Not Before It Caught the Rat...
Spooky Micro fiction entry
There was only one rule: don’t open the door. A simple concept for someone with no inquisitive bone in their body. For me? It was practically a neon sign over grungy, walnut stained frame and phosphorescent paint around the doorknob.
No one home but the cats and I with empty hours in between. The door at the back of the middle bedroom closet was mine. Normally hidden from view, weeks of decluttering had made it a treat waiting to be explored.
Checking the door locks, I made my way up the old stairs. Each step getting dustier as the other floor came into view, paw prints faint from the cats stalking what tiny prey they could find and tormenting the spiders in the low laying webs.
When the door opened into the dark kitchen, the strip of light illuminated enough to see the dust particles dance in the stagnant air. Moving with thinly veiled excitement, I made my way to the once storage room.
There it was! The same dingy, dank glory! Tucked innocuously behind empty hangers, the door I longed to see inside. Was it full of old maps? Or maybe, old dresses and love letters from the war! Moving myself in position, I prepared to pull and tug until its secrets became mine! Pulling and prying at the seams warped with age and paint, it jerked open.
No, no, NO!
The door revealed a small linen closet, but the contents were horrid! Baby clothes with unmentionable fluids staining and bones laid akimbo. Each shelf with the same scene; a tiny mausoleum, different clothing eras.
In shock, I walked back downstairs, one foot in front of the other.
Whose children were those?
Were they marked missing?
My curiosity was cured in new-age shock therapy.
About the Creator
Bianca Hubbard
"We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect." --Anaïs Nin
I love to write, read, and laugh! I can be found reading fanfiction, spending time with my nieces and nephews or relaxing with my cat after work.
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More stories from Bianca Hubbard and writers in Horror and other communities.
Solemn Blankets
Cushioned dust in hues of glacial blue and artic white sprawl the hillside. Each roll mimicking that of small children tucked in warm comforters. The bench, hardly used, stuck out of the landscape like an Ancient Wonder lost in modernization. Mossy green eyes stared at the expanse, yet no rolling swells were in sight. I can’t. I CAN'T DO THIS! You never, NEVER consider me! You quit your job to move to another position with less pay. The decision? Made by yourself. Uproot our life to move two states over? Who made that decision? Oh! I know, it was you. All. By. YOURSELF! Every lie you tell yourself is that you're doing this for us! You're a coward. The only thing you continue to do is run. Run from your own misery because you are inept! Blistering cold gnawed at exposed skin, drying already malnourished flesh. Crystalized water, unique shards of careless ice dance, shadowing each word like text graphics. Lovely for extra points; pathetic and cruel in romantic notions. Burning chills cut through layers, a red hot iron faced against cheap copy paper. Tinkering chimes ride the winds, taunting with reminders of alto growls. Low and feral like a cornered animal. Ill-tempered winds linger, transporting bitter remorse like stars crossing the Milky Way. Come spring, when snowfall nourishes the ground, memories will sprout. Distant stories will be prominent as the headstones rise like tulips. Each carving a grotesque reminder. Words spoken are not easily returned from erroneous speech like melted snow.
By Bianca Hubbard2 years ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
such a great writer