sugarfruit33
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The Birthday Hut
For as long as I can remember, I’ve visited the birthday hut. Every year on my birthday, when my parents go to sleep, I’d peek out my window, my eyes locked on the backyard grass. Waiting excitedly, my heart would skip with each blink. When suddenly, there it was. Its roof was made of layered straw, its walls wooden. And through a glassless window glowed a warm, orange light. My eyes would widen as it appeared from thin air. As to not wake my parents, I would tiptoe down the steps, although I wanted to run like the wind. Slipping out the back door, the grass would crunch beneath my feet as I approached it. The wooden door appeared to be hand carved, it’s indents sloppy. And the golden knob was scratched; long past it’s days of glimmer. It screeched as I turned it, the door creaking as it opened. The warm, comforting air wrapped around me like a hug as I stood in the doorway. In the middle of the room was a small wooden table with matching chairs for two. Towards the back of the room was a crackling fire that illuminated the hut. Over on a wooden counter stood tiny wooden jars that contained treats, ones that I would be allowed to eat each birthday. But my gift was always the best of all. And finally, dangling from the ceiling by his tail, was the birthday monster.
By sugarfruit334 years ago in Horror
Wandering Soles
“Soles,” read the sign that hung above the small store; “Walk In Their Shoes” written below it. The motto caught my eye on my way home from work, and the color-faded sneakers on my feet were ogling it too. A little bell rang as I opened the door, the inside smelling like leather. There were rows of shelves with dozens of pairs of shoes, all different kinds. An old man sitting behind the register perked his head up as he saw me.
By sugarfruit334 years ago in Horror
