Thrill (Continued)
November Spotlight 2017
Eman
The Thrills of Love, and the Passions of Life (cont.)
What is a thrill? For me, to put it in the simplest terms, thrill is passion. When Google defines the word thrill, it is a sudden feeling of excitement and pleasure. A passion is a strong feeling of enthusiasm or excitement for something or about doing something. They have the exact same meaning. A passion should be something that you or someone else does that gives you a thrill. That is the reason that when I say “a world without thrills is a world that nobody could live in” I mean it, because a world without thrills is a world without love.
Love. People have died for it, lived for it, fought for it, and killed themselves for it (thank you, Romeo and Juliet). They have cried for it, yearned for it, searched for it, devoted their whole lives to it. Psychologist Robert Sternberg believes that there are three main parts to consummate love. Love with just passion is infatuation (or a crush, in human language). Love with commitment and passion, becomes fatuous love. A type of fantasy love. (Think of that couple you know whose relationship felt so rushed—they said I love you within two weeks of dating each other, and all they do is talk about each other. ALL. THE. TIME. To put it more simply think of Romeo and Juliet.) Love with passion and intimacy is romantic love (that significant other you’ve been dating for a week, a couple months—hell, maybe a year—but you know it’s not going to last in the long run). Love with only intimacy is called linking, to take a liking to somebody. Commitment alone is empty love–the relationship lasts for the same reason you’re watching that TV show that’s been going on for 10 plus seasons; you’re only watching it because you’ve been with the show since season one. You feel like you’re betraying the TV show if you leave. Commitment and intimacy is companionate love: that old married couple who are only together because that’s how it’s been their whole lives. The passion’s gone, but they don’t want to leave each other because they truly love each other, and are very much committed, but the thrills of the relationship are gone.
The thrills. Love without thrills is being committed friends. Being infatuated with somebody, even an unrequited infatuation, is far more exciting than empty love, companionate love, and liking. Those jitters you get when you catch that person’s eyes, the feeling of butterflies in your stomach each time you’re around them, feeling hurt if they haven’t talked to you in a considerable amount of time. Trying to find everything about this person through social media stalking, because you’re honestly passionate about them. Passion. Love.
Lovers are what make this world, what fuels it. They are a big part of almost every Disney movie. Life without the tales of Romeo and Juliet? (Last reference, I swear.) Cleopatra and Mark Antony plus Julius Caesar? Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas? Sir Lancelot and Lady Guinevere? Mildred and Richard Loving? Oscar Wilde and Lord Alfred Douglas? The minds they’ve touched, the art they’ve created and inspired. The reason behind all of these was, and is to this day, love with passion.
Passion without thrills is not passion, and love without passion is not real love. The world without love is a world without lovers. When we lose the lovers, we lose the dreamers, the warriors, the achievers, the trailblazers, the revolutionaries, the radicals. They are the people that plant the seeds in children’s minds. What you could do if you had somebody who believed in you? Love and passion are the only two things in life that, when together, make a person feel unstoppable, yet at the same time vulnerable and fragile.
We need thrills, because we need love. Love for people, love for activities, love for love. Love is what drives us, even if it’s not in the romantic sense. Face it, we love love! And we love what it does to us. A world without love is life without passion! Life without thrills! Who could live in a world without jitters, spine tingles, the excessive use of hands when it's unnecessary. Not only that, but the thing that gives you these thrills! Love, adventure, fear, and drugs. It is human to love thrills, to love the things that they do to you. In pursuit of these thrills, it might turn dangerous. You might start fights, go on potentially dangerous adrenaline filled activities, fall in love, out of love, start a fight, drama. Or maybe your thrills are more quiet. Reading steamy romance novels, drawing, writing, staring at strangers across the room, and guessing their lives. No matter what you say or do, you have an extreme fondness for the jumps in your heart, or the rushing of it; or maybe when you do these activities, it’s more about how your heart goes slower. Relief, safety. To end this off I leave a Daniel Goleman quote: “Life without passion would be a dull wasteland of neutrality, cut off and isolated from the richness of life itself.”
The Thrills of Love, and the Passions of Life (cont.)
What is a thrill? For me, to put it in the simplest terms, thrill is passion. When Google defines the word thrill, it is a sudden feeling of excitement and pleasure. A passion is a strong feeling of enthusiasm or excitement for something or about doing something. They have the exact same meaning. A passion should be something that you or someone else does that gives you a thrill. That is the reason that when I say “a world without thrills is a world that nobody could live in” I mean it, because a world without thrills is a world without love.
Love. People have died for it, lived for it, fought for it, and killed themselves for it (thank you, Romeo and Juliet). They have cried for it, yearned for it, searched for it, devoted their whole lives to it. Psychologist Robert Sternberg believes that there are three main parts to consummate love. Love with just passion is infatuation (or a crush, in human language). Love with commitment and passion, becomes fatuous love. A type of fantasy love. (Think of that couple you know whose relationship felt so rushed—they said I love you within two weeks of dating each other, and all they do is talk about each other. ALL. THE. TIME. To put it more simply think of Romeo and Juliet.) Love with passion and intimacy is romantic love (that significant other you’ve been dating for a week, a couple months—hell, maybe a year—but you know it’s not going to last in the long run). Love with only intimacy is called linking, to take a liking to somebody. Commitment alone is empty love–the relationship lasts for the same reason you’re watching that TV show that’s been going on for 10 plus seasons; you’re only watching it because you’ve been with the show since season one. You feel like you’re betraying the TV show if you leave. Commitment and intimacy is companionate love: that old married couple who are only together because that’s how it’s been their whole lives. The passion’s gone, but they don’t want to leave each other because they truly love each other, and are very much committed, but the thrills of the relationship are gone.
The thrills. Love without thrills is being committed friends. Being infatuated with somebody, even an unrequited infatuation, is far more exciting than empty love, companionate love, and liking. Those jitters you get when you catch that person’s eyes, the feeling of butterflies in your stomach each time you’re around them, feeling hurt if they haven’t talked to you in a considerable amount of time. Trying to find everything about this person through social media stalking, because you’re honestly passionate about them. Passion. Love.
Lovers are what make this world, what fuels it. They are a big part of almost every Disney movie. Life without the tales of Romeo and Juliet? (Last reference, I swear.) Cleopatra and Mark Antony plus Julius Caesar? Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas? Sir Lancelot and Lady Guinevere? Mildred and Richard Loving? Oscar Wilde and Lord Alfred Douglas? The minds they’ve touched, the art they’ve created and inspired. The reason behind all of these was, and is to this day, love with passion.
