The Novella Life of Illuscia Nester Himawari

So a long time ago, back in my non-photogenic days, we lived in a big old house in the country. Yeah, I know it’s cliché, but it was a nice place with little trap doors and closets, old wallpaper, and grainy wood floors that felt good on your feet. It smelled very old, but in a good way, like how a grandmother’s house would smell. I lived there with my little cousin, who was adopted by us when his parents were in a train accident. He was too little to remember them, so he was basically like a little brother to me. He and I played Barbies and Spaceman and whatever other childish game we could conjure up with plastic dolls and old boxes. It was nice outdoors, and we were able to keep chickens because the property was large and there were few neighbors to tell us what to do. Heck, my parents could have spray painted the house like green and nobody would have cared a bit. From what we later learned, the events could have happened from when we were barely toddling, but we wouldn’t have rem...

Wooo, am I glad to be on this plane! Those poor bastards down there…oh, you want to sleep? Okay, sorry. But, hey, you wanna hear a crazy story first? Okay, so this guy works for a company that does weird jobs, right? Like they’ll put flowers on someone’s grave, everyday, forever. Yeah, kinda like DiMaggio and Monroe. Or they’ll deliver a time traveler’s letter from his future self. Stuff like that. Anyway, this guy’s job is to throw bread into these scary-ass woods every solstice. Nothing ever happens, but he never forgets, because he’s a professional. Except once, he passes out at a birthday party and almost misses the solstice. But he’s smart, see? He hurries to the woods and chucks the birthday cake in. Brilliant, right? Because that’s a kind of bread. Yes it is. Same ingredients. Listen, you wanna hear this or not? Anyway, the next morning he’s ordered to report to headquarters. His bosses claim that bread is symbolic of imprisonment. Cake, apparently, is the opposite. They accuse...

John forgot his phone at home. He always felt so awkward without it. John looked around the subway platform again. He noticed every single person was on their phone. Except John. He stared over the sea of people, trying to find someone, anyone, who wasn’t on their phone who would empathize. Their eyes would meet and John would shrug as if to say “it’s no big deal” even though it was a huge  deal. But John didn’t find anyone. No, everyone had their eyes glued to their screen, oblivious to the world around them. A man bumped into John and handed him something. It was a cell phone, but it was near dead. “Don’t ever let them catch you looking up,” the man warned. He too was holding an object, but the battery life had gone out. Suddenly, the man broke into a run, screaming and fighting through the sea of people to get to an exit. Everyone turned to look at him, almost in sync. John felt the hairs on his neck stand up. A loud noise, unearthly but almost like a telephone dial tone, sudd...

It was always just the two of them. Big Brother and Little Sister. Their parents, their teachers, might as well have been Mr. and Mrs. Jones. They were two of twenty school children and as each Fall fell, Big Brother and Little Sister proceeded to plot. Big Brother was 11, so he always knew just a little more. Big Brother was brash and bigoted. Big Brother was a bully. Little Sister was 8 and she always got her way. Her manipulations were more subtle, sweeter. Little Sister was a sociopath. Every year, twenty children, from 1st grade to 12th, prepared for their annual survival trip. Armed with one fire starter kit, two hefty garbage bags, one bottle of water, one granola bar and one small pocket knife, twenty were dropped off in the morning hoping, as always, to survive the night. Big Brother and Little Sister split up; Big Brother and Little Sister always survived. Big Brother was a tracker, and he tracked down his biggest competition. 10th grade dunce, Samuels was a oaf, who barely m...

As soon as I entered my backyard, I could smell it. The smell of death. I had gone outside to water the plants and it was there, lingering in the air like smog on a city. I pinched my nose and searched the yard for its source. I gasped and jumped back when I had found it. A bird’s nest had been knocked down, and the poor little birds didn’t stand a chance. Their tiny bodies were scattered around. I went to my garage and pulled out a shovel and buried them one by one. Four in all. Just as I unraveled the hose and turned on the water, I smelled it again. Impossible, I thought. I had buried the birds on the other side of the yard, about 3 feet deep. There must be another bird that I didn’t see yet. I scoured the yard again, and didn’t see another baby bird. I did, however, see a partially buried human hand. – Credits to:  http://natureandnostalgia.tumblr.com/

I recently moved into a new apartment, and having very little money had to settle for the only habitable place in a row of almost derelict buildings. The street was all but abandoned, but I'm almost certain that there were squatters two doors down. My building was the only one not boarded up and, compared to the others, it had potential. There was no electricity when I m oved in, no curtains and, no carpets - but at least the water was running. It was a particularly tough time in my life (which I won't go into) and I was grateful for a fresh start. I could really make a go of it here once I got some furniture in. The first night: I decided to sleep there, even without a mattress and only a few candles to find my way around. Though I could have probably found the bathroom by smell alone. After setting up camp in what I suppose was the living room, I tucked into a gourmet meal consisting of cold beans and dry crackers. I promised myself that once the sun came up,...

