Horror
My First Encounter with a ghost
Do You Believe In Ghosts? No, I Don't! Yes, I Do! No, I Don't! Yes, I Do? They Don't Even Exist Yet, They Do Exist! this was the conversation that was going through between two people when I entered a saloon, it was a wonderful Sunday evening, the weather was just awesome, the sun was sinking slowly and slowly in the sky leaving a beautiful tint of orange, the sky was looking just like a perfect painting created by an artist. it was just a normal Sunday evening for me when I went for a regular haircut to the saloon. but I never knew this was not an ordinary Sunday for me.
By Brandsandu4 years ago in Fiction
The Box
Pan was a little quiet. She mostly kept to herself. Although we were best friends she still was very quiet around me. When she did talk it was always very intelligent and specific. She liked to talk about psychology and why a person turns out a certain way. She would come over to my house and we would watch psychological thrillers and crime and serial killer documentaries. I never was a big fan, but I like how she always had a spin on the killer's life. “He is like this because he was neglected by his mother. Instead she chose abusive men over him, so he hated women and emulated the men his mother dated behaviors.” She explained to me after watching a serial killer documentary. She always seemed like she felt worse for the serial killers than their victims.Most of the time the serial killers had horrible lives growing up, filled with abuse and neglect. Pan could relate all too well. I had been to her house one time and her Mom said I could stay, but only for a short time. When I went into her room she didn’t have much of anything in it. It was a sad and bare looking room. We just sat at the edge of her bed and talked about life. As I swung my legs back and forth at the edge of the bed, I hit something under the bed. I jumped down and looked and there was a brown paper box. I slid it out and Pan jumped to her feet and grabbed me. Never touch the box and never open it, she warned. That was the most defensive I had ever seen her. She was always bullied and never stood up for herself, no matter what the kids did. We sat back in silence for a little while before I heard the front door slam.
By Tasha Matthew4 years ago in Fiction
What Happened
Now, before I begin, let me forewarn you that this is a story you probably will not believe. Nobody really believes the stories I tell. I suppose that’s partly because Mitch and I are both born storytellers, a trait that has gotten us into a lot of trouble over the years. We are Storytellers. Liars sounds so malicious and that’s not at all what we are about.
By S.A. Paris 4 years ago in Fiction
Uncle Jeff's Bedroom
Uncle Jeff’s bedroom was orderly. He put the blankets, pillows, bedsheets, curtains, clothes, and business suits in the right place. Uncle Jeff was orderly too; he rose from the bed, took a pee, brushed his teeth and gargled for three minutes to eliminate bad breath, had a shower, put on a pressed business suit, walked downstairs to sip a cup of black coffee prepared by Vivien, cat-walked across the passageway between Bermuda grass, go outside the gate, and left the house for his office job. He always prepared for everything.
By M.G. Maderazo4 years ago in Fiction
Candles
My grandmother told me a story that haunts me today. Not because of the nightmare that entailed the legend, but the reality of it. I was thirteen when she first told me the story. My parents were away for the night, probably loopy from the Pink Moscato they use to keep the marriage alive. They sent me to Grandma’s because it was the easiest option. Grandma was a strange woman, but she meant well. Her grey tresses were always pulled back in a neat bun. The green of her eyes lost youthful saturation. Instead of being as bold as peridot, the yellow hues morphed to the surface, creating a murky shade like the swamps. Her smiles were always bright, especially when she tucked me into bed, but it looked worn out from the years and counting. She talked at one point, knowing what she was saying. Then in the next instance, her words didn’t line up with reality. You were never for sure if she pulled away and forgot she was talking or if she knew and couldn’t control it like a trance.
By Norma Jane4 years ago in Fiction
"It's a box"
"No, I'm not going to touch it, pick it up, open it, nor do I want it. Can't even look at it." John said, perched on the tip of his worn leather mahogany sofa, pointing at the 1x1x1 brown box, sitting alone in the center of his apartment living room.
By Barb Snodgrass4 years ago in Fiction
The Box
The box had been sitting there for two full days. I stared at the abandoned parcel on the sidewalk by my apartment door, taking a long drag off my cigarette. It wasn’t a package for anyone specific because there was no label. It didn’t seem to interest anyone who walked by my apartment on a daily basis, either. The box, wrapped in brown paper, had seemed to just appear on its own two days ago, and had been staring up at my apartment window ever since.
By Mikayla Veilleux5 years ago in Fiction
