SHORT STORIES

The Hands That Silence You

By Zainab Shahid

Thin, pale hands grab her shoulders, the ice-like breath tickling her ear.

“Trick…or… treat?”

Aura’s head snapped back, yet nothing stood behind her. Shivers travelled up her spine. The Halloween mood was rich; the squeals of children flooded the streets. Aura shrugged the feeling off, rolling her shoulders, and knocking on the door, “Hello! Trick or treat.”

No sound came. When Aura went to knock again, the door creaked open. Confused, she called out, but no one answered. Darkness filled her vision as the same ice-cold hands from the street pulled her inside. Aura screamed, but no one heard her.

Crushed Heart

By Anonymous

I never intended for all of this to happen. For me to be cornered and unable to run in a labyrinth of her making. Her games have left me unable to be without her, never to be free from her, and never to live a life of my own. I never thought that was bad because as long as I was with her, all my worries left me. I never wanted to surrender my heart, and yet she took it from me, which was no choice of my own. Her hands were delicate yet strong, with a grip like a vice so enticing; however, it was something that would be my downfall. I could feel her fingers curling around my heart, squeezing tighter and tighter and tighter. She squeezed the life from me, giving me a deathlike pallor and leaving me a hollow shell. My mouth was getting dry, and I realized that the longer I was with her, I was pulled deeper and deeper into my love for her. But that image of her has shattered in this moment. I no longer wanted to think about her, so I started to reminisce about all my memories, the good and the bad. I know I was not the best person going to the bar often but I always came home and spent time with her. My vision got cloudy; maybe my thoughts did, too. My soul and my spirit are gone and left to wander forever with no purpose. She took my heart, and in death, she left me, and there I was, imprisoned in my mind for the rest of eternity, forced to repeat the last thought that I would ever have. “Do we get what we deserve?”

The Faded Love: A story of loss & The Treasure of Family

By Anonymous

An abandoned swing still swinging.

On the top of a hill, there’s no life except for a naked tree. 

There’s something attached to this tree. 

The rusty and decaying metal lets out a high-pitched creak with every movement. The rotting wooden seat soars, slicing through the air. The swing that never stops swinging is what people call it. 

As clouds fill the sky, the sound of giggles from a young child floats in the air, but there’s no one there. The clouds begin to cry silently, but the seat of the swing remains dry, and the giggles grow. The swing flies higher than before, and there’s a scream of delight and fright. As the rain continues to fall, two figures fade into view. 

A father and his son. 

The father grins, and his son beams. Their forms sway as their smoke-white bodies continue to form. As if injected, colors begin to plenish their bodies. The whole land begins to de-age. An inexplicable and astounding thing. From harlequin to emerald green leaves, the tree now wears. Forest green moss lines the smooth umber bark that was once jagged and on the brink of death. The land goes farther back in time, a story being told backward in less than a second.

The time warping comes to an end, and the story is revealed.

A pregnant woman and a jittery future father have a photo taken of themselves in front of their new house. They both smile ear to ear and look down at the baby bump. They rest their hands upon it, and their expressions fill the brim with bliss. They’re ready to begin their new life. They’re ready to have a new life. Cradling in their arms. Waking them up at 3 in the morning. Diaper changes. Tantrums. They’re ready for it all.

Time passes, and they’re a family of three.

Everything is perfect.

But nothing lasts forever.

The mother withers, and the boys weep at the demise of the woman. They bury her body below the tree they took leisure on.

Two years later, the boy, now eight, still refuses to go outside. The father now cries for the death of his wife and the loss of his only son. He looks out to the tree in hopes of a sign from his lost love. No sign received; he remembers the time that his child was swinging on one of the branches while his wife was scolding him. An idea sparks in his mind, and his heart fills with a glimmer of hope.

The father now drags his son outside, for he refuses to do so willingly. The son complains that it’s going to rain, but the father is now determined to see the smile on his son’s face that always lit up his world. They reach the tree in no time, and the father sets his son on the swing. 

The son’s gaze immediately reaches his mother’s grave, and his eyes sting. Water lands on his skin, and clouds fill the sky. His tears stream down his cheeks, and he shuts his eyes closed. The father faces his son and wipes away his tears while his own threatens to break free. The father hugs his son, hiding the liquid that leaks from his eyes. Both of their sobbing slows, and the father gets ready to push the swing he made. The son nods when asked if he’s ready, and he soars into the sky. Instantly, he screams with joy, and a massive grin replaces his monotone expression. The father feels lighter at the sound of his son’s laughter and joy. A beam breaks through the father, and together, their ebullience is palpable. The rain falls from the sky and soaks their clothing, but their tears no longer fall.

