67th Banawe St.

For me, life was a whirlwind of lights and smoke, music and men. I lived in a beaten up shanty close to North EDSA, crammed in a closet-like room with a bunch of other woman. We slept on mats on the dirt floor and shared the space with mange-infested dogs, flea-bitten cats and cockroaches. My wardrobe consisted mostly of skimpy skirts, tank tops and the cheapest high heels you can buy in Quiapo.

After a hard night at the bars of dancing and exposing myself, sometimes spending time in a back room with a heavily drunk man and my eyes like a dead fish staring at the ceiling, I earned enough cash to go to the thrift shop. The weather in Manila had become chilly at night, and I needed a sweater.

I took a walk down a few streets that smelled of garbage and human urine mixed with the smog from jeepneys, tricycles and trucks that never ended. It wasn’t long before I found a street lined with second-hand clothes, undoubtedly from American charities but somehow grabbed by greedy merchants looking to make extra pesos.

The sweater was like a pearl in murky waters as it lay neatly on top of a bunch of tattered, motley clothes. Wondering how someone had not yet bought it, I quickly took it in my hands and studied the richness of the fabric. It was as soft as a rabbit’s fur and just as warm. Across its front was a large pouch where you could put your hands into for warmth, and that’s where I found the note on a crumpled piece of yellowed paper. It smelled like the section of a library where ancient books could be found. Dust and dank. On the paper where scrawled the words:

Where: 67th Banawe Street
Pay: One thousand pesos a night.
Job: Lie on the bed. From 11pm to 3am, keep your eyes shut. Never open them. Past 3, your money will be on the dresser.

Banawe Street. The note did not say which city, but I recalled the name of a street in Quezon City that one of my roommates used to visit for a client. It was where the more upper class people lived.

I stuffed the note in my pocket and paid the merchant. Only thirty pesos, not bad. The sweater was wonderful on my skin and made me glow like a snowflake. I felt like one of those young starlets on our local Kapamilya TV network. And in my pocket was the promise of an easy, high-paying job. Those came so rarely. I must admit that, even if the job seemed sketchy, the promise of a thousand pesos a night was tempting. I could get myself out of my situation. Maybe go to college. Find a real job.

After a lot of asking and searching, I found the house that night. 67th Banawe Street was in desolate condition, even if it was in an upper class neighbourhood with many closed shops and lightless low-rise apartments. A single story house surrounded by a short wire fence. Yard unkempt, weeds stuck up like tousled hair. Boards moulded, loose, shingles chipped, paint faded. Windows cloaked with dust. Still it was a hundred times better than the shanty I slept in. The light of the patio was on as I approached, and when I knocked, the door opened as if ajar.

I called hello. No answer. The interior smelled aged and sour, like wet laundry left in the wash for days. I stepped inside, leaving the door slightly open so the light from the patio can illuminate my way. The floor felt as if it might give way beneath my weight. I felt the walls pressing in on me, heavy and damp. The place reminded me of a body they had found in the sewage canal close to where I lived. Bloated and bruised, deteriorated. I passed the dark living room. There was a TV, a battered couch. A coffee table with an ashtray and some empty cans. The room reeked of cat urine and dried faeces. No one there. I attempted to turn on some light switches but found them useless. I turned away and headed down a hallway, noticing a pale light glowing beneath a closed door.

I called again. Absolute silence. I clasped the handle and pushed, ignoring the greasy residue it left on my palm. I found a single bed covered in drab sheets, one dresser beside it with a digital clock. It illuminated the time strongly through the darkness.

10:50pm.

Feeling disturbed, I might have turned away. The house was empty. I admit I thought the job was just going to be another man looking for a quick fix, but now I was curious. It didn’t seem that way, and the uncertainty of it unnerved me. But still, one thousand pesos was too good to pass. I needed to find out if it were true.

I lay on the bed with the note in my hands, facing the glow of the clock.

10:54.

I listened. The house made no sound. Muffled as if a hand lay over it. I felt afraid but excited.

10:56.

My heart throbbed from my chest, through my throat, in my head. I imagined the ticking of a clock, tried to match my heart with its beat.

10:59.

I shut my eyes and waited.

