The Novella Life of Illuscia Nester Himawari

I waved goodbye to my friends as I stepped off the bus and headed to my house. I was super excited to get home and see my parents. They hadn’t talked much at all yesterday. As a matter of fact they just stayed in their bedroom all day. They haven’t been feeling well. I ran up the stairs of the front porch and swung the front door open with a big, cheesy grin on my face; However, when I opened the door there was no one in the den. The television was off and the house seemed to be abnormally quiet. I took a step in and started calling out. “Mom? Dad?” I called. I knew they were supposed to be here. Dad had the day off and mom didn’t have any plans with her girlfriend’s until next week, right? I placed my backpack on the ground next to the couch and walked into the kitchen to check the calendar. October fifth. I was right. Dad took this day off so him, mom, and I could go see a movie together. “They’ve got to be here somewhere”, I thought myself. Then it hit me. School let o

I found out the hard way why bringing up your religion in the workplace is a terrible idea. I’m agnostic, but I try to be thoughtful when other people tell me about their beliefs. I know there are a lot of great ideas in the religious texts of the world and I have found inspiration in them from time to time. But, I don’t really suffer from any death anxiety; and I think my morality is firmly rooted in secular humanism, and my good will and cheer is inspired by the hope of collective prosperity through scientific means. I would never begrudge someone their beliefs, especially if it gave them a sense of purpose, or drove them to do good deeds or eased their fear of the unknown. But, when I encounter people who believe exclusively and literally in one version of one sect of a religion, I can have a difficult time containing my disdain. Which is what happened yesterday. We were having a team meeting. I’m the company’s go-to business-to-business guy. I sell mainly downtown. Ra

|19:03 February 15 2005| JeRK455 | /Medical/ Hey, today something weird came into the ER. Some guy was bleeding from the mouth, nose, eyes, and ears. He was screaming and thrashing the whole time. He let out one last ungodly screech, and then we lost a pulse. |21:23 February 15 2005| BackStreetShit| /Medical/ Ebola? |22:09 February 15 2005| JeRK455 | /Medical/ No signs of Ebola, no hemorrhaging, nothing. |14:24 February 18 2005| JeRK455 | /Medical/ Some of the doctors didn’t come in today. I think a few that didn’t show wheeled in the guy a few days ago. |17:52 February 21 2005| JeRK455 | /Medical/ Docs found dead in their homes, dried blood around orifices. |15:31 February 27 2005| JeRK455 | /Medical/ Masks being handed out at work. Rooms are filled with screaming people bleeding from the face. |12:02 March 3 2005| JeRK455 | /Medical/ Men in hazmat suits escorted everyone out of the hospital, they were taking blood from everyone after they left. |14:52 March 6 2005| JeRK455 | /Medi

My Grandfather’s brother lived most of his life in Paris, France. On the few occasions I’ve met him, it was very clear that he was a disturbed individual with some sort of something bothering him all day and night. I figured he’d had a stroke or perhaps he was just plain senile. After a few meetings with my grandfather’s brother, I became curious. My grandfather hesitated to tell me the story, but I talked him into it. Now it’s a well known fact that beneath Paris, there’s over 400 miles of ancient catacombs, going deep underground. It’s a subterranean labyrinth that many people have explored and got lost in. My Grandfather’s brother, Alex, had no plans of exploring the catacombs. He had recently graduated college and was engaged to his future wife. Things were going just swell for him. Alex said that he was off to fetch some food for dinner and decided to try a different path to the store. He took a wrong turn, and kept going, and before he knew it he was lost in Paris.

I was exhausted. I had just gotten home from another day of forced monotony that we call a job. I wanted nothing more than to kick back with a cold beer and watch the hockey game. I walked to the fridge and grabbed a beer before shambling to the entertainment room. Still warm. Damn. I sat down in my comfiest recliner. The footrest sprung up, and I pushed the back down far enough so I could just see the TV. I grabbed the remote and hit the power button. The TV flickered on, filling the room with the sound of hockey. It wasn’t the same without the cold beer. I reluctantly sat back up and got out of my chair, and made my way to the stairs leading up to the attic. I pushed the door open and stepped into the dark, musty room, thick with the stench of mold. I grabbed the flashlight that I kept by the attic door and clicked it on. I made my way around all the boxes, coming to the back of the attic. There I found the fuse box. I set the flashlight down and began to tinker with the

