Danny’s Escape

I heard a banging on my door this afternoon while I was watching the news about the unexpected small earthquake that just happened. When I looked out to check, I was completely dumbfounded to see my friend, Danny, standing outside my front door with mud stains all over his body. He stared at me with his smoky gray eyes and with the hoarsest voice, he said: ”I don’t wanna go back there, man.”

As soon as this happened, I dialed our closest friend, Irah. While it rang, Danny stood with no fear on my terrace which, I think, would alarm some of the bypassing people. Finally, Irah answered and told him that Danny snuck out of jail again. Irah hung up and after a few minutes, he was there with us.

As Danny told us the story of how he got out, somebody knocked on my door and claimed it was the police. Danny hid upstairs frantically, leaving muddy footprints on my well-carpeted floor and stairs before we opened the door.

”Good afternoon, officer.”, I politely said.

”We’re looking for Mr. Anderson.”

”I’m Mr. Anderson, why? What’s the matter?” I replied.

”It’s about your friend, Danny Braunstein.”

I felt a cold shiver in my spine. I’m guessing somebody told them he was seen standing in front of my house. If I was to summarize every screw-up I made in my entire life, hiding an escaped prisoner in my very own property might be the worst.

”What about—him, officer?” Irah asked.

”Danny died this morning after he tried to escape. Apparently, he thought digging a hole might be too convenient for him since it was raining but unfortunately, because of the minor earthquake, he just dug himself his own grave.”

I looked at Irah confusingly and thought about the muddy footprints he left on my floor and to my shock, my carpet was clean.

—
Credits to: faindyvargas

Don't Let the Cold Man In

I had a dream last night. It was the kind that seems real right up to the point where you wake up.

Some things were strange about it…certain things were really strange about it, but it never occurred to me that it might not actually be happening. I’m still not prepared to say that it didn’t happen. I’m not spiritual and I don’t really understand stuff like that. I just feel like I’ve been somewhere and now I’m back, and I know something really happened when I woke up…and I think while I was asleep too.

I went to bed last night with a strange feeling. We all remember times when we felt like we were being watched, but this was more than that. I felt like there was someone there with me, but still I couldn’t keep from falling asleep.

I don’t exactly remember the beginning of the dream. The first thing I remember was starting at my house and walking. I was just walking down the road. All of my neighbors’ houses were gone. I was just on a long, empty road and there was no one around but me. I don’t remember what I had been doing at my house before, but I may have been there a while before I started walking. I just recall feeling a strong urge to walk.
I felt okay walking down that road. It was cold and dark and I felt a little lost, but I wasn’t afraid–not like I had been in my room.

I don’t know how long I was on that road. It felt like a long time. I mean like days long, but I never felt tired and I just wanted to keep walking.

The road changed after a while. It had been straight and nondescript the whole time, but eventually I reached a bend and then a fork in the road. When I reached the fork, I wasn’t alone anymore. A familiar voice called out to me from the side of the road.

“It’s good to see you,” the voice whispered. “I’m just sorry to see you here.”

I turned to face the voice, knowing who I would see. It was an old friend from my childhood–someone I haven’t seen in years. He looked just a little different from how I remembered him, but not by much. He was older than when I saw him last, obviously, but he seemed at least a few years younger than me somehow–even though we’re supposed to be the same age. He was also very pale. Unbelievably white, in fact, and he had deep circles around his eyes that were solid blue, as were his lips.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“I’m here to warn you,” he replied.

Naturally, I was all ears.

“There’s a man in your house right now,” he explained.

“What do you mean there’s someone in my house? I was just there…I think.”

I didn’t actually know how long ago I had been there. I wasn’t sure how long I had been walking.

“You don’t understand,” my friend stammered with apparent urgency. “He’s really in your house right now.”

I had no idea what he was talking about, but I was curious.

“Who is he?” I asked him.

“He’s the Cold Man. He comes to people at night when they’re afraid.”

The Cold Man? I’d never heard of anyone like that before. I wanted to know more, so I asked, ”What does he do?”

“He waits to be noticed, then he makes his move. You know that chill you feel on your back when something really scares you? That’s not just nerves. That’s him standing behind you.”

“What for?” I wondered. “What does he do once you notice him?”