Passion without thrills is not passion, and love without passion is not real love. The world without love is a world without lovers. When we lose the lovers, we lose the dreamers, the warriors, the achievers, the trailblazers, the revolutionaries, the radicals. They are the people that plant the seeds in children’s minds. What you could do if you had somebody who believed in you? Love and passion are the only two things in life that, when together, make a person feel unstoppable, yet at the same time vulnerable and fragile.
We need thrills, because we need love. Love for people, love for activities, love for love. Love is what drives us, even if it’s not in the romantic sense. Face it, we love love! And we love what it does to us. A world without love is life without passion! Life without thrills! Who could live in a world without jitters, spine tingles, the excessive use of hands when it's unnecessary. Not only that, but the thing that gives you these thrills! Love, adventure, fear, and drugs. It is human to love thrills, to love the things that they do to you. In pursuit of these thrills, it might turn dangerous. You might start fights, go on potentially dangerous adrenaline filled activities, fall in love, out of love, start a fight, drama. Or maybe your thrills are more quiet. Reading steamy romance novels, drawing, writing, staring at strangers across the room, and guessing their lives. No matter what you say or do, you have an extreme fondness for the jumps in your heart, or the rushing of it; or maybe when you do these activities, it’s more about how your heart goes slower. Relief, safety. To end this off I leave a Daniel Goleman quote: “Life without passion would be a dull wasteland of neutrality, cut off and isolated from the richness of life itself.”
Moira Graderd
Horror Story (cont.)
“Anita?” she called out, voice wavering only slightly.
Her roommate replied with an annoyed “What?”
“Have you gone into my room?”
A pause. Then: “If this is about your shoes again, I swear-”
“It isn’t! I-” The last line of the poem resounded in her head. To anyone else, she would sound insane. In any case, it was in her handwriting. She had sleepwalked before, so was sleep writing that much of a stretch?
“You know what? It’s nothing,” Carrie said, balling up the papers and throwing them into the garbage bin.
Once more she was torn from sleep, this time in the dead of night. She remembered the usual things, couldn’t remember the thing of great importance, only cold, familiar eyes. She sat up and scanned the room. Another ripped paper sat on her bed. This one read:
Flipped and backwards, inside out
Strange and upside down
A funny little life you live
My smile will be your frown
You were warned, you stupid girl
You should have listened well
But maybe I will make it quick,
After all, you didn’t tell
Carrie was suddenly overwhelmed by the feeling of being watched. She whipped her head around her room, again finding it empty. Then, she heard a crack. Her gaze fell upon the full-length mirror across from her bed. Her reflection stared back, only her reflection was standing, palm outstretched and pressing against the glass. Cracks spider webbed outwards from the center of its hand. Shards of glass dug into its palm, blood spilling down the other side of the mirror. Carrie watched, frozen in terror as the cracks grew, further contorting the reflection. They reached the edges and the room fell silent, save for her heavy breathing. With horror, she realized the eyes in her dream had been her own. The reflection raised a single finger and tapped on the other side of the glass. It shattered, and the reflection stepped through. Ignoring the glass cutting into its feet, it bent to pick up the largest piece of glass. It straightened and smiled, holding the jagged piece of glass like a blade.
Horror Story (cont.)
“Anita?” she called out, voice wavering only slightly.
Her roommate replied with an annoyed “What?”
“Have you gone into my room?”
A pause. Then: “If this is about your shoes again, I swear-”
“It isn’t! I-” The last line of the poem resounded in her head. To anyone else, she would sound insane. In any case, it was in her handwriting. She had sleepwalked before, so was sleep writing that much of a stretch?
“You know what? It’s nothing,” Carrie said, balling up the papers and throwing them into the garbage bin.
Once more she was torn from sleep, this time in the dead of night. She remembered the usual things, couldn’t remember the thing of great importance, only cold, familiar eyes. She sat up and scanned the room. Another ripped paper sat on her bed. This one read:
Flipped and backwards, inside out
Strange and upside down
A funny little life you live
My smile will be your frown
You were warned, you stupid girl
You should have listened well
But maybe I will make it quick,
After all, you didn’t tell
Carrie was suddenly overwhelmed by the feeling of being watched. She whipped her head around her room, again finding it empty. Then, she heard a crack. Her gaze fell upon the full-length mirror across from her bed. Her reflection stared back, only her reflection was standing, palm outstretched and pressing against the glass. Cracks spider webbed outwards from the center of its hand. Shards of glass dug into its palm, blood spilling down the other side of the mirror. Carrie watched, frozen in terror as the cracks grew, further contorting the reflection. They reached the edges and the room fell silent, save for her heavy breathing. With horror, she realized the eyes in her dream had been her own. The reflection raised a single finger and tapped on the other side of the glass. It shattered, and the reflection stepped through. Ignoring the glass cutting into its feet, it bent to pick up the largest piece of glass. It straightened and smiled, holding the jagged piece of glass like a blade.
Michael Dylan Harrington
Brighter Days Ahead (cont.)
The woman sitting with him looked genuinely happy to be there, her lips pursed in a formation which screamed of joy, creating crevices on either side of her mouth. It was cool in here, the air itself was humid, but the breeze from the fans was cool. The walls were grey and the tables were cemented to the ground. “So, whatta’ you wan’ wit an ole’ chap like myself?” He smiled. I stopped taking in the room and I looked at his nose, unable to meet his eyes. For now, I could tell the light had returned.
“I know you know who I am.”
“‘At I do.” He put his hands together and put them on the table.
“Then you already know why I’m here.” I tried to keep my tone as neutral as possible, any sign of emotion and he’d start doing it.
“‘At I do.”
“Why?”
“Watcha’ say to me? This all you gotta say to yo papa?”
“You haven't been my father for a very long time.”
“I ain’t been yo papa for a long time? I know ‘at isn’ what I jus’ ‘eard. Who created you?”
“There’s more than that to being a father.”
“The ‘ell ‘er is!” He banged the table and the pair at the opposite end of the room looked at us. I smiled and they turned their heads, their words becoming mumbled whispers. He could see I was fragile. He raised an eyebrow and smiled, it had clicked for him. Fuck. “Ah, I see lil’ dove. Is it really already the seventeenth? God, time sure flies when ‘yo dyin’.” He moved his head with an attitude. A little jab at me. “Ya see, I’m all ya got fo’ family lil’ dove, an you’ve locked me away.”
“No thanks to you.”
“Wha?”
“No thanks to you, you’re the only family I’ve got.” He shook his head, understanding. “Did you ever even love her?” He looked mad.
“I tol’ ‘er, i tol’ ‘er to rememba’ ‘at, but i'ont know if she eva did ‘an that 'uants me ery’day lil’ dove.”
“That’s all I wanted to know.” I got up from my seat, and I watched him realize he had finally lost me. I watched the moment he found out he was truly alone in the world fall upon his face.
“You can’ leave me ‘ere. I’m dyin’ lil’ dove, you gon’ leave yo papa in this state?” He was begging me.