A flash of light streaks through the air.

A mirage of red, oranges, and yellows consumes the sky.

Smoke engulfs their lungs.

Screams and coughs fill the area.

And then…

It’s silent.

The time warp ends, and the unspeakable and harrowing scene is over. 

The scene of joy and laughter now has a cataclysmic and tragic shadow to it. The rain dissolves along with the sight. As light shines on the land, the laughter, creaking, and other sounds of joy dwindle to nothing.

And yet again, it is.

An abandoned swing still swinging.

Untitled 1

By Lylah Wallbridge

Silence.

It’s the sound of a meadow mosaiced with flowers in shades of saffron, apricot and lime. 

Silence.

It’s the sound of plump clouds whose shadows dance to a gentle song of wind and birds over sleeping hills and peaceful cows.

Silence.

It’s the sound of a spring skies red merging with oranges and peaches to create an ombre portal into heaven.

Silence.

It’s the sound a dead body makes, as it lies face down, drowned in crimson’s seven seas. 

It’s the sound of morning trees, the paralysis of an upturned root, the guilt of a 10 foot jagged cliff. The sound of open eyes, in shades like hummingbirds wings and clear tides.Of a string bracelet, woven by the hands of a three year old, embracing a swollen wrist. The sound of fingers bent backwards, in a pathetic attempt to break the fall. Of a crushed skull, the left side collapsing inwards with chips of bone embedded into a mess of scarlet organs.The sound of carefully plaited pigtails, woven by a mothers gentle hands. It’s the sound the dead child makes, the sound of shock as the mother finds her, the sound which she lays encompassed in, as she sits on a tree stump above the bloody scene. 

She can’t quite move, hasn’t for hours, perhaps even a day. Instead she sits so still that even a doe, with its brilliant brown eyes, doesn’t dart away. Instead, it nuzzles its nose into her open palm, its eyelashes drooped with sickness and sympathy. A mother to another, both lost in a world of predatory death and pain. 

Her eyes sweep the cliff, desperate to find a way down. Chalk coats dried vines like icing sugar, but they are too frail and fragile to support her weight. So instead she stays still, longing to touch the child’s icy skin.

The mother blinks quickly, so as not to lose sight of her child for too long. Not again. A small tear escapes her red eyes marking more to come. She mumbles aimless accusations, which escape in puffs of mist through her chapped lips. She curses the root. The cliff. The sky, for driving the child’s attention from the ground. Yet they rest unapologetic but guilty. 

The mother finally stands with shaky legs, her creased, darkened eyes trailing over the pale, dewy corpse. The stump she sat on is embedded into her pale thighs in deep, red lines which clash against goosebumps. Ghostlike, bony arms shiver against her damp chest. She reluctantly glances behind her towards their cottage which rests in the colorfully pollocked open meadow. Her gaze lingers on her house, now deprived of love. A shell, full of perfect memories. But if she goes back, that perfection will be lost in her sadness and emptiness without her love.

 Her eyes trace the path which her child had taken hours before, lingering on the upturned root which had sent her child flailing off the ridge. Her eyebrows drop but hold firm above cheeks marked with dried, salty river beds. In her eyes, the gloomy clouds blow to make way for raging storms. She backs away from the edge of the cliff in ten slow steps. Her whole body is shaking in uncontrollable panic and fear but also, excitement. Her sight flutters everywhere, taking in the world around her for a final time. She appreciates the willow’s droopy branches blowing gently in a breeze which carries pink clouds on its chilled back. The dew which hangs off lengthy grass which is patchworked into coarse, chalky soil. The cliff, the killer, eager for its next victim.

The mothers lips quiver with adrenaline, and a final tear escapes her scarlet eyes, before she surges forward, following the path her child took the day before. She runs, the cold wind whipping through her matted hair, pushing against her, forming a pathetic barricade, begging her to stop. She leaps off the rugged cliff and crashes into jagged rocks. Pain sears like wildfire through her side. She looks down to her knee bent backwards and a rib bulging out under a thin layer of skin. Her blood swirls into the crustier, darker pool beside her which once belonged to her child.