My friend looked down and away. He wouldn’t answer that question.

“Just don’t let him in,” he cautioned.

“What do you mean?”

“He can be close forever,” my friend explained. “He’ll walk around your house at night and even stand in your room while you’re asleep…like he is in yours right now. He can know where you are. He can even be looking right at you, but he won’t find you unless you let him.”

“How does he find you? I mean, how do you ‘let him?’”

My friend looked to either side of the road like he was worried that someone might overhear. He leaned in very close and whispered, ”If you see him, if you hear him, or if you ever start to feel suddenly very cold…don’t move. Don’t talk to him. Don’t acknowledge him. Don’t ever let him in”

“I don’t understand,” I admitted. “How do I get rid of him?”

“You can’t,” my friend replied in a small, shuttering voice. “Look, I’m out of time.”

“‘Out of time?’” I repeated, not sure what he meant exactly.

My friend shook his head. His eyes were wide and he was shivering. Off in the distance I noticed a dark figure creeping up behind him, but something kept me from speaking.

“My time is up,” he stammered. “Just whatever you do, don’t let him in, and whatever you do…don’t answer it.”

Something pulled my friend into the darkness and suddenly I couldn’t see him anymore. Before I could follow after him though, I was startled awake by a loud noise. I was sitting in my room, fully dressed with my shoes on. I could swear I wasn’t dressed when I went to bed. My shoes and legs were covered in dust, my feet were sore, and I could hear a ringing noise right next to me. In the confusion of waking up from such a vivid dream, I didn’t immediately recognize it. I felt so cold.

Then, I looked down and saw my phone. That was the source of the ringing. Remembering my friend’s words, I didn’t answer it. Eventually, it stopped ringing.

The room was cold as ice. The feeling that I was being watched was as strong as it had been when I had fallen asleep. I could hear something moving inside my closet, but I dared not move. I just closed my eyes and waited. Eventually, I heard footsteps walking away, still from inside the closet. It was as if they were walking down some unseen hallway, though my closet is small and I couldn’t see anything unusual in there.

When the footsteps got far enough away, the cold lifted.

He didn’t get in this time. If my dream was true–if the thing in my closet was who I think it was–I must never let him in. I think he’ll be back tonight though. That’s when he’s supposed to come, as my friend told me.

I don’t know what happened to my friend, but I just hope people will remember his warning. If you start to feel cold while reading this, don’t be alarmed. If you hear something in your house, just ignore it. You can’t afford to let him find you. Don’t let the Cold Man in.

By: smilingjacks

0600 Stockport

Calling at: Hazel Grove, Chinley, Edale, Hope, Bamford, Hathersage, Grindleford, Dore & Totley, Sheffield. Thirty-four trains a day, except on Sundays which only has twenty-five.

When travelling from Stockport to Sheffield, there are two incredibly long, dark tunnels as the train passes through the Pennines. Just you, the sound of the track, and pitch black windows. Your company through the darkness is your own reflection. You can try to see things out the window, press your nose against the cold glass, but you won’t.

I know the route well, though there is one journey I will never forget.

Since I flunked my A-Levels at nineteen years old, I’ve been working for security companies. Five years of patrolling, guarding, and watching CCTV footage. “You must have some great stories!” my friends ask me. Well, I can tell you with full sincerity that cock all happened across the expanse of my career to date, until the day I lost my last job.

My last employer had tasked me to to review the hours of CCTV footage recorded on West Midlands train network. Full time job of watching back hours of people sipping coffee, reading newspapers, and shouting at their kids to sit the fuck down and shut up.

In my last week of employment there, I watched back the 0600 Stockport train. It was like any other journey for the most part, apart from it was less busy than usual. By that I mean, there were only about five people in all the carriages - it’s not like 0600 trains on Sunday mornings are ever really busy. There was an older gentleman in carriage B with tea and newspaper; two suits in carriage C with blackberries or whatever the trendy work-on-the-go devices people use these days are; a younger lad in carriage A who looked like they were suffering from a serious hangover, with his head in his arms. Lastly in carriage E, a young woman sat with her earphones in staring out the window.

I flicked through the first 45 minutes of footage from each carriage with nothing worth reporting coming up. Well, the lad threw up on the seat next to him, and while I could try and chase up a fine on that, it was usually a pointless exercise.