11 came. I knew with my eyes closed because the change in the atmosphere was immediate. I was not alone. My eyes were shut, yet I felt it. So close to my face, the minute hairs on my forehead tingled. It breathed. Tight, stressed, as if forced to breathe only from its nose. I felt the air warm the area just above my lips. I smelled it. A sour smell, like pickled gums, and there was something else. Pungent, thick, sweet. The smell of blood.

I resisted the urge to gag. Seconds turned to minutes, and still the presence lingered against my face. My body suffered, paralyzed with fear. I felt every strained breath. In. Out. Slow, afraid. I felt the slightest itch on my body. Prickles against my legs, bites up my thighs, behind my back and neck. Sweat creeping, crawling, brushing upturned hairs and begging me to scratch and move. I didn’t. Bones ached, muscles wept. My heart. My heart struggled like a sparrow caught in someone’s hands.

The presence continued its steady closeness to my face. My forehead glittered with sweat and now began to throb. My nose pricked, twitched. I wondered if it saw that. Even my eyelids sweated, my eyes behind them stiff, shot, scared. Hiding behind lids like frightened children in a closet.

The smell relented. My lungs resisted its entry, asking for me to turn my head away, escape from such a foul smell. Yet I could not. Every part of my body was frozen so long as the thing stared into my face.

Never open them.

My hands still clutched the note. As long as I kept my eyes closed, I thought, nothing could happen to me.

I analyzed the letter in my mind. Repeated those three words. Never open them. Again, ten times. Uncountable times. Stealing myself to start my next move.

I breathed. A long inhale. Sourness and the sickly smell of blood swamped my lungs. I gagged. Coughed. And then I turned. I turned away into the bed, curled myself, fetal-like, eyes clamped shut like vices. And when I relaxed, I felt it. Still there, a hair’s width away from my face. It was hovering, floating! How could the thing have moved with me? I did not feel any weight on the bed during the transition, any sign to suggest that it had crawled over me, moved beside me, and refocused itself against my face.

I allowed a few minutes to pass before I tried again. I moved, slowly, deliberately, sensing it against my face. And it moved with mine, smoothly, soundlessly, until I was completely on my back. My face, eyes shut, staring straight up. The thing looking down upon me, relentlessly. I grimaced, knit my brows, sweated. I wanted to bat at it, but I could not. I was too afraid. All I could clutch on to was the promise that this could end. I waited, ached. Sweated, prayed. It stayed with me. Always there. I could not sleep.

3am.

The digital clock alarmed, and just like that, I was released. The thing that had looked on at my face for four hours was gone. I did not immediately open my eyes. I waited until the sweat on my brows became cold and dry. I listened to my body unlock, one by one, like a warden walking through a prison, releasing the prisoners cell by cell. I could breathe again. My heart pumped, bold and strong. I felt my fingers, the warmth on my skin. I yearned to stretch and let life sizzle through every part of me.

I opened my eyes. One thousand pesos lay on the dresser. One thousand pesos for the horror I had endured. I took it and did not look back as I left.

A week had passed since the night I spent there. Although my money was gone now, spent over things I can’t even remember, the memories from that night had not. Not a moment went by where I wasn’t thinking of the thing that had breathed so close to my face. Could I have been imagining it? Perhaps my fears had been so strong, my mind had created something to justify it. But my senses could not have been tricking me. I smelled it, blood and sour rank. I felt it, warm breath on my face. Who had left the money? What was the presence I felt? And, the question that caused me the most dread: What would have happened if I had opened my eyes?

My return to the house was no longer just for money, but answers.

The evening I returned, I noticed that nothing had changed. The only difference from the first time I had been there were the bed sheets, still crumpled from my use. The effervescent light from the clock was resolute, like a statue’s stern gaze, almost punishing as I lay on the bed.

Just a few seconds before 11pm, I shut my eyes.

The thing appeared close my face exactly on the second. This time my fears were replaced by a studious curiosity. I noticed that right before it arrived, I did not sense anyone walk into the room. Its appearance was fluid, soundless, as if it had materialized from thin air. The thick smell of blood and sourness were consistent with the first time. I turned my head slowly left and right, and every movement was mirrored perfectly by it. Like studying yourself in a mirror, your reflection so close to your face, you could fog it with the breath from your nostrils.

I dared to do the one thing I had not the last night I was here. I brought my hands up to my face, cautiously, feeling my bones creak beneath the tense muscle and cold skin, the sweat building on my frightened palm and fingers. As my hands reached close, they stopped. Protested. Hesitated. My heart banged like wild mice in a cage. I grimaced, summoning all my courage, eyes sweating behind the lids, temples pounding. My hands moved again. The unseen presence continued its breathing, steady, undaunted. Unmoving.

