There’s a noise under the bed. Ignore it. It’s all in my head.
There’s a noise in the closet. Ignore it. There’s nothing there.
There’s a noise at the bedroom door. Knocking? Maybe it’s my brother.
I should check. What if it’s an emergency?
I pull aside my blankets and swing my feet out of the bed, planting them firmly on the floor.
The knocking stops. Maybe it was never there. It’s all in my head.
I try to remind myself of that as something grabs both of my ankles and pulls me into the darkness under my bed.
About the Creator
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More stories from Kevin McMechan and writers in Fiction and other communities.
Soul Searching
The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. Jacob had driven past the place hundreds of times, but not once had he ever seen a light, or any other sign of life, come from within the old shack. If it wasn’t so far off the paved road, he might have gone to check it out, but hiking through the woods in the dark wasn’t something he was in a hurry to do. It really wasn’t his concern, whatever was going on in the cabin, but he didn’t want a bunch of kids to burn the place down either. After all, his own home wasn’t too far away, and fires could spread quickly. Maybe he’d check it out in the daylight, he told himself, but by the time Jacob arrived at his house, all thoughts of the cabin had disappeared.
By Kevin McMechan4 years ago in Fiction
Miss Persephone's Manual to a Seemingly Ordinary Life
Miss Persephone was found at the dining table, her blue eyes swollen, her tears arriving and retreating like the tides of the ocean. Earlier that day, her family had visited her in the retirement home where she had lived for eight years. It was her eightieth birthday.
By Imola Tótha day ago in Fiction
How to eat Cornflakes
I grew up in a blue-collar suburb flanked by factories. We were the only Asians within a two-mile radius. Our neighbours were men dressed in hi-vis vests, cargo pants, steel-capped boots and either hard hats or hair nets. They would pour out of their steaming boiler rooms at the sound of the smoko whistle, empty truck palettes becoming makeshift seats for them to perch on as they wolfed down their salami and cheese sandwiches in a few ravenous chomps. Their wives would pack them cool drinks in summer, and thermoses of hot tea during the bleak winter months, when daylight savings would cloak the world in longer stretches of darkness. Mind you, it didn’t make much difference to the workers in the windowless factories. At the end of each day, they would stream out of the factories like ants making their way back to their respective queens who were waiting dutifully at their single-storey fibro nests with their supper of meat and three veg. The asbestos poisoning and lawsuits by dying men and their soon-to-be-widows came later; though that is a different story. Ditto the chemical leaks into the local water supply.
By Paris Rosemont7 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
oof! goosebumps