She groans as she moves to face her child as she tastes iron in her mouth. She stares into her child’s dead face until her own eyes get coated in thick crimson. The mother reaches forward to wrap the blood drenched mess in her arms. She’s finally at peace, dying just the way she’d always wished for. With her love embraced in her arms, the two halves merged into one. Dying loved and in love. And as they sink into this silence the boundaries between life and death blur, the fragile world of the mother and her daughter breaks, but the two remain intertwined with one another like the anchored roots of a nearby tree. Cradled, in delicate silence.

Cleaning Day

By Anonymous

I know I’ve been here for too long when my hands start to sting. When I pull them out of the water, they suddenly feel cold and ache like someone is pulling the nerves inside them. The uneven bumps on my skin are even bumpier than usual, like small sand dunes. But I still have more clothes to clean. 

There is no way for me to know when they are clean, so I rub them against the sides of the bucket for as long as possible. I keep going until the water is cold. When that happens, I refill it. 

I swirl the cloth around on the bottom of the bucket. It’s the button-up. There are small buttons with even spacing on one side, and they go from top to bottom. I bring it up and down. When it emerges from the water, for even just a second, it hangs heavily in my hands. It has absorbed much of the water. 

When 30 stones are in the jar, I know it’s cleaning day. It is on those days I empty the jar and start over. The clothes hang on the thin rope for 4 stones before I take them down. 26 stones more, and I know I have to go out to my yard and fill the bucket with hot water. 

–

There he is again, cleaning the clothes of his victims. I watch through the gaps of my curtains as he hangs brown-tinted clothes on his clothesline. His hands tremble every time they move, and for every step he takes, he only travels a few centimeters. 

The old man looks like he’s rotting. His clothes hang off his shoulders like second-hand rags belonging to a giant. I squint and put my glasses further down my nose, as if that would make my vision clearer. But I know what I’m looking at. The man is too blind to get the blood off, so every piece of clothing dries with a pale, ugly brown color. 

On the notepad next to me, I scribble a couple of details. Last month I drew pictures. The month before that, I took photos. It’s all collected in my book. I even took the measure to write subtitles under the pictures, the ones I took and the ones I drew. I turn my eyes back to him. I simply cannot keep them away. There is something alluring. It’s the way he moves. It’s how he never has a smile on his face except for when he walks back to his cottage after hanging the clothes up. 

He disappears into the house with that smirk. I stand up rapidly. The chair screeches against the floor and almost topples over. I almost don’t notice it, but give it a glance when the back of my mind reminds me how Vilma nags about rasps on the floors. My legs are moving me forward, yet my brain isn’t catching up. It’s only when the front door slams closed that I come out of it. I stand on the staircase landing as Vilma appears at the bottom of them. When she sees my face, her right eyebrow rises. That’s what she does when she knows I’m onto something. 

–

I’m standing in the pharmacy. The scarecrow warning kids off stealing reminds me of Peter’s face last night. He had jumped out of his skin when I entered the house. His eyes were wide and looking at me as if he was a wild animal and I prey. I knew why. I saw Hans coming out of his house with a bucket of wet clothes a few minutes earlier, and my eyes stuck themselves to his brown cardigan. I supposed the ones in the bucket looked the same. 

It’s early, so no one but shop owners are awake, get ready their stores. But Rick knows me; he always lets me in before everyone else. He doesn’t need to ask what I came for. He puts it on the counter when I give him the coin. Today, the dose is stronger. He gives me an eyebrow when I hesitate to grab it. Today’s the day, it seems. 

The sun is up along with the birds. They’re quietly singing along to the weak morning breeze. Their tunes flow away with it. I approach the cottage. I see the brown clothes hanging outside and recognize a few of them. They’re visually damp from the rainy night, but no matter: he will take them inside in 4 days. I knock on the door loudly, making sure he hears me. 

Hans opens the door. His cardigan is the same one from yesterday morning when he went to get water. The water pump is even older than himself, so naturally, the water comes out musty and brown. I saw it from Peter’s study, though it was a miracle I did. His curtains are shut so close he needs candles to see his papers of scribbles, even if they’re right in front of him. 

The inside of the house is the same as when I first entered again six months ago. Pictures of his wife and children are everywhere. I see my younger self smiling broadly next to my brothers and sisters. We’re holding a four-clover between us, wearing white button-ups, matching our white hair. Rick sure looks more wrinkly now. A memory starts to trickle in, but I rip my eyes away. I focus on Hans instead. If I didn’t already know, I would have mistook his wrinkles for frown lines. Peter always goes on and on about his cleaning day smirk, one that I cannot see being formed by his lips. But I don’t have time to dwell. Hans’ hands are red and carry blisters. 