My fingers touched something. I stopped. Every part of my body froze. I could not breathe. The blood on my face swelled as I choked on fear. The breathing from the thing changed. It grew raspy, excited. Its putrid breath hit my face more powerfully. I could not tell my fingers to move. They stayed where they were, paralyzed, touching it. The length of time that passed after, I could not recall, my mind too swamped in fear. All I could remember was that, at last, the lock down of my mind had subsided enough for my fingers to try and comprehend what it was touching.

Hair. Sticky and cold.

My heart banged. My fingers moved, slightly. I felt the firmness of a scalp beneath the hair. The thing continued to breathe as if enthused. Somehow I had managed to detach myself from the paralyzing terror of my body, and now I was moving my fingers like a puppeteer would to his marionette. They followed the curve of the scalp, lowered until I felt skin. The skin felt torn and jagged, and the sticky fluid was thicker there. My fingers passed the broken skin, and now I was palpating what felt like flesh. The flesh of chopped beef parts in the market, sticky and soft.

I lowered my hands. My heart thumped so hard, I thought I might die of heart failure. I was too scared to continue the investigation. It felt like… like I had been touching a severed head.

3am.

Again, I waited until I was relaxed enough before opening my eyes. Like before, one thousand pesos lay neatly on the dresser. My hands, still paralyzed from what they had felt earlier, were clean. I thought they might have been soaked in blood, but there was nothing.

I ran from the house, terrified. Perhaps a ghost was haunting the building, and I promised never to return, no matter how much I needed the money, but that was a month ago. My roommates and I had taken a turn for the worst. Town officials were cracking down on businesses like the one we worked at, and required to show proof that we were tested, just to make sure we weren’t spreading any… diseases. But lab tests required money. The bar managers I worked for were snapping up only those girls who could give him the negative tests quickly, and space was limited. In spite of the fears I felt, the promises I had made to never return, the need for money was greater. After all, hadn’t nothing bad ever happened to me while I was there?

11pm.

The demonic presence returned. I grimaced my eyes tight, determined not to let it scare me. I told myself, the job was easy. Keep my eyes closed from 11 to 3, and I will be paid. Handsomely.

I suppose I had gotten used to the presence, for only a few hours into the night, I found myself fighting the urge to sleep. The rhythm of its breathing lulled me. In. Out. In. Out. Its sour, fetid breath mixed with the sickly sweet smell of blood, perfuming me to sleep. I tried hard to fight it. I failed, and soon sleep’s heavy hand had successfully pressed down on my weary mind.

The girl in my dream was pretty. Slim body, short. Hair long and straight, as dark as the skies in the province. Eyes deep and shadowy. She watched me as I slept. So close to my face… I could place a hand to her cheek and ask why she was there.

“Leave,” she whispered. “Leave.”

Her face grew distorted, and then she started making choking, gagging sounds. I sat up with horror and watched as her skin turned to a ghastly blue. Her eyes bulged and turned red. She was trying to scream, say something, but all I could hear were the hoarse, ragged breathing sounds that watched me… Watched me as I—

And I was awake. By some miraculous reason, I had not opened my eyes, but the room was filled with the same choking, gasping noises I had heard in my dream. The floors shook as if there were some violent commotion happening in the room with me, and then… Silence. Only my beating heart banged in my ears. Still I did not open my eyes. Not now. Not until I could hear the alarm so I can safely take the money and leave. But it did not end there.

The next sound I heard sickened me more than anything I had ever experienced. A rhythmic, moist sound, like someone carving flesh with a saw. And then dripping. A thump as something heavy hit the floor. I heard footsteps, heavy and slow, headed my way. Every inch of my body screamed to open your eyes! Run! I was shaking, sweating, so fear-stricken like a bellowing animal held upside down before its throat was slit. The footsteps kept coming. Breathe! Breathe! I couldn’t! I needed to run! But I couldn’t! I was afraid. I’d lasted for too long keeping my eyes closed. I couldn’t open them, no matter how insane it sounded.