“I told you earlier, you are no father.” He looked devastated. He was going to die alone and I watched him realize it. I took joy in watching him realize his death was going to be something he did alone, without anybody to hold his hand. I stood by the doors and waited for the guards to open them for me, the thrill of it all running through my synapses.
“I love you lil’ dove. You may no’ believe me, bu’ I love you lil’ dove. Always’ ‘ave, always will.”
The doors opened and I stepped through, feeling them close behind me. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing my face again. I began to walk down the hallway, wiping a single tear from my eye, ready to feel the sun on my face again.
Brighter Days Ahead (cont.)
The woman sitting with him looked genuinely happy to be there, her lips pursed in a formation which screamed of joy, creating crevices on either side of her mouth. It was cool in here, the air itself was humid, but the breeze from the fans was cool. The walls were grey and the tables were cemented to the ground. “So, whatta’ you wan’ wit an ole’ chap like myself?” He smiled. I stopped taking in the room and I looked at his nose, unable to meet his eyes. For now, I could tell the light had returned.
“I know you know who I am.”
“‘At I do.” He put his hands together and put them on the table.
“Then you already know why I’m here.” I tried to keep my tone as neutral as possible, any sign of emotion and he’d start doing it.
“‘At I do.”
“Why?”
“Watcha’ say to me? This all you gotta say to yo papa?”
“You haven't been my father for a very long time.”
“I ain’t been yo papa for a long time? I know ‘at isn’ what I jus’ ‘eard. Who created you?”
“There’s more than that to being a father.”
“The ‘ell ‘er is!” He banged the table and the pair at the opposite end of the room looked at us. I smiled and they turned their heads, their words becoming mumbled whispers. He could see I was fragile. He raised an eyebrow and smiled, it had clicked for him. Fuck. “Ah, I see lil’ dove. Is it really already the seventeenth? God, time sure flies when ‘yo dyin’.” He moved his head with an attitude. A little jab at me. “Ya see, I’m all ya got fo’ family lil’ dove, an you’ve locked me away.”
“No thanks to you.”
“Wha?”
“No thanks to you, you’re the only family I’ve got.” He shook his head, understanding. “Did you ever even love her?” He looked mad.
“I tol’ ‘er, i tol’ ‘er to rememba’ ‘at, but i'ont know if she eva did ‘an that 'uants me ery’day lil’ dove.”
“That’s all I wanted to know.” I got up from my seat, and I watched him realize he had finally lost me. I watched the moment he found out he was truly alone in the world fall upon his face.
“You can’ leave me ‘ere. I’m dyin’ lil’ dove, you gon’ leave yo papa in this state?” He was begging me.
“I told you earlier, you are no father.” He looked devastated. He was going to die alone and I watched him realize it. I took joy in watching him realize his death was going to be something he did alone, without anybody to hold his hand. I stood by the doors and waited for the guards to open them for me, the thrill of it all running through my synapses.
“I love you lil’ dove. You may no’ believe me, bu’ I love you lil’ dove. Always’ ‘ave, always will.”
The doors opened and I stepped through, feeling them close behind me. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing my face again. I began to walk down the hallway, wiping a single tear from my eye, ready to feel the sun on my face again.
Mikaela Lewis
The Wedding Night (cont.)
When she woke up, they were outside of an old, rundown cabin. This is where we’re having our honeymoon? She thought to herself. Suddenly two women came running out and started to unpack the car. One of them whispered to Molly as they passed, something that made the hair on the back of her neck raise on end. She smiled at them and tried to brush off the comment. It’ll be okay, this is John we’re talking about. He’d never let anything happen to me, she reassured herself.
They walked into the cabin and she saw more women doing different tasks around the house. They all looked to be around the same age as her. Molly smiled politely at them, but they just averted their eyes and continued with their work.
She walked upstairs, only to find that her bags were already in one of the rooms. She changed into pyjamas and got ready for bed.
Molly climbed into bed and curled up under the covers, next to John. She tossed and turned unable to fall asleep. Eventually, she drifted off--only to be woken up minutes later by screaming coming from somewhere else in the house. She reached over to see John, but he wasn’t there. She lay awake for a few more minutes, but it didn’t happen again. I probably just imagined it. Just as she was about to lose consciousness once more, she heard it a second time--a blood curdling scream that shook the rafters.
I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. She repeated to herself in the dark room.
Then she heard it again, louder this time. Molly would have gotten out of bed but she was paralyzed with fear.
That’s when she heard footsteps downstairs--they seemed to be coming towards the second floor. They were on the steps now, walking agonisingly slowly. The seconds ticked by as the footsteps got closer.
She waited, with baited breath, as they opened the door; she could just see a silhouette in the frame. As the person entered, she was filled with relief: it was just John.
“Hello Molly,” he whispered in the dark. That’s when she saw the blood on his hands. He walked towards her and she screamed.
“You’re mine now,” he said, laughing.
As he put his hand to her throat the words of the woman ran through her head.
Run! Get out, before he gets you.
The Wedding Night (cont.)
When she woke up, they were outside of an old, rundown cabin. This is where we’re having our honeymoon? She thought to herself. Suddenly two women came running out and started to unpack the car. One of them whispered to Molly as they passed, something that made the hair on the back of her neck raise on end. She smiled at them and tried to brush off the comment. It’ll be okay, this is John we’re talking about. He’d never let anything happen to me, she reassured herself.
They walked into the cabin and she saw more women doing different tasks around the house. They all looked to be around the same age as her. Molly smiled politely at them, but they just averted their eyes and continued with their work.
She walked upstairs, only to find that her bags were already in one of the rooms. She changed into pyjamas and got ready for bed.
Molly climbed into bed and curled up under the covers, next to John. She tossed and turned unable to fall asleep. Eventually, she drifted off--only to be woken up minutes later by screaming coming from somewhere else in the house. She reached over to see John, but he wasn’t there. She lay awake for a few more minutes, but it didn’t happen again. I probably just imagined it. Just as she was about to lose consciousness once more, she heard it a second time--a blood curdling scream that shook the rafters.
I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. She repeated to herself in the dark room.
Then she heard it again, louder this time. Molly would have gotten out of bed but she was paralyzed with fear.
That’s when she heard footsteps downstairs--they seemed to be coming towards the second floor. They were on the steps now, walking agonisingly slowly. The seconds ticked by as the footsteps got closer.
She waited, with baited breath, as they opened the door; she could just see a silhouette in the frame. As the person entered, she was filled with relief: it was just John.
“Hello Molly,” he whispered in the dark. That’s when she saw the blood on his hands. He walked towards her and she screamed.
“You’re mine now,” he said, laughing.
As he put his hand to her throat the words of the woman ran through her head.