It was after the first tunnel that things got strange. Just after entering it, all the lights went out in the train, and the emergencies didn’t kick in. I imagined the driver over the PA.

“Sorry for the inconvenience. Do not be alarmed. Something, something, something.”

Obviously security mode kicked in, and I eagerly skipped through the footage, squinting at the screen to try and see anything. Suit man One and suit man Two managed to illuminate their faces with their iDouches, but I couldn’t see anything else. I swapped to the camera for carriage E. Call me a “white knight” but I was concerned for a solitary woman on a pitch black train at six in the morning, even though I doubted the other passengers were capable of anything sinister.

After around fifteen minutes or so, light flooded back into the cabin. I had an instance of relief, being able to see her in light again, but that was stolen away just as quickly as the feeling came. There was a shadow at the bottom of the screen - an arm just curled around the back of a chair. I quickly flicked through the other carriages, all other passengers present and corrected for. How did I miss a sixth? No. I didn’t miss one. There wasn’t a sixth passenger, and yet there was.

The woman didn’t seem to notice, rubbing her eyes to sudden flush of light, then looking out the window. I wanted to bang the screen and point to her, yell “Hey! There’s a creeper!”. Just do anything. However, this had all already happened.

It moved. Just a little, it pulled itself from behind the chair. It must have been quiet, or the girl’s music too loud, because she didn’t turn. I could see its upper torso now, and it wasn’t a person. I’m sure of that. It just wasn’t shaped right: its forearms just too long as they stretched out along the floor in front of it, its spine curved and bent as it slide out into the aisle, its neck twitched and jerked its head periodically. I felt sick watching it move. Even at the low frame rate and poor picture quality from a CCTV; that wasn’t anything I had seen before and it wasn’t up to any good.

It raised one hand up and then gently lowered it to the floor, and began tapping. The girl still didn’t move. I felt my heart in my chest punching my ribcage. I wanted to stop watching but I had to see what happened. Another shadow slid out from the bottom of the screen - a leg? Yeah, a leg, but it was bent twice in the wrong places. A second one joined it and the creature inched across the floor, tapping all the way. It was like it wanted to be seen, it wanted to frighten her before… Before what?

She kept looking out the fucking window. I begged her in my mind, “Let the track change, the battery run out. Anything! Just run!”

It jumped in a hideous but deliberate motion on top of one of the seats in front of her. “Come on, you must have heard that!” I yelled out to the camera. She didn’t. It was only a few rows ahead of her when it started tapping on the window; one of its knees was bent up near its face, the other knee jerked out backwards. I suppose the closest thing I could think of is like a gargoyle, but that’s not even right. It was lean, and it had no wings or anything, and it twitched. I could see the side of its face now: a big black eye, and rows of teeth with no lips.

It scuttled forward over the rows, just two seats away from her. Instead of tapping it just began to lean forward, slowly creeping itself closer to her. And still! The woman gazed on over the fields outside the train.

The track on her MP3 player ended, or she needed to fix the volume, whatever it was she finally pulled her eyes away to look down. By then its face was hovering above the table in front of her, its hands propping up on the seats opposite her, and its legs stretched over two head rests behind it. I saw the look of panic, I saw her mouth fly open, I saw the thing shoot backwards to retract its legs, and then I saw nothing as the train entered the second tunnel.

I wanted to call down my boss immediately, but I had to see the rest. I flicked through the other carriages, onto C with its suit-men. Surely they heard a scream? Surely they did something? The little lights in their hands remained unmoving. Did she scream? Could she scream?

The blackout lasted another fifteen minutes. When the sunlight flooded back into the carriage, I prepared myself for the worst E had to offer. I imagined blood strewn across the seats, gore on the aisle, a severed head hanging from the ceiling staring into the camera. But there was nothing. No monster, no girl, no MP3 player on the table. It was all gone. For the remaining hour of the journey I flicked through footage, looking for anything. The girl, her bag, evil eyes laying wait under a table. Nothing. I watched as each passenger left the train at varying stops and more got on. I looked only for the girl; I ignored the toddler drawing on the tables, I ignored the drunk man breathing into an elderly woman’s face with beer can in hand, I ignored the brat child who set the fire alarm off and held the train up.