The footsteps stopped, right next to the bed I lay on. The thing was once more pressed close to my face, breathing, gasping. It felt like my muscles would snap under the tension. My fear was like a thousand knifes angled toward my body, the slightest move threatening to kill me. Minutes stretched on, slowly, cruelly. I wanted out. Out of everything. The room. The need for money. The nights with strangers and terror of it all. Call girl. I wanted out. Out. Out!

And then, a blessing like the sun after a typhoon… The sound of the alarm clock.

3am.

I opened my eyes and found myself in an empty room. There was nothing there. Nothing on the floor where I had heard someone screaming and their body being carved. The money on the dresser, but it didn’t matter. I didn’t even grab it. I fled out of the house like a beaten dog.

I could not sleep for the rest of the night. The next morning I sought out some answers to the house I had been visiting. The town captain believed my story that I was sent by a wealthy family to find out if the house was for sale and check if there was any history behind it.

“Years ago, a wealthy man once lived there. He was quiet and kept to himself, seemed to cause no harm to anyone. Every once in a while he took in a call girl to keep him company for the night, but many men did the same. Not much to be suspicious about… until the neighbors smelled something foul coming from his home. They found him in his room with the headless body of a girl on the floor. Who knows how long he had been there with the body, maybe days. He was standing still, like an upright coffin, and in his outstretched hand was the girl’s head. He wouldn’t put it down. Just held it out, so steady and still, his expression dead. They shot him right there.”

The captain opened a drawer and drew out a file. “This is a photo of the girl they believed was killed. She was an orphan, only sixteen. Probably did what she did for the money. The other girls who worked with her said she had been with the man two other times; it was on the third night when he killed her. Here, take it.”

She was the same girl from my dream, but what chilled me more what the sweater she wore in the photo. White and soft. The same one I had found in the second-hand store with the note in the pocket. I thanked the captain, barely able to let out the words.

When I returned to my shanty later that day, I discovered that the white sweater had disappeared from my closet, and so did the note. When I asked my roommates if they had seen or taken it, all I got was the answer no.

I gave up working as a call girl and found a job as a caregiver for an elderly couple. Although the work was hard and slow, I persisted and saved up enough money to start college. Sometimes I pass by the thrift store where I had found the white sweater with the cursed note. I remember the three nights I had spent with the dark presence and how insane I had been, returning even after so much fear. For money… for curiosity. That’s what a call girl’s life did to you. You become jaded to the dangers you repeatedly put yourself into. Sleeping with strangers, potential murderers. Returning for the money and thrill of it. I tried to stuff the memories into the dark cracks of my mind. Forget it. But still I wondered… What if I had opened my eyes?

A few years later, I came upon an article in the news. A small one amongst a few other murders. They always wrote these stories with such detail, and my blood curdled. The body of a call girl had been found, her head severed. The girl’s eyes were wide open.

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Coffins

Coffins used to be built with holes in them, attached to six feet of copper tubing and a bell. The tubing would allow air for victims buried under the mistaken impression they were dead. In a certain small town, Harold, the local gravedigger, upon hearing a bell one night, went to go see if it was children pretending to be spirits. Sometimes it was also the wind. This time, it wasn’t either. A voice from below begged and pleaded to be unburied.

“Are you Sarah Bannon?” Harold asked.

“Yes!” The muffled voice asserted.

“You were born on September 17, 1827?”

“Yes!”

“The gravestone here says you died on February 20, 1857.”

“No, I’m alive, it was a mistake! Dig me up, set me free!”

“Sorry about this, ma’am,” Harold said, stepping on the bell to silence it and plugging up the copper tube with dirt. “But this is August. Whatever you are down there, you sure as hell ain’t alive no more, and you ain’t comin’ up.”

What is Heaven? What is Hell?

The pain ended quickly. I rose and tried to find my body. Probably lying mangled underneath the metallic wreck. Dying in a road accident is definitely the worse way to go.

“So! Had a nice life?” asked a voice behind me.

I turned around to find a woman smiling. Since she could see me I was pretty sure she was a soul like me.

She giggled, “You are taking it pretty well. I am Cindy by the way.”

I spoke evenly,” What happens now? Hell? Heaven?”

She laughed louder.
Before I could say something I heard a commotion from far off.

Cindy shouted,” COME ON!” And she ran.

She turned and yelled,” Have you been good?”

“What?”

“Have you done any good while you lived?”

Totally confused, I spluttered,” I…I donated blood once.”

As we reached the source of noise I was dumbstruck to find hundreds of people ripping each other apart in front of a hospital.