“Here,” I hand him the ointment. I hesitate before giving him the painkillers. 

“Who are you?” he croaks. 

“I’m your nurse,” I say. My hands tremble when he grabs the pills. I wonder how much I’ll tremble when the day comes when the only place I can see him is through a rock with his name on it and know I put him there, “My name is Vilma,”

–

The Knocking Under the Boat

By Anabelle Croucher

Summer was coming to a close, just like the day. These were probably going to be the last few nights before the seasons started to change. The sun was starting to set, shining in a perfectly golden way. The last hours of the day’s warmth were settling in. The old dock still stood, with even fewer planks now than last year, the weather had slowly worn away at it over time. But the lake was still the same. It always was. Always there, different in the different seasons, but always there. The same lake. I wandered down the dock towards our small rowing boat. The same boat that I had had since I was 6. Over the past 10 years the paint was chipped and faded, as if showing the countless adventures it had been on. I pushed off the dock and began to row into the middle to the lake. The sun reflecting perfectly off the waters. The water was still and calm, not a wave or ripple around. 

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK. I sat up suddenly. What was that? There was nothing else around, no other boats out on the lake. KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK. From under the boat there was a loud knocking sound. KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK. And again. Slightly shaking I tried to row away, when the ores fell into the water and floated away. Stranded. The day seemed to turn to night almost instantly, long shadows cast over the lake from the nearby cluster of trees, I felt the wind pick up, and start to howl against the leaves. KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK. I had heard that before. 

I sat back down.

A sudden chill ran down my spine as I was transported back to this time exactly six months ago. My breath visible in the winter sky as we walked, heading to the lake. We were going to skate across the icy surface. The weather was biting at our faces as we ran across the dock and jumped onto the surface. The night sky blocked out any lights other than the moon. As I slid one way, he slid the other. I got back up and tried to find him, my voice growing smaller with every empty response. It felt as if the darkness had swallowed us both up. Separately. KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK. I looked down, a wave of unease washing over me.

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK. It was the same sound, I was sure of it. It felt like he was down there, somewhere beneath the surface, reminding me. The air felt cooler, thickening around me. The sound of my own heartbeat became the only other noise beside the persistent knocking from under the boat. The shadows seemed to be hiding figures waiting to jump out. The smoothness of the surface was broken with ripples all around. KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.

I felt the weight of dread settle over me like a heavy fog. Each knock resonated through the wood of the boat, vibrating through my bones, a relentless echo of that night. I leaned over the edge, peering into the dark water below. It was as if the depths were alive, shifting and writhing, but no matter how hard I looked, I could see nothing but the inky blackness. The memories clawed at the edges of my mind.

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK. The sound was louder now, insistent, urgent. I could feel my breath quicken, panic clawing at my throat. I scrambled back, my heart racing as I fought the urge to call out, to break the silence that felt so fragile. I remembered how easy it had been for the lake to consume my friend, how it had drawn him in with its deceptive beauty. 

Suddenly, a cold wind whipped across the surface, sending a shiver down my spine. The air turned thick, almost suffocating, as if the lake itself were inhaling deeply, preparing for something. KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK. I clenched my eyes shut, willing the sound away, trying to banish the memories, but they flooded back, vivid and raw. 

His face, pale and frozen, pressed against the ice. His mouth opened in a silent scream, his eyes wide with terror as the last bubbels escaped from his lungs. 

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK. I opened my eyes again, and the world felt different, warped. The shadows along the shore seemed to stretch, elongating into dark shapes that danced at the edges of my vision. I blinked, and they flickered, almost like they were taunting me. The lake rippled once more, an unnatural swell, and I felt the boat sway beneath me, almost as if it were alive. 

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK. My fingers trembled as I clutched the sides of the boat. I knew I had to get back to the dock, to safety. But as I turned, a sound like a whisper curled through the air, curling around me like tendrils of smoke. 

“Help me.”

It was barely audible, just a breath, but I recognized that voice. My friend. 

I froze, paralyzed by fear and regret. “No!” I shouted, my voice cracking against the stillness. “You’re not real!” But deep down, I could feel the connection, the bond that had once been so strong. The water around the boat shimmered, and for a brief moment, I thought I saw a face rise to the surface, just beneath the reflection of the fading sun. 

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.

The urgency in the sound grew frantic, each thump a plea, a desperate cry for release. I felt the tears start to well in my eyes as memories swirled around me—laughing, skating, a friendship that had been ripped away in an instant. 