Run! Get out, before he gets you.
Rishika Achyuthan
The Whisper
“Adelaide, it’s too late. I’m already here,” it said in an eerie voice.
Footsteps were coming up the stairs and Adelaide looked around frantically. It was now or never. She knew she was trapped, and that there was no way out of this. She looked out the window again and knew what she had to do.
Adelaide thought that the person she saw outside was the same as the person inside. She was wrong. She stood there preparing to jump when she heard her doorknob click. She had seconds before whatever it was made into her room. Adelaide took a deep breath and leaned out. She jumped and in a second she was airborne. She could feel the wind underneath her as she fell. Then, she hit the ground. She looked up and saw that there was nothing there. Relief flashed across her face. Adelaide looked back at the house and all you could hear was a blood-curdling scream
The Whisper
“Adelaide, it’s too late. I’m already here,” it said in an eerie voice.
Footsteps were coming up the stairs and Adelaide looked around frantically. It was now or never. She knew she was trapped, and that there was no way out of this. She looked out the window again and knew what she had to do.
Adelaide thought that the person she saw outside was the same as the person inside. She was wrong. She stood there preparing to jump when she heard her doorknob click. She had seconds before whatever it was made into her room. Adelaide took a deep breath and leaned out. She jumped and in a second she was airborne. She could feel the wind underneath her as she fell. Then, she hit the ground. She looked up and saw that there was nothing there. Relief flashed across her face. Adelaide looked back at the house and all you could hear was a blood-curdling scream
Andrew Hollinger
Horror Story (cont.)
Sierra looked at one of her monitors tracking his location and the location of the police, they were still 10 minutes away from Tanstown.
“Can I have your name?” Sierra requested.
“Yes. My name is Jackson Helen.” Jackson responded.
“Hi Jackson. Listen, the police should be here any minute now. Just keep talking to me and you’ll be fine.”
“There’s a man with a gun in my house!”
“Jackson, it’s going to be okay. Keep talking to me, okay?” Sierra was almost as anxious as Jackson. When she told Jackson everything was going to be okay, she was also reassuring herself. She’s never dealt with a call this dramatic.
“He’s coming up stairs, I have to hang up. He’s going to hear me!”
“Don’t hang up! Can you describe what the intruder looks like?”
“He usually wears a big black coat and a ski mask. It's hard to tell what he really looks like.” Jackson was hyperventilating.
“I have a few more questions, alright?“
“T- That’s fine.”
“So how long has this person been near your house?” Sierra asked.
“About half a year.”
Sierra looked back at her monitor. The police were still only eight minutes away.
“He’s almost in the room, he’s going to find me. He’s going to find me!”
“Jackson, uh, I got some bad news, but it’s going to all be okay, understand?”
“Where are the police? It’s felt like ages!”
“Their still eight minutes away, but I can assure you, we’re doing all we ca-” Sierra was cut off.
“It’s eight minutes away! I’m going to die and you’re telling me it’s eight minutes away!”
“Sir, I’m so sorry.”
“He’s entering the room. He’s going to find me.”
“Okay, keep calm. Don’t make any noise and he won’t notice.” Sierra could hear her heart pounding. She was biting her lip as sweat ran down her face. She wasn’t moving a muscle as she anticipated any noise whatsoever from the phone. At the same time, Sierra didn't want to say anything, afraid that it would make a noise on the other side of the line. Suddenly, a scream came from the phone before cutting out. Jackson Helen was found dead 7 minutes later.
Horror Story (cont.)
Sierra looked at one of her monitors tracking his location and the location of the police, they were still 10 minutes away from Tanstown.
“Can I have your name?” Sierra requested.
“Yes. My name is Jackson Helen.” Jackson responded.
“Hi Jackson. Listen, the police should be here any minute now. Just keep talking to me and you’ll be fine.”
“There’s a man with a gun in my house!”
“Jackson, it’s going to be okay. Keep talking to me, okay?” Sierra was almost as anxious as Jackson. When she told Jackson everything was going to be okay, she was also reassuring herself. She’s never dealt with a call this dramatic.
“He’s coming up stairs, I have to hang up. He’s going to hear me!”
“Don’t hang up! Can you describe what the intruder looks like?”
“He usually wears a big black coat and a ski mask. It's hard to tell what he really looks like.” Jackson was hyperventilating.
“I have a few more questions, alright?“
“T- That’s fine.”
“So how long has this person been near your house?” Sierra asked.
“About half a year.”
Sierra looked back at her monitor. The police were still only eight minutes away.
“He’s almost in the room, he’s going to find me. He’s going to find me!”
“Jackson, uh, I got some bad news, but it’s going to all be okay, understand?”
“Where are the police? It’s felt like ages!”
“Their still eight minutes away, but I can assure you, we’re doing all we ca-” Sierra was cut off.
“It’s eight minutes away! I’m going to die and you’re telling me it’s eight minutes away!”
“Sir, I’m so sorry.”
“He’s entering the room. He’s going to find me.”
“Okay, keep calm. Don’t make any noise and he won’t notice.” Sierra could hear her heart pounding. She was biting her lip as sweat ran down her face. She wasn’t moving a muscle as she anticipated any noise whatsoever from the phone. At the same time, Sierra didn't want to say anything, afraid that it would make a noise on the other side of the line. Suddenly, a scream came from the phone before cutting out. Jackson Helen was found dead 7 minutes later.
Isabelle Walma
Untitled (cont.)
He held his breath, listening for the growl of the monster.
For a moment, he thought he heard it beneath the sound of the rain pounding down outside his parents’ wide open window.
Just the vent, he thought to himself. Just the rain.
He scrambled into his parents’ bed, the sound of their soft snoring drowned out by the rain.
Nestling himself into the blankets, he shifted, trying to reach his parents’ warmth.
But they weren’t warm. They were cool, skin clammy and slippery in some spots.
The rain must have come in the window, he told himself, feeling it drip from his fingers. The vent grew louder and a smell of rot washed over him.
Holding his breath, he wriggled deeper into the sheets. Mummy said the vent was broken. Maybe broken vents are loud and smelly.
The sheets soaked through, but the boy could not feel rain on his face.
The vent made a louder noise. The moon peeped out from behind the thick clouds and illuminated the edges of the room.
And a glint on a shiny black point.
A scream tried to claw its way out of the boy’s throat, but he could not make a sound.
The shadows lifted themselves, the moon glancing off the boy’s living nightmare.
The monster’s mouth opened and black fangs glistened in the moonlight, a liquid too dark to be water dripping off of them.
The boy squirmed away on the bed and wound up on his father.
He tried to whisper an apology to his father, but his voice was strangled.
His elbow in something sticky and wet. The monster slowly raised itself and crept towards him. His pajamas were soaked. With rain. Rain.