I shouted, “WHAT IS HAPPENING HERE?”

Cindy replied, “Someone is giving birth here. These souls are fighting to get inside the new born shell.”

“But the baby…”

“LISTEN TO ME…THERE IS NO BABY UNTIL A SOUL PENETRATES IT… If no soul makes it inside, the shell is pronounced dead by doctors.” She continued, “Your fighting strength depends on your Karma. So the soul of a rapist or a paedophile stands no chance. They will never get a shell and will painfully wither away.”

Children are most dangerous. Pure souls. Stay away from them during fights.”

“But what about heaven… and hell?”

“THIS IS HELL! And more importantly, the life you left behind… That is heaven.”

A Road That Never Ends

In California, there once was a road known by most locals as the Never Ending Road. Specifically, the road’s true name was Lester Road. Now, twenty years later, the landscape of Corona has changed, and the Never Ending Road is no more. However, years ago, Lester Road was an unlit road that people claimed to never end when driven at night. The people who made such a drive were never seen from again.

The legend became so well-known that people refused to even drive Lester Road during the day. One night, like many teens my age, I drove up Lester Road, but only a short distance, and in my headlights it did look like it went on forever. Frightened, I quickly turned around, because if I continued up the road, I thought I might never return again.

Perpetuation of the legend convinced local law enforcement to investigate. Lester Road took a sharp left turn at its end, and there were no guard rails. Beyond the curve lay a canyon, and on the other side of the canyon was another road that lined up so well with Lester Road that when viewed from the correct angle, especially at night, the canyon vanished from sight, and the road seemed to continue on up and over the hill on the other side of the canyon. Upon investigation of the canyon, dozens of cars were found, fallen to their doom, with the decomposing bodies of the victims still strapped to their seats.

Random Creepy Shorts # 22

unique_cabins_in_the_woods_640_45

There is always this one time when we see a house and we want to enter it so bad, in other words trespassing. I was told by my cousin that it’s bad and she went ahead and told me a story to somehow scare me off. Just so you notice, my family loves telling creepy stories and here I am, spreading them to you. It goes like this…

There was a hunter in the woods, who, after a long day hunting, was in the middle of an immense forest. It was getting dark, and having lost his bearings, he decided to head in one direction until he was clear of the increasingly oppressive foliage. After what seemed like hours, he came across a cabin in a small clearing. Realizing how dark it had grown, he decided to see if he could stay there for the night. He approached, and found the door ajar. Nobody was inside. The hunter flopped down on the single bed, deciding to explain himself to the owner in the morning.

As he looked around the inside of the cabin, he was surprised to see the walls adorned by several portraits, all painted in incredible detail. Without exception, they appeared to be staring down at him, their features twisted into looks of hatred and malice. Staring back, he grew increasingly uncomfortable. Making a concerted effort to ignore the many hateful faces, he turned to face the wall, and exhausted, he fell into a restless sleep.

The next morning, the hunter awoke — he turned, blinking in unexpected sunlight. Looking up, he discovered that the cabin had no portraits, only windows.

Random Creepy Shorts # 21

It has been a while since my last Random Creepy Short (RCS) since as a self-proclaimed writer (yeah, right) I also need inspiration in my writings. My teacher told me that I have no right to write if I don’t read. So I read a bunch of stuff to get my engine up and running (hah see what I did there, engine, you know… cause my profile name is SteamEngine… anyway, enough with the funny stuff, besides it’s a random creepy short.) So I decided to give a little bit more effort than usual on this story. Anyway, it goes like this…

I am a loving father, a faithful husband, and a righteous person in my own right. Obviously, I’m a father to my only daughter Cassie. She is my jewel, my diamond, my Mona Lisa, my Eiffel tower. In short, my greatest and most loved. Since she was born, the love I’ve given for her is more than anyone else had. I loved her so much, I think I loved her too much.

It was 10 years since I last played with my little Cassie. She has grown up now, she is no longer the innocent girl who I used to scold for picking up a knife, playing with it and accidentally cutting herself. Another year and she is already an adult. Oh, how I miss the old days, when Cassie would just walk up to me, say

“Tag! You’re it!”

and we would chase each other around the house for the whole day. I miss that feeling, and before she finally leaves behind her childhood, I would like to spend a few more moments to play with her.

