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.”

A Letter Just For You

Don’t dismiss this outright as the work of some raving lunatic. There’s some sense to this story, if you’ll just hear me out…

Look, we all wonder if time travel is possible, right? Well let me tell you something… it is. I’m from the future, actually. I know you probably don’t believe that, but seriously, I’m from the future. It’s a really great thing; getting to see the past, watching events unfold.. stuff like that. We know more now than we ever would.

Behind all the fun, though, there is a more serious aspect. We aren’t supposed to go into our own lifetime, and we are NEVER allowed to contact our past selves. Let me tell you, I’m breaking that rule right now. Yes, kid, you’re talking to yourself. Your future self. I’m going to be executed for this, but you know what? I accept that. I’m preventing something by talking to you that is WORSE than death. I can’t tell you outright what to do, because the filters would catch it. This is the closest I can get, trust me. I can, however, send a little message.

You should probably read the first word of every paragraph, now.

Unit 1502

I haven’t been sleeping much anymore. My two room condo has a large window right next to my bed. I’ve started to notice something odd about the people going by. Have you ever seen how video game characters don’t seem to walk? They just glide forward while doing a walking animation, like a reverse moonwalk. That’s what they do, they don’t tip forward with each step, and they keep their torso completely straight and legs moving beneath them while drifting past my window.

The other thing I find weird about them is that all of them are very, very smartly dressed. All the women wear long Victorian looking dresses with puffy, usually red or blue short sleeves. The men all wear tuxedos with pants that go very far up their torso. Some of the older men have short black canes with metal balls on the top.

They walk by my window every day, about two per minute, their timing not changing when the sky goes dark.

There is still one thing I can’t quite figure out though.

I live on the fifteenth floor.

The Suicide Forest

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There’s a reason I won’t go to Aokigahara,

Not just ‘cause it’s creepy, not just ‘cause it’s dark;

There are twisty twined trees, there are weeds and neglect,

But worse than all that is the “mocking” effect.

As you walk the park paths, you’ll hear a faint echo –

Footfalls – your own? – in that dim and grim ghetto,

Coming closer and closer as if someone’s there…

You whirl and see no one, just fog on the air.

So you whistle – it whistles. You cough – and it coughs.

Then from murky mists a gray shadow breaks off.

It’s your height and your size and your very same shape,

And then it’s upon you, no time to escape!

You suck in cold air, and then – poof – it moves through you.

You laugh at yourself – a shadow can’t chew you!

But you turn and see someone who’s walking away,

This person – your double! – you glimpse with dismay.

They continue their strolling on down the park trail,

While you melt into mist, a fog of gray veil.

And that’s why I won’t go back to Aokigahara –

I like being you.

I hope you like the dark.

Light’s Out

When I was 6, everything was simple. Just like any other 6-year-old’s life. Although, there was this time when… Well, I actually don’t know what happened.

It was a June 13th, 2006. It was cold, even though it was summer. I was alone in my basement playing my Gameboy with one of those plug-in light attachments. Nothing really out of the ordinary, until it started to rain. In fact, it was a rather big storm. I was in the living room, while my parents were upstairs, when the lights flickered. At the time, didn’t think of much of it and continued to play.

I was actually about to beat the 3rd gym leader when the all of the lights in my house just shut off. As a 6-year-old, I was pretty frightened. Nothing like this had ever happened before. It was so dark, so eerie. I had this feeling of nervousness shoot throughout my body. I ran upstairs as quickly as I could, while carrying the Gameboy as it was my only source of light, and looked for my parents.

They were not there. I cried out their names. Nothing. I ran into every room looking for them, and they weren’t there. Then, I started to hear things. Tapping on the glass, footsteps, and creaks in the floor. Someone or something must’ve broken into the house. I couldn’t process what was going on, I just… I sat on the flooring crying, burying my face in my arms.

I kept crying until… I heard something coming up the stairs, rather slowly. I shined my light on it. Big white eyes, very tall. That was not one of my parents. My heart stopped. What…is…? As it almost reached the top of the stairs, and at this point I was paralyzed with fear and I couldn’t move, the lights shot back on. It… was staring at me with its huge eyes that looked like they were beating like a heart, and its face skin was partially torn off, revealing its muscle. I could see huge columns of saliva coming from its mouth. It was gesturing with its finger for me to come over to it while a sickening grin was on its face.

My parents then came in through the front door, as they had gone to the neighbor’s house and I turn and look back at the stairs to find… nothing…

Tales of The Third Eye # 1

Some people say it is real, some however say that it is a figment of our imagination. To be branded as a crazy child for even just a few months felt like years of solitude and suffering. The solitude did end a some point, but the suffering did not. Most of the time it lay dormant, but at times when it is awake, strange things happen… in my perspective at least.

It all started when I was at the age of 5. Back then, I was living in Japan taking my kinder classes and just living my life without worrying about anything. Just eating, sleeping, playing, and occasionally taking a bath. (Because it is super cold back in my place you’ll have second thoughts of taking a bath. Just stripping down is a big pain in the ass.) Back then, I didn’t know what was normal and what was not. I had playmates in my room that were strangers. Even as a child, I was an introvert. They would just appear out of nowhere and ask me to play with them. There was two of them if I could remember. My mother didn’t tell me to stop playing with them. In fact, she was asking me if they wanted any beverages, in which the answer was no. She knew. She knew the fact that my playmates were not human even though they look very much like one. What are they then?

Me and my mom would occasionally go outside on warmer days. We go to the park, but she always tells me to not talk to strangers or anyone that I don’t know for the matter even though there were many kids playing. It was then when I asked her about my two playmates. I didn’t know them. They just came out of nowhere yet I am allowed to talk to them much less play with them? She then talked to me about something special that only me and my mom could see. At first I was confused since I was a child and all.

So after that small talk at the park, we went home. Although I was really confused abou me not being allowed to play with anyone else at the park. I only begin to understand my situation when my mom told me the truth. It turns out, there was no one else in the park, just the two of us.

Random Creepy Shorts # 22

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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.