The monster’s mouth widened and it slid across the bed, making that awful, awful noise.
It’s the vent.
The monster stilled, a long thin string of rain dripping out of its open mouth.
Rain.
The monster leapt onto him.
He didn’t wake up.
Just rain.
Untitled (cont.)
He held his breath, listening for the growl of the monster.
For a moment, he thought he heard it beneath the sound of the rain pounding down outside his parents’ wide open window.
Just the vent, he thought to himself. Just the rain.
He scrambled into his parents’ bed, the sound of their soft snoring drowned out by the rain.
Nestling himself into the blankets, he shifted, trying to reach his parents’ warmth.
But they weren’t warm. They were cool, skin clammy and slippery in some spots.
The rain must have come in the window, he told himself, feeling it drip from his fingers. The vent grew louder and a smell of rot washed over him.
Holding his breath, he wriggled deeper into the sheets. Mummy said the vent was broken. Maybe broken vents are loud and smelly.
The sheets soaked through, but the boy could not feel rain on his face.
The vent made a louder noise. The moon peeped out from behind the thick clouds and illuminated the edges of the room.
And a glint on a shiny black point.
A scream tried to claw its way out of the boy’s throat, but he could not make a sound.
The shadows lifted themselves, the moon glancing off the boy’s living nightmare.
The monster’s mouth opened and black fangs glistened in the moonlight, a liquid too dark to be water dripping off of them.
The boy squirmed away on the bed and wound up on his father.
He tried to whisper an apology to his father, but his voice was strangled.
His elbow in something sticky and wet. The monster slowly raised itself and crept towards him. His pajamas were soaked. With rain. Rain.
The monster’s mouth widened and it slid across the bed, making that awful, awful noise.
It’s the vent.
The monster stilled, a long thin string of rain dripping out of its open mouth.
Rain.
The monster leapt onto him.
He didn’t wake up.
Just rain.
Alex Dolansky-Overland
The God of Fear (cont.)
“I’ve come here to thank you,” I say, grinning.
“Th-thank me?” he asks, still moving away from me.
“Of course.”
I pursue him until he is backed up against a wooden cabinet with a glass cover. I stand about six feet away from him. He shakily rises, keeping his distance.
“For authorizing the Army’s Operation “Fearless Soldier”. Remember?” I ask.
Of course he does. I can sense that it's been haunting him, terrorizing his dreams. He cannot stop seeing the monster he created. All those deaths, he believes, are on his conscience.
Funny. I never felt guilty.
“It wasn't my fault!” he screams, “it was the surgeon’s error, he--”
“Yes, yes. Something about warping my amygdala. But the performance enhancers worked. See?”
I lunge and grab him by the throat, lifting him with one hand. Despite seeing me in his nightmares every night I managed to catch him by surprise. He struggles, dropping the bat, and fights my grip, prying at my long, spindly fingers, to no avail. Thanks to him, and a handful of other people like him, I’m just too strong.
His jugular pulses quite quickly. Men are such precious little creatures. I savour my power over another being, holding his life quite literally in my hands. I could crush his windpipe in the blink of an eye … but I need him alive.
For now.
He screams, “You’re insane! No! No! You’re just a man, you’re human! Mr. Thompson, my friend, Peter, please--”
“I am no longer Commander Thompson. Thompson was mortal, and I am not. Call me... Phobos.”
“Please! I-I can help you! I could cure you….”
“But that would imply that I am in need of a cure.”
“Th-then what do you want from me?”
“To ask you this: would you like to learn the true meaning of fear?”
I look him in the eyes, forcing his gaze onto my own. He tries to look away, refusing to look me in the eyes, but no worries...I have some experience in these matters.
I remove the shades and ask, “What colour are my eyes?”
Like the three genetic scientists, he looks … and what he sees drives him mad.
He shrieks likes the animal he is. “Nononono!”
I search his mind for his deepest fears, and once I find them, force his mind to experience them and live in that reality. Its his worst nightmare, but much, much more.
Because he knows now that he will never wake up from this nightmare.
His screaming fills me with laughter, and I relish what I have become. I turn off the lights with my free hand. The moonlight through the window casts shadows, and the darkness, shadows and I become one entity.
One being. A god.
The energy emanating from him is massive, and I absorb it, warming my body and filling me with strength. Eventually, I feel his energy supply dwindle. His heart beats so quickly it's hard for me to tell one beat from another. And then there is one powerful beat, and … nothing. His legs stop kicking and his screams die in his throat.
His heart has exploded.
I drop the corpse, which lands at my feet with a thud. I take one last look at his face, memorizing his final expression of terror, his features locked into an eternal scream. Before I leave I place my sunglasses back on my face. I look at my reflection in the glass on the cabinet. I’m still grinning.
I love the taste of fear.
The God of Fear (cont.)
“I’ve come here to thank you,” I say, grinning.
“Th-thank me?” he asks, still moving away from me.
“Of course.”
I pursue him until he is backed up against a wooden cabinet with a glass cover. I stand about six feet away from him. He shakily rises, keeping his distance.
“For authorizing the Army’s Operation “Fearless Soldier”. Remember?” I ask.
Of course he does. I can sense that it's been haunting him, terrorizing his dreams. He cannot stop seeing the monster he created. All those deaths, he believes, are on his conscience.
Funny. I never felt guilty.
“It wasn't my fault!” he screams, “it was the surgeon’s error, he--”
“Yes, yes. Something about warping my amygdala. But the performance enhancers worked. See?”
I lunge and grab him by the throat, lifting him with one hand. Despite seeing me in his nightmares every night I managed to catch him by surprise. He struggles, dropping the bat, and fights my grip, prying at my long, spindly fingers, to no avail. Thanks to him, and a handful of other people like him, I’m just too strong.
His jugular pulses quite quickly. Men are such precious little creatures. I savour my power over another being, holding his life quite literally in my hands. I could crush his windpipe in the blink of an eye … but I need him alive.
For now.
He screams, “You’re insane! No! No! You’re just a man, you’re human! Mr. Thompson, my friend, Peter, please--”
“I am no longer Commander Thompson. Thompson was mortal, and I am not. Call me... Phobos.”
“Please! I-I can help you! I could cure you….”
“But that would imply that I am in need of a cure.”
“Th-then what do you want from me?”
“To ask you this: would you like to learn the true meaning of fear?”
I look him in the eyes, forcing his gaze onto my own. He tries to look away, refusing to look me in the eyes, but no worries...I have some experience in these matters.
I remove the shades and ask, “What colour are my eyes?”
Like the three genetic scientists, he looks … and what he sees drives him mad.
He shrieks likes the animal he is. “Nononono!”
I search his mind for his deepest fears, and once I find them, force his mind to experience them and live in that reality. Its his worst nightmare, but much, much more.