She made a playful squeal as I tagged her. It was clear she was enjoying herself, she was laughing herself to tears.

“Daddy, stop it, my sides hurt!” She continued to laugh.

Her joy was contagious, I smiled, for once in years, I smiled. I dare say I’ve smiled more that day than I have in my entire life. Alas, all good things must come to an end, she was tired, and fell asleep shortly after.

My wife soon came home. She was so glad to see me, she yelled my name, again, laughing to tears. She hugged me, still laughing. I continued to smile. She looked down and saw my tagging tool, quickly shooting her focus back to my eyes. I continued to smile.

“Michael…” Tears continued to stream down her face in excitement.

“How could you have done this to our little angel?” She tried to run, but she was too slow.

“Tag…” I smiled wider. “You’re it.”

I guess you’re wondering what my tagging tool was. You see…

it was the knife Cassie used to play with.

Random Creepy Shorts # 20

I am in introvert. I feed off of my own solitude. For some reason, being alone makes me comfortable. It’s peace and quiet. I could focus on whatever task is at hand. But there are some moments when I wish I wasn’t alone, or at least knew if someone was there. This story is about someone alone in the house. I’ll let the story speak for itself. It goes like this…

Here I lay, all snuggled up in bed, warm and satisfied under the soft silk covers, watching some stupid documentary on TV I’d never heard of. I’d turn it over, but the gallon tub of cookie dough ice cream wouldn’t let me use my hands for anything other than shovelling the frozen treat into my mouth. Nights like these are rare, it isn’t often that everyone’s out of the house but me, so I make sure to savour them, in fact, I wasn’t expecting anyone back till the morning. That’s what made the sound of the door opening downstairs so alarming.

Panic hits me like a steam train, I silently leap out from under the covers, spilling the ice cream all over the pristine white carpet on the floor, and creak open the wardrobe next to the bed. I hear footsteps, heavy and indiscreet, like they want me to know they’re here. I pant, and pick up the spoon I had just been using to enjoy a relaxing night. The footsteps get louder, I force myself into the miniscule space remaining in the wardrobe, and close the door, just as the stranger opens the bedroom door, not sparing any seconds for silence.
I peer through the gap, his face looks familiar, but I can’t place my finger on where I know him from. He spots the spilled ice cream, and darts his head across the wide expanse of the bedroom.

“Hello?” he calls, not sounding vicious, but I’ve made that mistake before. Never, under any circumstances, assume friendliness from a voice.

He looks under the bed. Oh crap, he’s looking for someone. I hold back a whimper, and start bending the bowl of the spoon back and forth, hoping to snap it off and create some way of defending myself. It snaps, but it creates a metallic click, the man turns his head around, and makes his way to the wardrobe, I’m shaking now. Please don’t open it, please don’t open it, please don’t open it!

The door swings open, and he sees me, we scream simultaneously in fear and surprise. Without hesitation, I leap onto the man, and start digging into whatever stretch of flesh I can with the sharp edge of the spoon handle, he screeches in clear pain, but I won’t stop, I hammer the handle deep into his chest and neck, over and over, till he becomes motionless. I’ve killed him.

I cry in disgust, and sprint downstairs and away from the house, I charge down the road until I feel like I’m far enough away. I sit down for a moment, and exhale heavily before regaining my composure. Pulling out my phone, I open Twitter and search #babysitter, hopefully this time, I’ll find a household that isn’t lying when they say they’ll be out all night.

Random Creepy Shorts # 19

Do you miss your father, I sure do. Since I was in grade school, I had to live far away from my father because of financial reasons. But you see, I cannot help but be afraid. Afraid from what you ask? Afraid from bad things that may happen to him. But you know, I see the benefits of living far from my loved ones, this story is somewhat an emulation of it… and it goes like this…

A 15-year old girl named Donna lived with her father in a small house in the suburbs. Ever since her mother died, Donna had depended on her father for everything. They had a wonderful relationship and loved each other very much.

One morning, Donna’s father was leaving on a business trip. As they ate breakfast together, he told her that he would be home very late that night. With that, he kissed her on the forehead, grabbed his briefcase and walked out the front door.

Later that day, when Donna came home from school, she did some homework and watched some TV. By midnight, her father had still not returned so she decided to go to bed.

That night she had a dream. She found herself standing at the edge of a busy highway. Cars and trucks whizzed by at an alarming rate. She looked across the highway and saw a familiar figure standing on the other side. It was her father. His hands were cupped around his mouth and he seemed to be shouting something to her, but she couldn’t make out what he was saying.

