I don’t know how I wound up here in this place. I think it began when I was in Oklahoma travelling across the country in my van. I can’t be really sure though anymore.
She arrived without warning one day, tall and pale with a pretty face. Dark hair hanging down, tangling with the wind. It was a Sunday, the only day the mines of Gavinvill were closed. With slender hands curled, she rapped her knuckles on the door. And when it opened, she would simply ask: “Need a stitchin’? Need a fix’en?”
No, he wore that outfit last time and felt overdressed. Something more casual would be better. Just not too casual.
The Day I Rise From The Dead Episode 1: Cursed From Birth The sun always shined a little brighter on Alestia.
Once, I visited the strangest restaurant. But it was not a normal restaurant, and I am not normal anymore either, since that fateful encounter with a cook called Alice. It was back during my college days when a friend from high school introduced me to the place. My friend, let's call him Sam, noticed me when I was shopping, browsing the aisle in search of new shoes to replace the pair that broke. At first I didn't recognize him because he looked so different. Sam was a lot thinner than he was…
It started at 3:14 AM. I was working late in my home office, the blue glow of my monitor the only light in the room, when my living room television suddenly flickered to life. It didn't turn on to my cable box; instead, it booted directly into a static-filled, analog snow screen.
So I’m writing this as I go through this. I was sitting in my room reading creepy pasta’s and I’m not gonna make a sound right because I’m hearing moving at my window from the inside and it just so happened to be as I’m reading creepy pasta’s I don’t think so. The noises are crinkling kinda like paper and I haven’t open my certain yet but I will and if something happens I’ll try to wright it down but I’m hearing faint breathing now I’m like what the fuck I’m trying not to make noise but I’m…
Tick tock tick tock. The clock chimed midnight. The air feels cool and clammy on my skin. I shiver and draw the covers up around my chin. I can hear the footsteps as they hit the bottom of the stairs slowly ascending to the landing. I feel the fear rising in my chest as I do every night.
Have you ever been to any kind of club where alcohol flows and where parties can get out of hand? I have and I don’t really like going to clubs, but some of my long time friends seem to like it. We are all at that age where we get into fights and they love showing off how tough they all are in the hopes that some attractive female will like them. The one thing that goes with all clubs or night clubs I don’t know what you call them, are the bouncers or security guards that stand at the front…
We moved in on a Tuesday, and by Friday I had learned the house repeated me. Not everything. It was selective, like a bad line that only keeps the important words. I would be at the sink and hear, from the landing above, my own voice at low volume, finishing a sentence I had not started. The first time I thought it was a phone, a radio, a neighbour's television bleeding through the wall. We had no neighbours. The house was the last on the road and the woods did the rest.
It was Halloween in the year 2015. I remember waking up at 7AM, feeling stoked for Halloween and watching Charlie Brown. I saw people from outside my neighborhood decorating at the last minute because a lot of people like slacking on Halloween.
Ice spread from within my soul. I felt myself falling in silent darkness. Cold... it's so cold... I can't breathe and I can't move... I tried to fight: to open my eyes or recall what happened that rendered me at such a state, only to find my mind equally rigid and frozen. The coldness webbed around my body, squeezing air out of my lungs. It's too cold... My arms reached out in the dark void. Seeking, grappling, pleading for something -- anything, to stop the freeze.
Have you heard of the man by the dock? It’s said that when twelve strikes the clock, A shadow stirs, a silent walk, Across the pier, in midnight’s flock. His footsteps fade on wooden planks, A ghostly figure, no one thanks, But if you seek to break or make The ritual’s curse, beware the stake. A silver coin, a candle’s flame, A mirror dark, to call his name— Arrange them ‘neath the moon’s cold glow, And whisper softly, soft and slow. Toss the coin into the water’s flow,
Red, true as crimson stones.... December is here, with snowflakes and mistletoes of winter white.... 6 days left, with sugar cookies and hot chocolate: happiness.... Of Holly berries and bells of golden rings.... 5 days left, with long nights and shadows that watch you in the darkness of night... Of Holly berries, red and true... 4 days left, with eyes of amber glow and icy cold stares watching you as you sleep with care... Of Holly, covered in crimson hue, dark and true....
The second event
It was a brilliant club to be part of and we were a bunch of 60+ year olds enjoying ourselves, we have our own club or space in a library and the times are from 8-10 Sunday to Tuesday. Mind you, there are only ten of us in this club, but we are a brilliant lot and 5 of the members are retired. It is more of a club for the old and the retired, who have worked all of their lives and we do creative things, from reading scripts, novels to even put on a little show as we have our own stage. We also…
I. The House With No Sound It began with a hum.
“Be one second smarter!” whispered Kippy-Kip to the viewers, leaning in. His face filled the entire screen. After licking the camera lens and leaving it drenched in slobber, Kippy-Kip jumped backward three times, stepping away and leaving the rest of his crew to show off and do their juggling tricks.
The listing said SLEEPS 2 in capitals, the way you write a warning before you understand it. Mira found the cabin. Four hours north, at the end of a gravel road that gave up and became a suggestion for the last half mile. No neighbours in any direction. A woodstove, a hand pump over the sink, and two mugs on the shelf. Two chairs at the table. Two plates, two forks, two towels folded to the same width. Two of everything, arranged like an answer to a question nobody had asked.
My brother could wear my voice before he could find his own. Our mother would call us down to dinner and he would answer in my throat, and she would set the table for one boy twice. At nine I heard him explaining me to our father. Not reporting. Explaining, the way you explain weather. He used my voice, and the words were mine, arranged the way I would never have arranged them, and he was right about every one. I asked how. He said, I listen. I am always listening.
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