Because he knows now that he will never wake up from this nightmare.
His screaming fills me with laughter, and I relish what I have become. I turn off the lights with my free hand. The moonlight through the window casts shadows, and the darkness, shadows and I become one entity.
One being. A god.
The energy emanating from him is massive, and I absorb it, warming my body and filling me with strength. Eventually, I feel his energy supply dwindle. His heart beats so quickly it's hard for me to tell one beat from another. And then there is one powerful beat, and … nothing. His legs stop kicking and his screams die in his throat.
His heart has exploded.
I drop the corpse, which lands at my feet with a thud. I take one last look at his face, memorizing his final expression of terror, his features locked into an eternal scream. Before I leave I place my sunglasses back on my face. I look at my reflection in the glass on the cabinet. I’m still grinning.
I love the taste of fear.
Brealyn Cheer
Horror Story (con.t)
She leapt, backing away into the farthest corner of the elevator. What was happening? She needed to get off this death trap. The space was suddenly too small, far too small, and Sarah took the two short steps to the door and bashed her fists against it. Fiery pain shot through her bones as her hands connected with the cold metal. She jammed her fingers against the buttons, any buttons, but the elevator didn’t move and the doors didn’t open.
The lights sparked and Sarah was plunged into complete darkness. She whipped around but she couldn’t see anything. Her heaving, rasping breaths were the only sound in the silence. She dug her fingernails into her palms, trying to focus on the pain. This isn’t real, she tried to assure herself. It was all a bad dream. A nightmare. Not real. And she almost had herself convinced, until she heard the breathing.
Sarah held her breath, but the sound continued. It was barely there, a quiet inhale, a soft exhale, a stir in the air.
Sarah’s skin crawled and goosebumps raised along her arms. Then the lights flickered back on, dimly, and she screamed, screamed so loudly it echoed around the silver metal box that was her prison.
What Sarah saw, what had been revealed, was the dead woman’s body, propped up in the corner. It was standing almost straight, like no dead thing ever should. The skin was nearly translucent, almost white. Wide-open eyes stared out from the pale, haunted face. And, painted scarlet with blood, the woman’s lips were curled into a wide, maniacal smile.
Horror Story (con.t)
She leapt, backing away into the farthest corner of the elevator. What was happening? She needed to get off this death trap. The space was suddenly too small, far too small, and Sarah took the two short steps to the door and bashed her fists against it. Fiery pain shot through her bones as her hands connected with the cold metal. She jammed her fingers against the buttons, any buttons, but the elevator didn’t move and the doors didn’t open.
The lights sparked and Sarah was plunged into complete darkness. She whipped around but she couldn’t see anything. Her heaving, rasping breaths were the only sound in the silence. She dug her fingernails into her palms, trying to focus on the pain. This isn’t real, she tried to assure herself. It was all a bad dream. A nightmare. Not real. And she almost had herself convinced, until she heard the breathing.
Sarah held her breath, but the sound continued. It was barely there, a quiet inhale, a soft exhale, a stir in the air.
Sarah’s skin crawled and goosebumps raised along her arms. Then the lights flickered back on, dimly, and she screamed, screamed so loudly it echoed around the silver metal box that was her prison.
What Sarah saw, what had been revealed, was the dead woman’s body, propped up in the corner. It was standing almost straight, like no dead thing ever should. The skin was nearly translucent, almost white. Wide-open eyes stared out from the pale, haunted face. And, painted scarlet with blood, the woman’s lips were curled into a wide, maniacal smile.
Elizabeth Tackabury
It's Watching Me (con.t)
I couldn’t sleep the night I made that discovery, as I could feel it there, watching me, waiting for me to fall asleep. One night I grew even more frightened of the figure when I felt a hand on my back. I could feel each of the five spiny fingers begin to push against me. Expecting it to be my dad trying to wake me up, my eyes shot open and I looked around my room. Nothing was there except the knowledge that I wasn’t alone. This happened twice more, one of those times only a finger poking my spine rather harshly instead of a hand. The other, an exact replica of the first.
A few months later, I was home alone in my room when I heard heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. I checked from my bedroom window and realized that there weren’t any cars in the driveway, meaning that my family shouldn’t have been back yet. This sent off alarm bells in my head and I ran to close my door, sitting with my back against it. By then, the footsteps had reached the top of the stairs and gone silent, but I was still in panic mode. That’s when I heard a sound I knew so well--the sound of someone dragging their hands across the bars of the banister. I knew the sound because my siblings and I had all done the same thing a million times before. The sound echoed through the house a few times before everything went silent once again.
The last thing that happened before we moved out of the house, in my opinion, is the scariest. I was sitting on the couch in the parlor room of our house reading. It was dark outside, which was my favourite time to read, and everyone in my family was out except for one of my sisters. Without my younger siblings, it meant peace and quiet. My silence was interrupted when my older sister, Irelynd, came around the corner of the room from the hallway. When she saw me, her face fell into a panic-stricken expression. As she began to freak out, clearly horrified, I put my book down and repeatedly asked her what was wrong. She didn’t answer until she had freaked out for several minutes, after which she proceeded to explain what had just happened.
Irelynd had been up in her room when she’d needed me for something, and decided to look for me. She had checked in the kitchen and TV room before she assumed I was probably in my bedroom. When she went back up the stairs, the door to my room was closed, so she opened it. There wasn’t a single light on and the room was pitch black. Thinking that I might’ve gone to bed already, she called out into the darkness, “Elizabeth, are you in here?”
When there wasn’t an answer, she tried again, a little louder just in case I was asleep. This time, though, there was an answer.
“Yes,” was what a low, raspy voice said, confusing Irelynd as she knew I didn’t sound like that.
The next time she spoke out, Irelynd asked where I was, as she hadn’t been able to tell from the voice.
“In the closet,” was the answer she got, and after that the voice stopped replying.
Slightly weirded out, she decided to go downstairs where she noticed a light on in the parlor room. She went to go turn it off, wondering who left it on, when she found me curled up on the couch, book in hand, where I’d been the entire time.
It's Watching Me (con.t)
I couldn’t sleep the night I made that discovery, as I could feel it there, watching me, waiting for me to fall asleep. One night I grew even more frightened of the figure when I felt a hand on my back. I could feel each of the five spiny fingers begin to push against me. Expecting it to be my dad trying to wake me up, my eyes shot open and I looked around my room. Nothing was there except the knowledge that I wasn’t alone. This happened twice more, one of those times only a finger poking my spine rather harshly instead of a hand. The other, an exact replica of the first.