When the train finally rolled into Sheffield, there was no sign of her. She never left the train, she just vanished. I scrolled back and made a backup copy of what I had witnessed and then checked to see if there had been any damage to sustained to the train. There was nothing, so how the hell did that thing get on and off the train?

I had to tell my boss, and that’s when I was fired. Not immediately, though. He was obliged to inform the Police, who watched it and accused me of forging footage for attention. They threatened charges of wasting Police time, accused me of being on drugs. After back and forth arguments for hours at the station, they let me go with a warning. After that, I was fired. Apparently having an impeccable record doesn’t earn you any trust. The Police confiscated the footage and the back up too, or I would show you the video.

There’s nothing I can do. All I can say to you now is keep your volume down low when you’re travelling alone. You can still be snuck up on it broad daylight.

—
Credits to: kerrima

In Due Time

Everything happens in due time, that’s what I’ve always believed in. I’ve always believed in that one day where everything changes, where everything would be drastically improved, for better or for worse. But only in due time.

I don’t remember much of that day for me, but I remember holding my baby girl and smiling at her as her eyes scrunched up in the harsh hospital light. And I knew, on that day, that she would make everything change. She would make me famous, she would give me a name. And with that, I threw her out the window.

It wasn’t that loud of a splat, and it most certainly wasn’t her screaming her head off. I looked down to see a shower of broken glass twinkle down over her mottled form and the lady covered in entrails and blood. It was beautiful.

And so, here I am, famous as I can be, in a nice grey cell with lots and lots of friends to talk to. They all know me, and so do the people outside of my happy little home. I get daily meals, and I get to chill for 90% of my day.

And it all came to me so easily. All in due time.

—
Credits to: Mr_Halloween

Chores

As an only child, my parents usually had one of them at home with me at any given time, I was rarely left alone. However, all that changed when I turned thirteen, and they deemed me old enough to be left alone.

To celebrate this, a few nights after my birthday they decided to go out for the night, the first time they had done so in years without worrying about hiring a babysitter, leaving me alone to play the video games I had received a few days prior.

As soon as they shut the door, I made my way over to the fridge to polish off the remains of my birthday cake. On the door, waiting for me, was a sticky note in rushed cursive writing,

“Please wash the dishes for when we get back
-Mum xx”

I threw it in the bin, shaking my head and wondering if this was the first of many sticky notes to come and looked at the dishes in the sink. I held up a large plate, already half submerged in soapy water, and inspected, disgusted, at the baked on grime, and dropped the filthy plate back in the sink.

There was so much soap in the water that the basin was topped with a high layer of thick white suds. Not exactly raring to tackle the grime with a sponge yet, I decided it would be best if I left them to soak.

Sitting back in my chair with my fixings, I played, contented, until I fell asleep in front of my television. A few hours later I awoke, hastily looking at the clock. 11:30. My parents would be home in a few hours, so I decided I probably should get started on the dishes.

Back in the kitchen, the soaking must have worked, as the dishwater turned thick, and greyish-brown in colour. I removed any visible plates from the water, delicately held the corners of the basin with my fingertips, and tipped the murky water away, and out with it came several razor blades, which collected in the sink.

—
Credits to: http://birthdaypigeon.tumblr.com/ ‘s writing blog

We Danced

Footsteps aren’t an uncommon thing to hear when you’re sitting in a basement, so I think nothing of it when I hear quiet thuds coming from my upstairs hallway. I just assume it’s my brother, and continue doing whatever pointless little thing I was doing at the time. They go on for another couple minutes, and I’m starting to get pissed off. They keep getting louder and louder and I sigh, wondering what the hell my brother’s doing this late at night. I sit there, because it’s impossible to focus with the racket. I mean, it sounds like someone’s power walking all over my main floor.

I sit there and listen as the thumps get faster and wilder. They just keep moving, almost starting to form a rhythm. They move even faster and get even wilder and they’re thumping all over my main floor. I realize that whatever this is, it can’t be human. No human can move like that.

