The Novella Life of Illuscia Nester Himawari

I don’t consider myself to be a particularly superstitious person. Ok sure, I get a kick out of the horoscope once in a while, my boyfriend and I like to humor the idea that spirits and poltergeists exist and how we’d haunt people when we died and came back as ghosts. In fact, my boyfriend refuses to go anywhere near an Ouija Board. Refuses to even think of it. I blame all the crummy horror movies he watches. “Why even tempt it?” he’d say. “Why would you want to taunt evil ghosts like that? Ghosts never play fair and if you piss one off you’re screwed!” I don’t think he was ever serious. Just precautionary. But maybe he was right. God, this all happened so long ago, but I’m still shaken. Can barely write about it now without my nerves acting up. Ok, here it goes. A few weeks ago my mom, sis, and I went to Colorado for an entire week on vacation. We were going to drive all over the state, visit parks and go horseback riding and whitewater rafting and so much more. I was excited. And I s

    I am a babysitter.     It is somewhat embarrassing for a man in his mid ‘20s to declare as my vocation, but “times is hard” as they say.     Seeing the downward shift in the economy, I went to school to get my master’s in childhood special education. In addition to economic foresight, I always had an affinity toward working with children who have disabilities. With the firm belief that there would never be any shortage of teaching positions in a large urban area such as NYC, I graduated with solid grades and made some amazing connections at the schools I student taught at. However, a hiring freeze was instituted, and I was left out in the cold.     Desperate for work, I began to peruse classifieds looking for a job related to my field. I searched fruitlessly for anything involving work with special needs children. All I could find were babysitting gigs here and there. With my pride at an all time low, I began babysitting around my neighborhood.     After a month of sporadic work, I

I begrudgingly walked with my son through Times Square last Saturday. With my firm situated so close on 40th and Broadway, I had been dreading this venture for quite some time. I absolutely hate wading through the throng of tourists on the way to work and the weekend was going to be no different, but Tommy had insisted for weeks that we go to Toys ‘R Us and ride the ferris wheel. What kind of father would I be if I didn’t take him? After the ride and purchasing Tommy a new Lego set, I made a beeline for the train (something else he insisted on when we could easily afford a cab uptown). If you’ve never been to Times Square, it is an absolute clusterfuck. Before me lay a sea of people, all stopping in the middle of the fucking sidewalk to soak in the “sights,” I regarded them with as much consideration as they deserved, mere obstacles to my goal. In addition to this there are opportunists descending from every angle on the tourists attempting to make a quick buck in any way they can. The

I can just imagine your face right now as you get this message, that same look where you unconsciously clench your teeth out of stress, making those whining lips of yours to look more perched than they need to be. It really does astound me how ridiculously predictable you are sometimes, but I guess old habits just never die, do they? But I digress, I like seeing you that way, stressed and all. It happens to be one of the things that puts an ever slight warm feeling of ease in my “black, wretched heart,” as I hear a certain someone likes to call it these days. And that’s just when you choose to acknowledge my existence. Ever since I left, you’ve been doing all you can to convince everyone that I don’t even exist, even going so far to make sure that no one ever mentions my name again. Tell me, do I irk you that bad? Do you despise me so much that you figured the only way to hurt me (or more like put an insignificant dent on me) was to absolutely discard the time that we had together? Eve

Annie ran away again the other night. It took me hours to find her in the park, going back and forth on the swings without a care in the world, like she had every right to be there. And she dyed her hair again, blonde this time. I didn’t want to make a fuss with all those people around, so I caught her on the backswing and dragged her home kicking and screaming like a lunatic. It was humiliating: I had to smile and shrug at all the people staring like it didn’t bother me. As soon as we were home, I sent Annie to her room. She just sat there on the bed, crying and crying. The way she carried on, I didn’t have the heart to yell at her for running away. I guess that’s the real problem, this lack of discipline. I’ve never been good at tough but fair. I’m always going too far one way or the other. Like a few months ago when she came at me with the kitchen knife. For a minute I really thought she was trying to hurt me, my own sweet angel. But afterward she just lay there in my arms so quiet,

Centralia Pennsylvania. Current population: 10. One of the most prominent ghost towns in America. The reason? A massive coal fire burning below the surface. In 1962 a landfill was set ablaze to celebrate Memorial Day, and the fire was never properly extinguished. The landfill was directly on top of an old coal mine that was supposedly filled and properly capped. When the ashes from the fire weren’t quite extinguished they smoldered underground for an unknown period of time before being exposed to the open air and setting coal dust ablaze. This dust led directly back to the mines creating a massive labyrinth beneath the town. I was tasked by a geological research team to map out the remaining mines untouched by fire to give a better approximation to the extent of the fire. In summer 2013 I began my expedition to the town that no longer even has a zip code as of 2002. I don’t think a garbage fire is to blame for the underground inferno…or the evacuation of the town above. I arrived on th

