soft lips. Just want to kiss up on them…forever. Don’t ignore what we found Stacy. Hit me up!”

\_Beep!\

Next Message at 1:10 am

(Heavy breathing…………………………………………)

\_Beep!\

Next Message at 1:52 am

“…I thought you were the one Stacy. I thought you were the girl to pull me out of all this bullshit, finally bring some happiness in my life. Not like all those other bitches. They all just laughed and took advantage of me. They took my shit, my heart, my life…NO MORE! I’m tired of these games. I’m out here to find love and when I do, you spit it back at me. Right in my FUCKING FACE! FUCK YOU STACY! BURN IN HELL BITCH!

\_Beep!\

Last Message at 2:30 am

“Hey girl, sorry about all that…must have forgotten to take these pills my doc keeps on prescribing me. It’s nice finally being able to take them by choice, rather than a couple guys holding me down and force feeding me, haha. By the way, I didn’t know you were a dog person. Yours is such a cute little bastard. Well, I hear you fumbling for your keys at your front door. Can’t wait for us to finish that dance…”

Original author: theangrygooch

Mary awakes to the sound of dripping water. She doesn’t bother her mind with the question of where it is coming from, all she can think of are her newly installed hardwood floors.

“Mommy, I’m cold.” The little girl cries, standing at the foot of Mary’s bed. The dripping was still there, driving her crazy.

“Grab an extra blanket from the closet and go back to bed sweetie.” Mary says to her daughter. She doesn’t even try to hide the annoyance from her voice. Of course, the girl doesn’t listen to her and makes her way around the bed. As her little feet pitter patter across the floor, Mary can only hear the sound of the water dripping onto her floor, ruining them!

The little girl crawls into the bed and snuggles up next to her mother. Mary doesn’t open her eyes, but she does put her arm around her daughter, reluctantly. She really is cold Mary thinks to herself.

Not for the first time since the birth of her child, she is filled with an overwhelming dread and anger. The doctors told her that the postpartum depression was normal, that it would go away after a little while. Maybe that would be true if her husband hadn’t abandoned her. Now, here she was, four years later and she still couldn’t look at her child without feeling grief and sadness. She felt something new now, as she held her little girl, but she couldn’t quite figure out what it was. Was it guilt? Why would she feel guilty? Suddenly, as she gains full consciousness, a memory buried deep, resurfaces in her mind.

It was a cold night, she remembered the hypothermia setting in as the police officer wrapped a blanket around her soaking body. She remembered the sadness in the officers eyes when he told her that they found her daughter still in her car seat, strapped in the van. She didn’t remember driving into the freezing lake, but she did remember telling her little girl to stay calm and stay in her seat as she climbed out of the sinking van. As all of this comes back to her, she becomes fully aware of the cold, wet child she was holding in her arms.

“Sweetie?” she whispers with a shaking voice. The apparition begins to turn, her wet hair wrapping itself around Mary’s arm. When she is fully facing Mary, she opens her eyes. They are pure white and water is leaking from them, pouring down her face. She opens her mouth and let’s out a flood. she then makes a gurgling noise and whispers, “Why did you leave me mommy?”

Mary is frozen with fear. Her body shakes involuntarily from the cold, she is now soaked from head to toe. The girl whispers her question again but Mary can’t open her mouth to answer. Suddenly, the water stops flowing from the ghosts mouth. She opens her mouth much wider than should be possible and let’s out a wailing scream.

“WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME MOMMY?! WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME??” She repeats this question over and over as water fills Mary’s lungs. Her vision begins to blur and she feels water leaking out of her ears, muffling all sound. The last thing Mary hears is a giggle from her daughter.

“Now mommy will never leave me.”

Original author: Sebastian\_Wolf