A few months later, I was home alone in my room when I heard heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. I checked from my bedroom window and realized that there weren’t any cars in the driveway, meaning that my family shouldn’t have been back yet. This sent off alarm bells in my head and I ran to close my door, sitting with my back against it. By then, the footsteps had reached the top of the stairs and gone silent, but I was still in panic mode. That’s when I heard a sound I knew so well--the sound of someone dragging their hands across the bars of the banister. I knew the sound because my siblings and I had all done the same thing a million times before. The sound echoed through the house a few times before everything went silent once again.
The last thing that happened before we moved out of the house, in my opinion, is the scariest. I was sitting on the couch in the parlor room of our house reading. It was dark outside, which was my favourite time to read, and everyone in my family was out except for one of my sisters. Without my younger siblings, it meant peace and quiet. My silence was interrupted when my older sister, Irelynd, came around the corner of the room from the hallway. When she saw me, her face fell into a panic-stricken expression. As she began to freak out, clearly horrified, I put my book down and repeatedly asked her what was wrong. She didn’t answer until she had freaked out for several minutes, after which she proceeded to explain what had just happened.
Irelynd had been up in her room when she’d needed me for something, and decided to look for me. She had checked in the kitchen and TV room before she assumed I was probably in my bedroom. When she went back up the stairs, the door to my room was closed, so she opened it. There wasn’t a single light on and the room was pitch black. Thinking that I might’ve gone to bed already, she called out into the darkness, “Elizabeth, are you in here?”
When there wasn’t an answer, she tried again, a little louder just in case I was asleep. This time, though, there was an answer.
“Yes,” was what a low, raspy voice said, confusing Irelynd as she knew I didn’t sound like that.
The next time she spoke out, Irelynd asked where I was, as she hadn’t been able to tell from the voice.
“In the closet,” was the answer she got, and after that the voice stopped replying.
Slightly weirded out, she decided to go downstairs where she noticed a light on in the parlor room. She went to go turn it off, wondering who left it on, when she found me curled up on the couch, book in hand, where I’d been the entire time.
Emily Eddy
The One About The Crazy Lady
Jessica had been warned by the previous tenant to be wary of the lady who lived in the unit across from her with the Christmas wreath on the door. Crazy Lady was known to have eccentric hallucinations which would cause horrendous fits of rage. Often, Crazy Lady could be heard restlessly pacing the hall at night, ranting incoherently about how the blood on her hands couldn’t be scrubbed away, carpets that would talk to her, or a fire-demon that haunted her. Some nights, when the episodes became really bad, Jessica could hear her shrieking about the criminals and murderers storming into her apartment, and would hear her kicking and thrashing as she tried to stop them.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
“Open the door, you snake! I saw what you did! I know you can hear me! Now open up!” A few seconds went by and then Crazy Lady started again, “Fine! Have it your way. You’d just better keep your sorry butt behind that door.”
“Oh no, she’s doing it again!” Jessica shuddered.
Bang bang BANG! Bang bang bang bang bang! The door rattled on its hinges. Jessica heard the doorknob being jostled and thanked God that she had remembered to lock the door that night.
Crazy Lady began to slaughter Jessica with her words again, “If you didn't want me in your life, you shouldn't have followed me. You knew what you were signing up for. Now you’re mine. I’m going to hack off your rotten, miserable head and tear you apart limb by limb. Ahh,” she rasped, “mark my words, dearie. No one will ever find you, you are so done for.”
“Please, please go away!” Jessica pleaded in her head. “Why me? What did I ever do to deserve this? Go away! Just go away!
Then, as suddenly as it began, the commotion stopped. Jessica waited, completely distraught with fear, crouched behind her bed. Silence. She got up the nerve to work her way to the door and look through the peep hole. Crazy Lady was nowhere to be seen. Jessica gave a shallow sigh of relief as she knew Crazy Lady usually stayed in her apartment after 11pm. Just before she crawled into bed, she suddenly remembered she had to get the garbage out. Grudgingly, Jessica slipped her shoes on, picked up the garbage bag as quietly has possible, and then began to carefully unlock her door as silently as she could, so as not to alert Crazy Lady. With the door opened just enough, Jessica crept through, and slowly let it shut behind her without making a sound. Then she painstakingly tip toed the twenty steps to the door, and made a dash for the dumpster before running back into the building. The hallway was still empty. She walked as fast as she could, entered her apartment, tentatively shut the door, locked it, and sank to the floor in utter relief. It had been a long day. Jessica wanted nothing more than to fall into bed and crash for the night. As she pulled the blankets up around her neck and laid her head on the pillow, she thought she could hear Crazy Lady whispering in her room. Jessica dismissed it, and chuckled thinking that it was now her who was going crazy.
As she reached to turn off the light, she heard her bedroom door begin to rattle with a vengeance.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Every fibre in Jessica’s being tensed, fear striking her like lightning.
“Don’t you dare turn off the light….you know I’m afraid of the dark!”
Bang! Bang! Bang! Silence…
Shuffle. Shuffle. Shuffle.
The One About The Crazy Lady
Jessica had been warned by the previous tenant to be wary of the lady who lived in the unit across from her with the Christmas wreath on the door. Crazy Lady was known to have eccentric hallucinations which would cause horrendous fits of rage. Often, Crazy Lady could be heard restlessly pacing the hall at night, ranting incoherently about how the blood on her hands couldn’t be scrubbed away, carpets that would talk to her, or a fire-demon that haunted her. Some nights, when the episodes became really bad, Jessica could hear her shrieking about the criminals and murderers storming into her apartment, and would hear her kicking and thrashing as she tried to stop them.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
“Open the door, you snake! I saw what you did! I know you can hear me! Now open up!” A few seconds went by and then Crazy Lady started again, “Fine! Have it your way. You’d just better keep your sorry butt behind that door.”
“Oh no, she’s doing it again!” Jessica shuddered.
Bang bang BANG! Bang bang bang bang bang! The door rattled on its hinges. Jessica heard the doorknob being jostled and thanked God that she had remembered to lock the door that night.
Crazy Lady began to slaughter Jessica with her words again, “If you didn't want me in your life, you shouldn't have followed me. You knew what you were signing up for. Now you’re mine. I’m going to hack off your rotten, miserable head and tear you apart limb by limb. Ahh,” she rasped, “mark my words, dearie. No one will ever find you, you are so done for.”
“Please, please go away!” Jessica pleaded in her head. “Why me? What did I ever do to deserve this? Go away! Just go away!