When I was seven years old my ten year old brother Jamie was kidnapped, or so they say. The police claimed whoever had taken him were ‘professional’ in doing so. That I had been incredibly lucky to have not been taken as well. They described the kidnapper in this way because no finger prints were ever found on any of the furniture. My brother had never made a sound at the time and most importantly, there was no sign of a break in at all. None of the windows had been broken, the doors weren’t busted. Nothing. Several days before his disappearance my father found a painting while rummaging around in the attic. He had been trying to find his old bass guitar after I had asked him if he played any instruments. Turns out he used to play in a band with some of his friends, and was a pretty decent player. His group was called ‘Serrated Edge.’ Unfortunately after an hour of searching the guitar was never found, but the painting was. It had been placed against a wall and surrounde

That’s the problem with cutting down a tree.  No one tells you how dangerous it might be.  Sure they’ll warn you about falling branches, and staying out of the way while the job is being done, but that’s not what I’m talking about.  I’m talking about how the tree you are about to cut down might be the only thing standing between you and something very bad.  Maybe that’s the reason trees have been the object of worship throughout history.  Could it be because they are extremely good at keeping things out of our world that we don’t want in it?  Or it could be that it wasn’t the tree that was being worshiped, but rather whatever it was that the tree was keeping at bay? Unfortunately for me, the reason our ancestors started worshiping trees in the first place is something that most of us have long forgotten.  Until now. I bought the house in the spring of 2009. It was on the Old King’s Highway that cuts through Connecticut between New York and Boston. While it no longer qual

You crawl into bed at around nine. Funny, that’s a little early for you, but you don’t seem to care. You toss and turn for a few minutes, before you feel it. Somebody’s watching you, you’re sure of it. You scan the room, finding nothing, but you still feel uneasy. You lay back down, facing the room. You shut your eyes and try to sleep, but you can’t. You still feel the eyes on you, watching you. You pull the covers over your head, and the feeling fades. You relax and close your eyes, but as soon as they shut, the feeling returns. You’re scared to move the covers, to search for the eyes that you know are watching you. You’re terrified, but you yank the covers down, and as you do your heart skips a beat. You scan the room, seeing absolutely nothing yet again. The feeling disappears, and you scold yourself for acting like such a child. You roll over toward the wall and quickly fall into a peaceful sleep. But let me ask you this: Do you know how many hiding places there are i

In the year 2005, the Humanity Archival Storage Project was commenced by leading government officials, scientists and academic alumni across the world due to the fear that humanity’s treasures were increasingly threatened by war and natural disasters. The project was one of the most complex undertaking in our species history: the creation of an archive of humanity’s knowledge and culture. The Archival Symplexical Computer was designed in the early days of the project. The device was composed of iron, the most stable of elements, and built to stand as a testament to our species for millennia. After the construction of the ASC, I was assigned to the HASP team. We were a diverse bunch, consisting of representatives from the fields of science, history, the arts, and every other possible area of human study. Our task was to program the device with the information and artifacts worth preserving. Our group started off cordially enough, but we quickly broke down into sects and f

My mother, dead now these past eighteen months – may God rest her soul – was a fanatically superstitious woman. Her ancestry, a combination of strict Catholicism and Irish folklore, had resulted in a potent blend which caused her to view life as a series of potential transgression (some valid, some merely fanciful) which might culminate in any one of a million unwanted outcomes should she step over some mystical line. It was a matter of good fortune for me that my father, although a virtuous man, was totally lacking the imaginative capacity to believe very much in either religion or superstition. He would acquiesce to my mother’s demand that spilled salt be thrown over his shoulder where, she firmly assured us, it would hit the Devil square in the eye. Keys, errantly placed on the table, would be removed by him and the underside of ladders were always avoided. All these sanctions were borne well by him and he always played along with a look of mild amusement, total disbe

It would seem that all cities, even small towns, have their own ghost stories and urban legends. Living in Devine, Texas for 5 years, I always heard about the Salt and Pepper lady of the Devine Projects. Friends would speak of their experiences with this very strange and disturbing specter. If you grew up in the Devine Projects, your parents wouldn’t allow you to be outside whatsoever after dark, which was less due to the gangs and drug problem and more out of fear of the Salt and Pepper lady. There were the usual problems as with every low income residential slum. Gangs, drugs, domestic violence, pedophiles. It wasn’t the worst of all the projects but crime was still present. Local police were there often for the usual reasons you would expect from a housing project.  Raids, domestic violence calls, even the occasional murder. Somewhere in the ball park of about 30 years ago, there lived an elderly resident of the Devine projects known simply as Mona. She was a bitter, na

