The Novella Life of Illuscia Nester Himawari

In a dilapidated office building somewhere in Connecticut is one of the few elevators in the Western world that has a button labeled ’13' amongst its choices of floors. If you enter after midnight, crawling through the loosely boarded up window on the South side of the building, you will find the elevator doors standing open, with soft florescent lighting and muzak spilling from it, even though nothing else in the whole of the building seems to have power. You can, if you choose, pick through the debris of raucous teenaged parties and office meetings past. The path seems to be mostly cleared through the broken, dirty, stained and vintage office furniture and burned out joints, cigarettes and crushed beer cans, all the way to the light in the door. All of the buttons work in the elevator, and will take you to its designated floor–despite the creaking of the cables–though there seems to be a layer of grime on their plastic covers. All but the button labeled ’13', which seems to g

There are times in ones life where one feels unsafe. Insecurity permeates their being, and despite their best efforts they cannot quell the fear that builds within them. They seek some form of solace; a refuge against the tumultuous and unpredictable storms that seek to overwhelm them. Some weather the storm stoically, holding to some deep-rooted faith, divine or otherwise, that this moment will pass. Others lose what vestiges of their sanity remain, their paranoia evolving into madness…a thunder of sorts to match the lightning of this overpowering gale. But there is a third option, one known to only a few. The Taiwanese call it the Ritual of Gai Kao. To engage in this age-old rite, you must first be riding the waves of sadness driven before this chaotic storm. When you feel you are at your most desperate, seek out a place that is often frequented by many people at once. The patio of a coffee shop, a bowling alley, an RV park…any place where the traffic of humanity has left the residue

In the most deserted part of Wyoming there is a restaurant. There are no roads leading to it, no signs advertising it. It’s just there, in the open. Walk inside however, and you will learn two things. One, it’s jam packed with people talking, eating and enjoying themselves. Two, the entire place looks like it’s a scene from the 50's including the people, the food, the newspapers, the music, everything. Take a seat, observe the atmosphere, relax. When the waitress comes to get your order, make it a cheeseburger with mashed potatoes. Afterwards, a red-haired lady should ask you to dance to a tune on the juke-box. Find the song on it that has the same number as your current age, pick it, then dance you heart out. When the song ends, a flash of light with engulf the whole scene, and you will be standing outside your home the following morning. You now should have the power of clairvoyance for the remaining year. If you didn’t do this correctly, then woe is you. For you also missed out

On your 33rd birthday, go to your local gas station and pick up the newspaper. The classified ads will have a small segment commemorating your birth and asking you to turn around. Upon looking behind you, a man dressed in a black cloak will be advancing in your direction. If you choose to run away, he will hunt you for the rest of your life, eventually killing you. However, if you await his arrival and show no intent of fleeing, he will give you a small package. Inside, you shall find the object you most desire.

On the farthest point of Long Island, the last scrap of land that still counts as New York, there sits a tremendous, abandoned building. Protected by its own isolated location, there is also at any given time two to three Security Guards there. However, if one approaches the cast iron gates on the night of December 4th, you will see that on this night, even those few security guards refuse to work. The gates are left unlocked, and the wind will be utterly still, a nearly opaque fog filling the peninsula. Go directly to the main doors and step within, there will be a single long hallway, the end occluded by that fog. If you look to either side upon entering, you will see a modern operating room through a glass door. The further in that you walk, the older the equipment will get and the more old fashioned the doctors will be dressed. When you can finally come upon the end of the hallway, the screams of the patients will be nearly deafening. The hall will terminate in an open door leading

A few years ago, I went hiking in northern Oregon with five close friends. Although we had planned the trip for months, we had no control over the weather, which had turned especially snowy and cold upon our arrival. Regardless, we decided to carry on with the hike. We were all quite experienced and well-prepared, so none of us really gave it a second thought. The wilderness was stunning. The blankets of snow had given the landscape a dreamlike quality; it almost seemed like a crime to disturb the unbroken, white expanse before us with our footprints. As time passed, the sky became noticeably darker, while the temperature dropped even more. At -23°F, you can’t afford to leave any skin exposed for more than a few minutes. It really is amazing how sensitive the body is to extreme cold. I had the feeling we were being watched. I would catch momentary flashes of movement or a brief glimpse of something pale in the underbrush, but I could never make out the form. It was unsettling, but I tr