“What the fuck?!” I finally yell. After that, all the noises stop. Everything is quiet for a moment, and then I hear calm, slow footsteps moving to my basement door. The door is pushed open, and the footsteps stop again. I listen to my breathing for the next three minutes, then sigh, thinking it’s over. Turns out something else was listening, too. Suddenly I hear it thudding down the stairs, and I knock my chair over in my haste to stand up. I start to run towards the nearest closet, just in time to see a grotesque, hairless, four-legged creature, dancing towards me, tapping it’s swollen feet in an intoxicating rhythm. I dive into the closet and slam the door shut. There’s a half-second pause and then I hear that same rhythm on the door.

It just keeps going and going with no pause, no rests, no relief. He’s been at it for hours now, and I find myself tapping my fingers along with his song. But then, just as suddenly as it began, it ends. I wait for a few moments, then look out. He’s gone. I flip on a light and fall into a chair. It’s safe. I relax and think for a few moments. But then I notice my foot tapping. Maybe this song isn’t so bad, I almost like it enough to dance to it. So I drop down on my hands and feet, and I start.

By: Smiles.

Debut

I.
Well, I’ve finished my education and learned everything there is to learn about singing, and despite the difficulties, I’ve found myself at the heart of Music City and struggling to get my material out there. I haven’t been able to meet with any labels and I’m barely surviving on gig money. I have an audition at a new place that’s opening down by Broadway Street. It’s a Vegas style night club, very yuppie. I can sing, but I also have to dance with the other girls. My first song will be “Moulin Rouge.” They were impressed with my audition, and they may pay me for some choreography ideas. Maybe I can get some hours there. Regardless, times are hard for everyone right now. Any day that people hear me sing is a good day. My voice is lucky, and I’m so excited for the future that I simply had to start writing my feelings down in something other than song form.

II.
I learned to bartend and made some good tips this evening. I also sang with the band, and even though everyone there was drunk, I think they really liked me. The more I sing, the more I feel like I was put here on this earth to make people happy with the sound of my voice. I’m not trying to be conceited. I am forged through the sweat of my brow to make beautiful sound. I also make a pretty good vodka martini.

III.
My boss, Bobby, thinks he’s Brett Michaels. He keeps going on and on about how he’s going to make me a star and how much money Alleycats is going to make with me singing at the helm. People applauded after the girls worked through my dance today. I told Bobby that he should tie cat collars with rhinestones around our necks and buy us hair extensions to attract more clientele. He went for it. I’m excited. I’ve never been able to afford hair extensions before. The last song I sang before I went home this evening was amazing. I saw a table of drunks in the front row who appeared as if they were crying. That’s the best feedback I could possibly ask for.

IV.
Some of my teachers came by today because it was my day off. They’re quiet, mostly, but they expect what I promised them four years ago. I always thought I’d be able to get my education and disappear without going through with it, but they’ve found me. They want results, and I only have a month. Even though they paid my way and coddled me through learning the art of vocal performance, I don’t think a piece of paper on the wall is worth this. It doesn’t matter. I can’t back out now, and I’m destined for the big time.

V.
Bobby is interested in more than helping me promote my career. I was flirting with a local blues singer in the lounge tonight after singing, and he flipped his shit. Said that I couldn’t afford to have a boyfriend in this business and the only person I’d be hooking up with was him if I wanted to keep my job. I noticed that The Better Business Bureau is right across the street when I left today. I’ll keep that in mind if he gets out of hand.

VI.
More teachers came to see me, except they came to the bar itself. I would have been ashamed, except they didn’t talk to anyone, so no one knew that they were there for me. They wore the black robes in a night club in the middle of the city, so they obviously care little for outward appearances. They focused on me so intently when I was singing that I got scared. I did well, but they’re giving me the message, loud and clear. I have to fulfill my part of the bargain or I’ll lose my voice. If I lose my voice, I have no future. I’m scared.

VII.
I had an audition with a major record label on Music Row today. Bobby was pissed that I called out of work, and apparently the regular alcoholics were requesting that I sing a song before they left. One was so adamant that he was arrested for disorderly conduct. I tried to push it out of my mind and focus on the music. They said I had a beautiful natural voice and that with some “commercial influence,” I could be a star. I’m excited. This is bigger than my graduation or my future wedding day. I’ll never forget this day. Even if I tried, the teachers won’t LET me forget. They have to remind me that I’m only here because of them.