There’s a local legend where I come from. They’re simply referred to as the willow men. There’s hardly a need for the law enforcement in this town. The willow men take care of all that. Every single step taken, every word spoken, every drop of blood spilt.. The willow men know about it before anyone else. Believe me, anyone that has invoked the wrath of the willow men has gone missing without a trace. That’s why when I realized what I had done it was too late. The willow men were coming. She just wouldn’t shut the hell up. No matter what I said and what I would do she was just hysterical. She kept pacing about the house screaming. She said she found this and that and knew I was cheating on her. She’d ask me who it was and I told her she was crazy. I guess I wore that excuse out. After a while, I couldn’t take her damn voice anymore. I’d walk room to room and she’d follow me. When we got to the kitchen I had my fill. I reached for the first knife I could find and jammed it into her thro

I live in a pretty small, relatively unknown town. This is the internet, so I won’t divulge too much information but I will tell you it’s in southern Wisconsin. I live on the corner of Lawn and Elm Street, and pretty near to my house is a stretch of road that most people called “Mirror Avenue”. Of course it’s not really technically an avenue, just an extension of Lawn Street, and it’s not the whole road, just a short stretch within the block adjacent to the one my house is on. I’ve lived here my whole life and everyone I know has referred to it as Mirror Avenue at some point, but many of them couldn’t give me an explanation as to why it was called that. The stories I got were mostly always different, usually something about a mirror maker (or whatever you call people who made mirrors) back when the town was founded who got caught up in some kind of cult, and the street being cursed. Of course the exact accounts varied, one told to me by a friend in Middle School included the street bei

Holding hands, we step into the psychic’s tent together. We’d been to this fair every year since 2009, and he’d never let me go in. It was a deep purple and completely empty save for a single table and a chair for the psychic to sit on. She was old and wearing ragged clothing with many rings on her fingers. Fit the cliche pretty well. “Who’s palm shall I read?” “His, his!” I shove my boyfriend toward the table. He reluctantly extends his arm and opens his hand. The elderly psychic takes it and begins rubbing two fingers over the creases. My boyfriend turns his head at me and rolls his eyes. It took a lot of begging for him to come in with me. The psychic’s hand slowly begins to tremble as she reaches the center of his palm. Her forehead strains and her lips curl into a frown. Then her eyebrows raise and her mouth opens into a silent scream. She gasps for air and rises to her feet, the chair falling behind her. Her fingers do not leave him palm. “Murder!” she shrieks. Her eyes flash ope

It was a few days ago when I began hearing the silence. You’re probably wondering what I mean. You can’t  hear  silence of course. Oh, but you can. Except, it doesn’t want you to. When you start hearing it, you can’t stop. You can’t tone it out. It begins to invade your thoughts, your mind, your sanity. A few days ago, I was able to think freely. I had real thoughts. I could hear the birds chirping, the wind blowing, people talking and being able to converse with them. Now i’m alone. Alone with the silence. Whatever you do, don’t listen. They don’t want you to hear their secrets. I’m begging you, don’t listen to- …. It was a few years ago when I began hearing the silence. You’re probably wondering what I mean. You can’t hear silence, of course. — Credits to: photofreecreepypasta

I don’t know how much longer I can do this. I’ve served the old gods faithfully: they were here before my mother and my mother’s mother, and her mother before her. We exist only to serve. All we do is slay the beasts that beset the entrance to nirvana, keeping Them free of nuisance. They could slay them in a moment: for us, a life’s work. And yet, the old gods are cruel. They destroy our homes. They kill us if we try to enter nirvana in life. A few have succeeded, coming back with tales of splendor and wonder within. They do not last long, weak and skinny things that they are. The old gods light in the darkness will go out soon, and the vermin will flee back into the night. I have much work to do before the dawn comes. Even if the old gods don’t destroy my home, the vermin trapped within will with their dying twitches. It never ends. Not until death, when I will question the old gods and their cruelty. I sigh and get to work. My web won’t spin itself. — Credits to: photofreecreepypasta

I awoke to the sound of thunder rumbling in the distance. I smiled to myself, relishing the quasi-rational excuse to sleep in. I could see light through my closed eyelids, and hear the seagulls squawking nearby. If it wasn’t about to rain, I would probably encourage myself to get up and outside to do some yard work. Spring was finally managing to punctuate a particularly long and snowy Maine winter. I had things to sweep and rake and plant outside, but it would have to wait for another Saturday. I stretched my legs out while cozily snuggling further under the blanket. I swept my feet across the foot of the bed but was impeded by a firm object blocking my path. Slightly annoyed but not at all surprised, I pushed my cat over with my foot so my tall frame could take advantage of the full length of the bed. She reacted to this rude awakening by standing up, stretching her muscles and settling back down for more sleep. I should probably mention that sleep doesn’t come easily to me, and when