As the traffic whizzed by, she strained to hear. Her father’s eyes were sad. He seemed to be desperately trying to communicate something to her. She could barely make out the words: “Don’t… Open… Door…”

Suddenly, Donna was awoken from the dream by a strange tapping noise.

“Tap Tap Tap.”

Then somebody began to ring the doorbell downstairs.

“Ring Ring Ring.”

She scrambled out of bed and put on her slippers. Then, dressed only in her nightgown, she ran downstairs and went to the front door.

Looking through the peephole, she saw her father’s face outside. He was staring right at her. The doorbell kept ringing insistently.

“OK, hold on! I’m coming!”, she shouted.

She pulled back the deadbolt and was about to unlatch the door when she stopped.

She looked through the peephole at her father again. Something about his expression didn’t look quite right. His eyes were wide open. He looked terrified.

She slid the deadbolt back into place.

“Dad!”, she yelled through the door. “Did you forget your keys?”

“Ring Ring Ring.”

“Dad, answer me!”

Ring Ring Ring.

“Dad, please! I need you to answer me!”

“Ring Ring Ring.”

“Is there someone else out there with you?”

“Ring Ring Ring.”

“Why won’t you answer me?”

“Ring Ring Ring.”

“I’m not opening the door until you say something!”

The doorbell kept ringing and ringing, but for some reason, her father refused to answer her desperate cries.

For the rest of the night, the frightened girl cowered in a corner of the hallway, helplessly listening to the ceaseless ringing of the doorbell. It seemed to go on for hours. Eventually, she fell into an uneasy sleep.

At dawn, she woke up and realized that everything was quiet. She crept over to the door and looked through the peephole again. Her father was still there, staring at her.

She cautiously opened the door and was confronted with a sight that filled her with unimaginable horror.

Her father’s severed head was hung from a nail above the door.

There was a note attached to the doorbell. In crude, scrawled handwriting, it read:

“Clever Girl”

Random Creepy Shorts # 18

I’d like to classify this short as more of an emotional one. I wasn’t really scared or thinking of scaring anyone while conceptualizing this story. It was more of sadness and stuff. So this story is not for the very faint hearted (well none of my stories are so far…) Anyway, it goes like this…

There was a young girl named Susan. She was playing in her bedroom when she heard her mother calling her from the kitchen. She raced downstairs.

“Susan, come here. I have something to ask you,” her mother said.

“What is it?” asked Susan.

“Do you know who ate the cakes that were meant for the guests?”

“Uh… No… I don’t know,” Susan replied.

“Did you eat the cakes?” her mother asked.

“No, Mama, I didn’t,” the little girl replied.

Susan was wringing her hands nervously.

“Susan, I know when you are lying,” her mother said. “A thief always starts out in life by lying. And the police always catch a thief. And the thief is always punished. Do you know what I am saying Susan?”

Susan couldn’t bear the guilt anymore. She started sobbing.

“Mama, I’m sorry!” she wailed. “I ate the cakes! I’m sorry!”

“There, there. Stop crying,” said her mother as she held her hand. “I was angry because you lied to me. Now you’ve told the truth, everything is going to be fine. I don’t like liars, so never lie to me again, OK?”

“OK,” said Susan.

“Now dry your tears,” said her mother. “We’ll go to the store and buy more cakes.”

“OK, Mama,” Susan said.

Susan’s mother had a baby. When she came home from the hospital, Susan was delighted.

“This is Nana,” her mother said. “You’re her big sister. You have to treat her with love and care.”

“I will, Mama,” Susan said.

But after the baby arrived, her mother didn’t seem to have any time for her. The baby cried all day and all night. Susan couldn’t bear to hear it screaming and bawling. She couldn’t concentrate. She couldn’t even think. Eventually, she had enough.

“Mama! I’m sick and tired of hearing her cry!” she shouted. “I can’t study with all this racket! Can you please shut her up?”

“You need to be more understanding,” her mother said. “Nana is just a baby. You’re her big sister.”

“But you’re always with Nana,” Susan cried. “You never have time for me anymore. I’d like to spend time with you too, Mama. I’d like to go to the store with you, to the park with you, to play with you…”

“You’re old enough to go to all those places by yourself,” her mother said. “So shut your mouth and stop being so selfish.”