May 26, 2009 Hello Diary, My name is Daniel Franklin. I just got this leather-bound beauty of a book in a garage sale. Its covers are smooth and black; the pages, yellowed and antique in texture—no doubt a detail I will become fond of as time goes on. Hell, I already like it. Gives the book a classical feel—such a delightful thing, don’t you agree? But I digress. Today was just full of ventures to break the rut into which my life had sunk. First, I tried that new eatery on Eighth, and then, I bought this book at an old out-of-the-way garage sale in Eatonville. Such a kind old woman selling them, and the cookies she gave to buyers were just delicious. I may go back just to get one, if not to acquire the recipe itself! Well, my cat Bartolome is keeping me company tonight, and I must cut this first, rather short entry to a close. I hope to update this with the memoirs of my life many, many times. May 27, 2009 Hello Diary, Daniel again. Today was as boring as usual. Even my favorite book c

Sleep, strangely, is seen as the best refuge of the sufferer. You’ve never understood why this is; it’s the place where your subconscious has reign – that alien, unknown part of you that hides out of sight and has total control over your body. If anything, sleep frightens you. Having a stranger living in your mind, watching everything, capable of stopping your heart or healing your illness… It’s scary. Terrifying, even. And the fact is that when you sleep this person – this monster – can show you anything it likes. What if you’ve made this creature angry? What if you’ve done something wrong? You’re lying in bed, fingers gripping the covers with white-knuckled panic born of too many scary stories and horror films. Of course, you’re well aware that in reality nothing like that happens, but the darkness grips your imagination and twists, wringing out all kinds of half-formed pictures of monsters and semi-imagined noises. Your breathing grows ragged, your pulse quickens, and a bang from do

We are Onieronauts. We are explorers of the Dream World. We blur the line between waking life and sleep. And we’re watching you. It’s strange how many people forget that you spend 1/3 your life sleeping. People have forgotten the importance of dreaming. Less and less people even remember their dreams, and instead get up in the morning, shower, drink their coffee, and drive to work. They’re lives are repetitious and safe. They feel secure in their 2-bedroom condo overlooking the city, and they don’t dream. Instead, they plan their next day. They browse through clothing and furniture catalogs. They watch their cable TV with 999 channels. And yet, they don’t dream. We do. Not only that, we know we’re dreaming. When you realize you’re dreaming, you realize you’re free. You instantly lift yourself off the ground and fly through the Dewy clouds. You Become a Jedi and eat ice cream while receiving a blow job. You’re free to do anything you please. Over the years, a select few of us became pro

I slept fine last night. Didn’t sleep so well Sunday though. It was my own fault, really. I did tell him he was welcome in if he pleased. My dream began like one of those horror games you might see, like Silent Hill or Alone in the Dark. It was night out, and almost pitch black. I was holed up in some building, hiding from something. Or waiting. I peeked out; the door was glass and had some rule stickers on it. I suppose I was in a corner store. Upon looking out, I see a deserted street, lighted by a few dim streetlamps. The street was dead empty, dead silent. I seemed to be in the middle of a city… yet there was nothing. I tentatively opened the door, creeping out into the cold night. Ever have on of those dreams where you can feel what’s happening? This was one of those dreams. I turned left out the door and began walking. The street was sloped, and I was going down. Suddenly I stopped in front of a building. Looking to my left at it, it seemed like a small house. Not one like you’d

Sometime during the third consecutive night spent huddled over the toilet, insides heaving and shuddering as I vomit forth seemingly everything I’d ever eaten, I realize what’s happening: He’s trying to poison me. It’s all so elegant, so perfect, and so clear, that I almost laugh, but another barrage of retching forces me into silence The next morning I throw everything in the kitchen away, wrapping it three times in black plastic and burying it deep in the apartments communal trash cans, to prevent an unfortunate transient from crossfire of His wrath. I am out the door of the complex and halfway to the corner store when I realize: He knows, must know, where I would shop. I pick a direction and walk, enjoying the chill winter air that soothes the ragged shreds of my inside. I turn at random intervals, following an improbable path out of my familiar neighborhood, until I find a small shop with an unfamiliar name. Once inside, I hurriedly fill a small plastic basket; brands that I never

I’ve always had a terrible fear of being submerged completely in water. Not that I can’t swim or anything. My dad made me learn; he said I almost drowned when I was really young. I was afraid of it because, for as long as I can remember, whenever I am under water and look up at the surface I see a woman reaching down to me with a warm smile, with glowing golden hair and dark blue eyes. Even if its just in a bathtub. It always happened, it was just normal for me, but I never got used to it. It was unnerving, but also soothing at the same time. She always made me feel like it was okay. I still avoided it, though, because I was just a kid and it was really freaky. I never told my dad about it as a kid, but I did ask him about my mom. He never wanted to talk about her. Sometimes he even got mad at me for trying too hard to bring it up. It was only recently that I described this apparition to him. He nearly drove into a telephone pole; obviously he knew something. I asked him, again, about