VIII.
Bobby threw me a party tonight to celebrate my big break. He drank too much and so did I. I drove him home and he tried to kiss me. He smelled like bourbon and cigarettes and wouldn’t take no for an answer. I screamed, and before I realized that he’d stopped trying to grope me, he was screaming WITH me. His eyes were glossy, like a windshield that needs a defroster on max. He had this sort of grimace, like he was in pain, but couldn’t do anything about it but stare at me and scream and scream. I forced myself to shut my mouth, to stop making any noise, and he collapsed in to the passenger floorboard. I got scared and left him there. I’m hoping he’ll remember it as an awful hangover and nothing else. If not, there’s always the Better Business Bureau. I can’t afford to have some stalker ruining my chances of a Grammy.

IX.
They’re here permanently until I deliver on what I promised. They remind me why my voice sounds so sweet, and how they can change it in to a terrible force at any time. They asked me if I liked what happened to Bobby. They asked me if I want that to happen to everyone else I sing for. There’s nothing I can do to stop this, but as soon as I get it over with, they’ll leave me alone forever. They just want their payoff.

Someone stopped me on the street today on the way to my car. He really scared me when he said that he knew who was in my apartment with me. He was a relatively big guy, and he looked dangerous, like one of those UFC fighters or a bouncer or something. He told me to get it done and be done with it — that the consequences of going back on them were worse than taking one person’s life. He said he’d been swindled by them before, too, and it was the only way to end this. I hope not. I don’t think I can bring myself to kill someone, even at the cost of my own gift.

X.
I almost went through with it tonight, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Everyone in front of the stage looked like they were having fun, enjoying the company of their friends and boyfriends and girlfriends. They came to hear me. I couldn’t betray them. I’ll be forced to, soon, and I might lose it all. It doesn’t matter. I refuse to kill anyone because they want to listen to my voice.

XI.
Tonight was the worst night of my life. They’ve been staying in my room, standing over me as I sleep, hissing in my ear. Deliver. Deliver. Deliver. They held me down before I went to work and replaced the rhinestone Alleycat uniform collar with some kind of choker. It has one red stone on it, and it glows when I sing. It felt good. I wondered if I had their approval until I got on stage. I started singing, and they all started screaming. Jake, the bartender. My friend Jill. The entire drunken audience. I couldn’t stop the sound once I started. My voice soared high, strong, powerful, through the door, out on to Broadway. It brought more and more people in. I saw throngs of people walking through the door, their faces contorted with pain, but it’s like they were forced to stand there and listen. I don’t know any other way to write this, but I knew they were in the worst pain of their lives. My voice was causing it. All of them screamed until their voices were raw and they had gristled sandpaper in their throats.

When I hit my highest note, the entire room was a maelstrom of suffering. People’s heads burst open like overfilled balloons. Their skin peeled off in layers and heaped on the line-dancing floor like party streamers. The ones who still had faces died with a smile on their face, as if death were a blissful escape. I drove home naked. There was too much blood on my clothes. Bobby was out of town, but he comes back tomorrow, and he already knows. He’s too stupid to realize what happened the other night, and thinks someone fired an assault rifle in the middle of the club. Je’s naive. I’ll never be able to go back to work again. All I have now is this record deal. I was lucky that the police didn’t stop me for questioning. The story is on the local news as “the Music Row Massacre.”

XII.
They took off the collar when I got home and they’re sitting behind me, watching me write this. They know I have to find their sacrifice to have any hope of recording with the label tomorrow. They said what happened at Alleycats is my fault. They expect me to get up and go right now, or the choker goes back on. They’ve turned my own voice against me.

I have to use it as a weapon, one last time. I also have to convince Bobby that I want to be with him. The thought makes me want to throw up.

XIII.
I didn’t have to report Bobby to the Better Business Bureau. He left me a voicemail as they carried him off, and I know he was only able to speak because they let him. They have a cruel side to them that is unrivaled by any human being. They paid me one last visit, of course. They polished his skull like a fine piece of jewelry and delivered it to me in a box. They said as long as it stayed in the same room with me that I’d sing beautifully. They want to remind me that I killed someone to make it big. I wish I could take all of this back, but I wouldn’t, if given the choice.

Tomorrow, I record my first album, and nothing will stop my big debut.

By: Violent Harvest