I don’t believe in ghosts. I swear I don’t. But I keep hearing these sounds in my house almost every night since I moved in here. At first I thought the house was just settling, or maybe a rodent found it’s way in, but neither of those would explain the occasional draft I would feel, or my furniture being slightly moved. I’ve walked around my house to check it out a couple of times after hearing things, and found nothing. All of my doors and windows were locked, I saw no rodents, but even as i checked around I would still hear creaking and swishing sounds. This house truly terrified me. Tonight I fell asleep on my couch in my living room watching T.V. I jerked awake after having a nightmare. My T.V. was off now and I could hear the creaking and swishing sounds louder than ever. I jumped to my feet and looked all around the room. It was pitch black but i didn’t see anything and it seemed as though the sounds were coming from right next to me. A cold shiver ran down my spine. “I don’t b...

It’s always fun when you’re in a nearly pitch black room where the only light source is coming from the small mobile device. Your eyes get accustomed to the light, and then you quickly pull it down so you look past it into the darkness of the night, looking into your already dark, gloomy room. You stare, wondering if there are any creatures you can’t see. But you fail to account for the fact that they can see you due to the small bright screen that has illuminated your face for the past few hours, while you lay on your bed, not knowing of their presence, even if you’re staring at them eye to eye in that lurid room of yours. – Credits to:  http://bigcaramel246.tumblr.com/

The annual Masquerade Ball at the VanDerlis’ had begun…Edmund knew it had begun, because he could hear a waltz drifting into the night and through his window. Edmund had not been invited. He rarely  was  invited to large social gatherings, especially not those as prestigious and grand as the Masquerade Ball. No-one ever seemed to quite know how to talk to him, unless it was on business, and who wanted to talk business at a ball? He didn’t mind. He was happier in his own company anyway. He turned to the small gathering he had assembled in his parlor, guests he  was  comfortable with. The Denwood Sisters, spinsters both, sat together on the settee, their heads together as though gossiping. Old Mr. Willoughby slumped in a chair, his chin on his chest, and Mr. and Mrs. Gibbenheimer were poised stiffly on the fainting couch, not speaking to each other. Untouched glasses of brandy or sherry were on a little table in the center of the room. “Well here we are! The Masquerad...

Twice I saw the face in the window, pressed up against the surface, its icy breath fogging the cold glass. At first it appeared strange to me, the skin beneath its eyes drooping in ripples of flesh, exposing the red sensitive strata underneath. It was the winter of ‘83, and I had booked the cabin for three nights – only three. A break was needed, somewhere to relax, somewhere to recover. I’d had a heart attack two months earlier; a painful, excruciating experience which I would not wish on my worst enemy. Lying there sprawled across my kitchen floor, the sharp agony had syphoned through my veins – chest – arm – jaw. I lost consciousness only to find myself in a hospital bed days later. It was my daughter, Jen, who discovered me. Thank God for her. The cabin was to be a retreat, a place far removed from the stresses of my life; the fallout from a failed marriage, the pressures of a flagging career, and the ordeal of staring death in the face. Comfort had become a stranger. Fear, howeve...

All there is black. All noise muffled and distant. The darkness presses in around you, carrying you, weightless. You’re not sure if you even have a body anymore. You see red. Smooth hands pull your limbs roughly. They are moving you. You distinctly remember a great fear leave you as you died. A great light bares down through your thin eyelids and you know yellow again. Sounds wash over your ears like a shower of thumbtacks. Everything seems so bright and insane now. They –  someone  has laid you on the table, is helping you breathe, is cleaning the blood from your skin. You manage to crack one eye open and take in the stark white slate of the world. A young man, younger than you, cuts the umbilical cord and smiles. You’re so afraid now, because something’s gone wrong. You cry weakly for the first time, but no words make it out. You weren’t supposed to  remember. – Credits to: AtomGray

“911, what is your emergency?” “Yeah, hi, um…This is going to sound kind of strange but there’s a man stumbling around in circles in my front yard.” “…could you repeat that, sir?” “He looks…sick, or lost, or drunk, or something. I just woke up to get a glass of water and heard snow crunching around underneath my front window so I peeked out…I’m looking at him now, he’s about ten yards away from my window. Something’s not right.” “What is your address, sir?” “1617 Quarry Lane, in Pinella Pass.” “I’m going to send a squad car your way, but that’s quite a ways out. Are you alone in your house sir?” “Yes, I’m alone.” “Can you confirm that all of your doors and windows are locked? Stay on the phone with me.” “I know that my front is definitely locked, but I’ll go check my back door again really quick. … I appreciate your help, by the way, I know this is kind of strange but I really hope that –“ … “…Sir? Are you still there?” “He’s…he’s still in the yard. But he’s…what the fuck…he’s upsi...