A young girl suffered from insomnia, and throughout the night she’d often wake up for no reason. One night she awoke, and in the daze of half-sleep, she blinked in the darkness. Just for a second, she thought she saw a pair of reptilian eyes, gazing at her and glowing red. She sat up and stared at them, quickly realizing that it was only her clock. It was 11:11. She sighed and tried to go back to sleep. The next night, she awoke and instantly looked at the clock. It was exactly 11:11. This began to repeat itself night after night. Sometimes even during the day, for no reason whatsoever, she would stop whatever she happened to be doing, and spin around to look at the nearest clock; always at 11 minutes past 11 o’clock. As her insomnia got worse, she thought she’d try some white noise to help her sleep. She turned on her clock radio to play music softly. It worked well, so she kept doing it for the next few nights. One night, she awoke with a terrible start, covered in cold sweat. Rather

I’m about to do a very stupid thing. I know it’s stupid. I know it. But I don’t think I have a choice anymore. And I have to do it now, while I have the nerve and the will and while my hands are still steady. I’m sick. I’ve always been sick. Some days are better than others. When I was young my parents prayed that it might just be a precursor of the onset of epilepsy, but the seizures never came. I just… can’t trust myself. I see things. On some days, I can hear them and smell them too. I should say that I used to see them. After being on every possible combination of pills three doctors could come up with, I thought we’d finally found the right chemical key for my misfiring brain. It’s been six years of stability and relative normalcy, trading a halfway house for a tiny studio apartment, a collection of mostly tolerable side-effects, and a steady job. I realize this probably sounds dull for most people, but I cherished every moment of that achingly simple monotony. It went bad all at

The great geniuses throughout history had one startling thing in common, they all went through a day where everything clicked, everything seemed to make sense, and everything they did from that day on was perfect. This is a very rare phenomenon, but cherish it if it happens to you. There is an opposite side to this coin, however, where one will have a day that is so devoid of feeling, so depraved, that every day from that point on they will be slowly deteriorating into a physical manifestation of pure insanity. If you start to have one of these days, kill yourself immediately, for after 24 hours you won’t be able to die. You’ll just roam the world getting worse and worse…

You’ve been dating your girlfriend almost two years now. You often stay late over the summer and on weekends and arrive home long after the rest of your family go to sleep. Every night you drive the deserted rural roads back home from a pleasant evening at her house you become overwhelmed by fears that you will arrive home to find your family dead in their beds. Each night you peek into your sister’s room and see she’s fine and hear the reassuring rumble of your father’s snore as you pass your parents door. You chuckle at your silly worries and drift off to sleep. Finally one morning you decide to tell your mother about your late night fears amidst some jovial conversation for a nice laugh. As you tell her a concerned look comes over her face. She sweeps the hair away from her face as she says, “Oh honey, you know we were all shot almost two years ago.” You scream as you see the gaping bullet hole in her forehead.

Though written about in fiction occasionally, the mirror box is quite an old invention. Being inside of one can be enlightening or traumatizing for the witness who bears its burden. The procedure is simple, though finding and preparing the materials required might take some time. The materials to construct the box are: -Six square metal sheets, slightly taller than the witness. The length should never exceed the height of a witness with raised hands. One of them should be larger than the rest by at least the thickness of the sheets themselves. The material should preferably be made of graphite or lead alloy for the most prominent effect. -Five nearly perfect, aligned mirrors, sealed upon the metal plates. Each of the 5 will form the sides and bottom of the inner box. One larger mirror should be attached to the large metal plate, which will be used for the top. -A simple light source of pure white or bright yellow. The light source should emit in almost all directions. Candles can be us

A week or so before my 10th birthday, I walked to the corner store with a $5 bill and picked up a jar of Ragu for my mom. On my way home, a man I’d never seen before fell in step with me and began talking. "Hi!" he said, cheerfully. "My name is Dr. Ramsey. I’m a pediatrician. Do you know what a pediatrician is?" I walked along silently, not replying and fervently hoping he would take that as a sign he should leave me alone. Subtleties were not his strong suit, though, because he kept right on chattering. "Are your parents looking for a pediatrician for you? Of course, you’re almost a big girl now, you’ll be needing another kind of doctor soon, won’t you? That’s okay though. They can still bring you to me until then. What’s your name? You have beautiful hair. I was just on my way to get some suckers for the candy jar in my office. Do you like suckers?" Thankfully, we were nearing my house, so I ran forward, up the back steps and into through the kitchen d