“I hate you!” Susan screamed as she burst into tears.

She ran upstairs, slammed her door and locked herself in her room. That evening, she refused to come down for dinner. Instead, she stayed in her room and brooded about Nana.

That night Susan had a very disturbing dream. In the nightmare, she saw herself walking through the house in darkness. She went into her mother’s room and tip-toed over to the baby’s crib. Then, she picked up her little sister and carried her downstairs.

In the dream, Susan opened the back door and brought Nana out to the garden. There, by the light of the moon, she fetched a shovel from the shed, dug a little hole in the wet grass and buried her little sister alive.

When she woke up in the morning, Susan was shaking and covered in sweat. She felt sick to her stomach. The nightmare had seemed so real. She was horrified.

“Mom was right,” she thought. “Nana is just a baby. I’m her big sister. I need to learn to put up with things like this. I’m going to ask Mom to forgive me.”

Just then, her mother burst into her room. Tears were streaming down her face.

“Susan, do you know where Nana is?” she asked. “When I woke up this morning, she wasn’t in her crib. Do you know anything?”

The little girl shook her head.

“Are you sure?” her mother demanded. “You really don’t know anything? Do you swear?”

Susan gulped. “Yes, I swear,” she said weakly.

“Alright! Alright!” her mother said. “Help me find her!”

They searched the house from top to bottom, but they couldn’t find Nana. They ran up and down the street looking for the baby, but she was nowhere to be seen. Finally, her mother fell to her knees and began sobbing uncontrollably.

“Where did Nana go?” she wailed. “Where could she be? She doesn’t even know how to walk. How could she disappear like this?”

Susan was wringing her hands nervously.

“Susam you know something!” her mother screamed. “Susan! You know what happened to Nana, don’t you!”

“No,” said Susan. “I don’t know anything…”

“Susan, I warned you not to lie to me again!” her mother screamed.

“I’m not lying,” Susan mumbled.

“I know when you’re lying!” her mother shouted. “Tell me! Where is she? Where is Nana?”

Susan couldn’t bear the guilt anymore. She looked out the window and pointed at a little mound of earth in the garden.

“No!” her mother cried. “Dear God! No! This can’t be true!”

“Mama!” the little girl sobbed. She tried to grab her mother’s hand.

“Don’t touch me!” her mother screamed. “You killed Nana, didn’t you! You killed her because you were jealous!”

“I didn’t mean it, Mama!” Susan cried. “I didn’t mean it!”

Her mother flew into a violent rage. She grabbed her daughter by the neck and began choking the life out of her. She squeezed and squeezed until she couldn’t squeeze anymore. By the time she came to her senses, Susan lay dead on the kitchen floor.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang.

The mother got to her feet and answered it.

When she opened the door, she saw her neighbor standing outside. He was holding Nana in his arms.

“We found her crawling around outside,” he said. “She must have gotten out of her crib during the night. Good thing we found her before something bad happened…”

Slate Road Ext.

It is late afternoon. A soft breeze blows and rattles the leaves on the sprigs in a tree-strewn spot of earth in the heart of Manila. The sky is darker than usual and a shadow of a tall man is seen in the distance, in an isolated road. I take small strides into the alley. The sign reads, “Slate Road Ext.” I see the man, or rather “thing” standing. Moments passed by, I still am thinking, “am I really going to pass through here? I wonder what would happen.”

Before anything else happened, I felt more wind passing through his corner. it seems like all my happiness, if there’s any, my energy, and my positive vibes were blown away with it. I kept thinking, imagining, and wondering, would I stay here, until the sun goes down? I just close my eyes, trying to remember someone dear to me, to help me lessen my fear. Am I ready for this? I can’t handle it anymore.

I hear whispers, from where? I look around for the source. It is the shadowy man! He’s whispering “ten, ten, ten, ten…” Why, of all numbers, ten? I approach the man with all my courage and ask. He looked at me straight into my soul with piercing pitch black eyes. “You’re one of us now.”

Everything went black. When I returned to my senses, I find out that I, myself, was whispering, “eleven, eleven, eleven, eleven…”

 

P.S

This story was made by me and my friends. We passed the paper around every two sentences and tried to see what we would make. This isn’t the best story there is, but it sure has a deep meaning if you try to understand it. If you can’t, feel free to ask me personally 🙂