It's funny, how the emphasis in a sentence can completely change its meaning. I remember the example I read; I never said she stole my money. You can put the emphasis on any of the words in the sentence, and it will have seven different meanings when you're done. So now I'm lying in bed, listening to the footsteps downstairs and thinking I didn't forget to lock th e front door emphatically I remember that I said that to my wife the other day, when she found it unlocked in the morning, but the emphasis was different. It was: I didn't forget to lock the front door. There was an implication that it was her who forgot, and she sure as hell picked up on it. Didn't speak to me for the rest of the day. The footsteps are in the kitchen, directly below our room, and I can hear a murmuring of voices. There are at least two of them. But I didn't forget to lock the door. How did they get in? Well, I didn't forget to lock the front door ... but maybe...

Have you ever heard of an i-Doser? I-Doser is something you can find on the internet that is used to achieve a simulated feeling of a 'drug' through the usage binaural beats. There are well over one hundred 'doses' or 'dosers', and some can be incredibly hard to find. What if I told you I found the most rare i-Doser that's ever existed? I came across this one day in the i-Doser store. I was rather bored, so I was just searching the word 'rare' and 'exclusive'. I eventually came up with the great idea of searching 'Satan'. At first, one result flashed in for a split second, but then disappeared once again. Confused, I tried again. Same results. I start up my camera, hoping to catch the unnatural result on film. Needless to say, I did. After searching it a couple more times, just to be sure, I stopped the recording and looked over the footage, at the original speeds. The result flashed in and out like it did without r...

Rob brings a girl to our annual cottage weekend for the first time in eight years, rounding out our group to an even six. Initially, we are wary of including someone we didn’t quite know, but it isn’t too long before she wins us over with her friendly, laid-back personality. And, as a bonus, she’s brought with her salted caramel cupcakes, an after-dinner treat that we devour as we sit around a campfire exchanging the scariest stories we’d ever heard. “You go first, new girl,” we encourage. She shakes her head. “I’d actually like to go last, if you don’t mind. I want to hear all your stories first.” Most of the tales are urban legends: “Humans Can Lick, Too”; “Aren’t You Glad You Didn’t Turn Out the Light”; and several versions of a young couple meeting an unfortunate fate while trapped in a car at the dead of night. Then it’s her turn. “Honestly, stories with blood and gore don’t scare me. They’re so over the top, so implausible, that they’re more ridiculous than they are f...

I bought a new house in the small town of Winthrop. The house was cheap, but the most important part was that I needed to get away from the city. A few months ago, I had a run-in with a stalker. While I had managed to get him arrested, I couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes just constantly watching me. I felt like there were eyes everywhere, at home and on the s treet, so I decided to move out into the country to somewhere with less people, just for peace of mind. The house itself was big and somewhat old, but otherwise very welcoming. The agent who introduced me to the house had been required to mention that a serial killer had lived here in the past, which was why the house was so cheap. However, he, and later, my next door neighbor Sarah, both told me to pay the thought no mind. Four other owners had lived in the house since then, and all of them were very happy with it. I loved the house. Its interior furnishings were beautiful and very comfortable. The people of Winth...

When I pulled up to his house the next morning, I could tell Kyle had cracked. He his skin had taken on a yellowed color and his voice was flat and void of emotion. “It’s not over yet, Kyle,” I said as he dropped into the seat next to me. “Yes, it is, Sam.” He all but whispered. “No, I don’t believe that. Kimber’s dad is missing too, you know. Maybe it was him instead that was…that was…” I couldn’t bring myself to say it. “We’re living in hell. Drisking, it’s Hell in our own reality.” I couldn’t disagree. The town I’d grown to love seemed so foreign to me now. Whitney hadn’t been an outlier like I’d thought. Missing people were the norm here. “And that would make Jimmy Prescott the king. He’s Satan, himself.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth Kyle punched the car door, awaking from his dead state with rageful vigor. “I’ll fucking kill Jimmy Prescott! Where is that motherfucker! You know he’s involved in all this, Sam, you know-“ “Maybe partially.” I said...