In the last decade and a half it’s become infinitely easier to obtain exactly what you’re looking for, by way of a couple of keystrokes. The Internet has made it all too simple to use a computer to change reality. An abundance of information is merely a search engine away, to the point where it’s hard to imagine life as any different. Yet, a generation ago, when the words ‘streaming’ and ‘torrent’ were meaningless save for conversations about water, people met face-to-face to conduct software swap parties, trading games and applications on Sharpie-labeled five-and-a-quarter inch floppies. Of course, most of the time the meets were a way for frugal, community-minded individuals to trade popular games like King’s Quest and Maniac Mansion amongst themselves. However, a few early programming talents designed their own computer games to share amongst their circle of acquaintances, who in turn would pass it on, until, if fun and well-designed enough, an independently-developed game had its p

The White Witch is an urban legend in Jamaica. The story states that The White Witch was named Annie Palmer, a woman who was born in England to a English mother and a Irish Father. However in Haiti, her parents died of Yellow Fever. She was then adopted by her nanny, who practiced voodoo and taught her witchcraft. She later moved to Jamaica, where she married John Palmer in 1820. John owned Rose Hall, which was on East Montego Bay. John Palmer, however, died suspiciously, which brought Annie’s demise. She then became a mistress of Voodoo, using it to terrorize the plantation. Sometimes, she took male slaves to bed at night, she often murdered them. She also murdered her lovers because she would grow bored with them. In 1830, a slave lover named Takoo murdered Annie in her sleep. Takoo found out that Annie used a voodoo spell to kill his daughter and in return killed her. Unfortunately for him, he was caught and killed. More recently, rumors have spread about a visitor being pushed by t

When you step into the bathroom after dark you never look into the mirror. If you do you will be struck by an intense feeling of dread and those who have “the sight” all see the same thing; a young girl aged around six or seven standing behind you in the hallway, just staring. Shes never done anything to the people who see her, but everyone who has agrees that she seems to be angry and malevolent. My mom says she used to hear small footsteps up and down that hallway any time she fell asleep on the couch and they always stopped right at her head but out of her line of sight. Belief or disbelief is up to you, but this story is true. To this day I don’t have mirrors in my house and I still dislike looking in mirrors after dark because of this. By: horror-freak-fest

On June 10th, 1912, the small, sleepy town of Villisca, Iowa was shaken by an unspeakable crime.  A well-respected family of two parents, four children, and two other children who were spending the night were all slaughtered in their sleep with an axe. The victims were: The father, Josiah Moore. The mother, Sarah Moore. Four Moore children, Herman (11), Katherine (10), Boyd (7), and Paul (5). Two overnight guests, Lena (12), and Ina (8), Stillinger. On the evening of June 9th, 1912, the Moore family went to a church function at about 8:00 pm. They returned home with Lena and Ina Stillinger, who were Katherine’s guests, at about 10:00 pm. During the time that they were at church, it is now believed that one or more people entered the house and hid in the attic. Sometime during the night, estimated around midnight, the entire household was bludgeoned with an axe. Only Lena Stillinger showed any signs of having fought back or resisting, hinting that the rest of the house remaine

I suppose that, considering how long I’ve been here, I should probably tell you a story. I grew up in a small town in Alabama. My favorite day of the week was Saturday. Of course, we were out of school and free to roam, but I liked it for another reason entirely. My father would drive us down to Old Decatur. It’s a small city that was mostly raised during the 1920s. Parts of it are even older. We had the Dancy Polk Inn (a personal home the last time I went around there), where none other than Jesse James the outlaw slept the night before he robbed the Old State bank. That old bank still has bullet holes in the columns. But that’s another story. Down by the river sits the Old McEntire Home. It went up in the grand old year of 1836. What a sight it was. Fine, beautiful columns, shined hardwood floors, ornate light fixtures, and a flat roof for all the parties the various owners would have over the years. The years rolled by and the Civil War thundered in with a lust for young souls. The