Then, as suddenly as it began, the commotion stopped. Jessica waited, completely distraught with fear, crouched behind her bed. Silence. She got up the nerve to work her way to the door and look through the peep hole. Crazy Lady was nowhere to be seen. Jessica gave a shallow sigh of relief as she knew Crazy Lady usually stayed in her apartment after 11pm. Just before she crawled into bed, she suddenly remembered she had to get the garbage out. Grudgingly, Jessica slipped her shoes on, picked up the garbage bag as quietly has possible, and then began to carefully unlock her door as silently as she could, so as not to alert Crazy Lady. With the door opened just enough, Jessica crept through, and slowly let it shut behind her without making a sound. Then she painstakingly tip toed the twenty steps to the door, and made a dash for the dumpster before running back into the building. The hallway was still empty. She walked as fast as she could, entered her apartment, tentatively shut the door, locked it, and sank to the floor in utter relief. It had been a long day. Jessica wanted nothing more than to fall into bed and crash for the night. As she pulled the blankets up around her neck and laid her head on the pillow, she thought she could hear Crazy Lady whispering in her room. Jessica dismissed it, and chuckled thinking that it was now her who was going crazy.
As she reached to turn off the light, she heard her bedroom door begin to rattle with a vengeance.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Every fibre in Jessica’s being tensed, fear striking her like lightning.
“Don’t you dare turn off the light….you know I’m afraid of the dark!”
Bang! Bang! Bang! Silence…
Shuffle. Shuffle. Shuffle.
Alexandra Quinn
What is a thrill?
The thrill
Heart pounding
Blood pumping
Hair blowing
Lips stretched
Eyes wide
Voice cracking
Life flashing
Terror flooding
Panic spreading
Chest hurting
Small breaths
Anxiety filling
Regrets regrets regrets
Final goodbyes
Close my eyes
Ground is closer
Hands gripping
Cold steel
End is near
Done for
Worry peeking
But it’s-
Over
Heart calming
Blood flowing
Messy hair
Face hurting
Eyes opening
Voice laughing
Appreciation flashing
Happiness glowing
Calmness flooding
Deep breaths
1-2-3
Mind calming
Legs wobbling
Hands shaking
The rush
The high
Coming down
Defeated
Problems resurface
Worries crawling back
Bad feelings-
Stop!
Stop it
Stop it
Stop it
Please
Again.
What is a thrill?
The thrill
Heart pounding
Blood pumping
Hair blowing
Lips stretched
Eyes wide
Voice cracking
Life flashing
Terror flooding
Panic spreading
Chest hurting
Small breaths
Anxiety filling
Regrets regrets regrets
Final goodbyes
Close my eyes
Ground is closer
Hands gripping
Cold steel
End is near
Done for
Worry peeking
But it’s-
Over
Heart calming
Blood flowing
Messy hair
Face hurting
Eyes opening
Voice laughing
Appreciation flashing
Happiness glowing
Calmness flooding
Deep breaths
1-2-3
Mind calming
Legs wobbling
Hands shaking
The rush
The high
Coming down
Defeated
Problems resurface
Worries crawling back
Bad feelings-
Stop!
Stop it
Stop it
Stop it
Please
Again.
Hannah Angione
What Lays Buried
When she opened her eyes, darkness surrounded her. The first thing she felt, was the eerily comfortable surface that she laid on. It didn’t feel like her bed, and when she looked around, it didn’t look like it either. Had she passed out at a friend’s house? Where was she? She tried to pull herself up, only to hit her head on a surface above her. She tasted the moisture in the air around her, and realized how little space there was. She first tried to push, then pull then pound on the velvety surface atop her body to move. It didn’t budge.
“Hello?” she called, hoping that this was all some sort of misunderstanding and that someone would let her out of this velvety box. Then she heard voices approaching, familiar ones.
“She’s in a better place, Max,” one of the voices said, “Don’t worry about her.”
Max? Was this person talking to her little brother Max?
“Thanks, Roger,” Max said to the other person named, Roger. Roger, why did that name sound so familiar? Was he the same Roger she had coffee with? Then it came back to her, the man in the mask, the man who put her...wherever she was. It was Roger. She did know one thing, the box she lay in was no ordinary box, it was a coffin.
“You want to go get a cup of coffee? I know a place,” Roger asked her brother. Was he going to-
“No! Max, don’t go with him!” she screamed, but he didn’t seem to hear her. She heard footsteps leading farther from her- grave maybe?- then realized it was only one set of footsteps
“Rest in Peace, Eve,” Roger said sickly, “Don’t worry, your sweet little brother will soon join you.”
Realization washed over her as he laughed sickly to himself. He wasn’t just going after her, he was going after the people she loves.
“Don’t you dare touch my brother, Roger!” she screamed, clawing at the coffin. She ripped at the fabric until she hit the hard surface that separated her from the world. She ripped and clawed and punched at the surface, with no results except for bloodied hands.
Roger’s gut-wrenching laughter sounded and then she heard him starting to walk away. He was going to kill her sweet, innocent Max, and there was nothing she could do to stop him. If this were a superhero story, this is where the protagonist would have a brainstorm that would save the day, but this wasn’t a happy-ending story.
It’s the story of how it ended.
What Lays Buried
When she opened her eyes, darkness surrounded her. The first thing she felt, was the eerily comfortable surface that she laid on. It didn’t feel like her bed, and when she looked around, it didn’t look like it either. Had she passed out at a friend’s house? Where was she? She tried to pull herself up, only to hit her head on a surface above her. She tasted the moisture in the air around her, and realized how little space there was. She first tried to push, then pull then pound on the velvety surface atop her body to move. It didn’t budge.
“Hello?” she called, hoping that this was all some sort of misunderstanding and that someone would let her out of this velvety box. Then she heard voices approaching, familiar ones.
“She’s in a better place, Max,” one of the voices said, “Don’t worry about her.”
Max? Was this person talking to her little brother Max?
“Thanks, Roger,” Max said to the other person named, Roger. Roger, why did that name sound so familiar? Was he the same Roger she had coffee with? Then it came back to her, the man in the mask, the man who put her...wherever she was. It was Roger. She did know one thing, the box she lay in was no ordinary box, it was a coffin.
“You want to go get a cup of coffee? I know a place,” Roger asked her brother. Was he going to-
“No! Max, don’t go with him!” she screamed, but he didn’t seem to hear her. She heard footsteps leading farther from her- grave maybe?- then realized it was only one set of footsteps
“Rest in Peace, Eve,” Roger said sickly, “Don’t worry, your sweet little brother will soon join you.”
Realization washed over her as he laughed sickly to himself. He wasn’t just going after her, he was going after the people she loves.
“Don’t you dare touch my brother, Roger!” she screamed, clawing at the coffin. She ripped at the fabric until she hit the hard surface that separated her from the world. She ripped and clawed and punched at the surface, with no results except for bloodied hands.
Roger’s gut-wrenching laughter sounded and then she heard him starting to walk away. He was going to kill her sweet, innocent Max, and there was nothing she could do to stop him. If this were a superhero story, this is where the protagonist would have a brainstorm that would save the day, but this wasn’t a happy-ending story.
It’s the story of how it ended.