“Please…” 

I couldn’t tell if I was speaking to him or to the lake itself, but it didn’t matter. The shadows at the edge of the trees seemed to darken, gathering, closing in around me. The wind picked up, howling like a banshee, and the knocking turned into something more chaotic, more frantic.

Then, with a final, desperate crash, the bottom of the boat jolted upwards as if something from below had struck it hard. I was thrown off balance, tumbling backward into the cold embrace of the lake. 

The shock of the icy water was blinding, and as I sank beneath the surface, the world above faded into silence. 

And then, I heard it. A voice, clearer now, echoing through the depths.

“Help me.” 

The water wrapped around me like a shroud, pulling me down into the darkness. I fought against it, but something held me there, tugging me deeper into the abyss. I reached out, my hands grasping at nothing, and just when I thought I might break free, a cold grip seized my wrist, dragging me further into the depths.

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK. 

The sound faded away, replaced by a silence that felt almost welcoming, as I surrendered to the depths below, where the water whispered secrets long forgotten.

Horror Story

By Avish Arora

A cerulean tablecloth, eloquent plates, and glimmering cutlery. Elbows tucked in, sat with meticulous posture. One knife cut elegantly into a pea and entered a gaping mouth. It was dinner time at the Lockwood family; eight family members sat across a long dining table. At the head of the table sat Mr. Lockwood, a wealthy man but poor in heart. Next to him sat his prized daughter Amelia—a particularly small girl with pigtails dressed in black clothing. Whatever she wanted, she would get. Just by looking at her, you could tell how much he spoiled her. In return, she gave him the utmost respect.

“Pass me the salt, please,” said Mr. Lockwood.  

“Yes, Daddy,” Amelia replied sweetly. 

One thing about Amelia was her obsession with meat. Every day, from morning to night, for every meal, she consumed unholy amounts of flesh. She was a pure carnivore. However, there was no protein at the table tonight, only peas and mashed potatoes. Amelia was reluctant but continued her dinner in silence. Everything went on peacefully, with cutlery clanking and mouths chewing, until suddenly, a noise arose from the ceiling.

Thud thud.

At first, no one noticed and continued eating.

Thud thud.

Perhaps it was just the mind playing tricks.

Thud thud.

This time, it could not be ignored.

Mr. Lockwood’s brow furrowed as the third thud echoed above, louder now, unmistakable. The clinking of cutlery ceased, and all eyes turned to the ceiling. The air thickened with an uncomfortable tension, the uneasy silence hanging over the dining table like a storm cloud.

“What in heaven’s name is that?” muttered Mrs. Wellington, Mr. Lockwood’s sister-in-law, glancing nervously at her husband.  He looked at her, equally nervous.

The thudding came again, more pronounced. Something—someone—was upstairs.

Mr. Lockwood rose as if in sudden wonder;  “I shall see to it myself,” he answered, with roughness in his voice, though he physically seemed composed.

Before he left, his eyes drifted to Amelia. She had not looked up once. Her fork toyed with the peas, dragging them around the plate in idle, slow circles. Her face was calm, but there was something about the way her lips curled slightly at the edges—a small, knowing smile that chilled him to the bone. 

“Amelia, did you hear that?” he asked.

She blinked, looking up at him with wide, innocent eyes. “Yes, Daddy,” she spoke softly,  “But it is probably nothing.”

He hesitated, watching her for a moment longer before turning away and heading toward the staircase. The air in the hall felt colder as he went up, the dim lighting casting his shadow. His footsteps creaked on the stairs, echoing ominously in the empty space.

As he reached the landing, the noise came again, this time right above him—a low, steady thud. His heart raced as he opened the door to the attic, the sound growing louder. The air was pale and thick, with dust and cobwebs hanging from the corners. He strained his eyes in the dim light, his breath catching as he spotted a figure in the far corner. 

It was one of the maids, lifeless, her eyes wide open, her throat torn open as if by the jaws of an animal.

He ran down the stairs, his heart throbbing. Something was terribly wrong. 

When he returned to the dining room, he froze. The table, once full of his family, now sat empty, except for Amelia. She sat alone at the head of the table, her once-pitch black dress now darkened with stains of bright red. The plates and cutlery were knocked aside and smeared with blood and bits of flesh. 

“Where… where is everyone?” Mr. Lockwood asked, his voice trembling though he dreaded the answer.

Amelia looked up at him with that same sweet smile, her cheeks flushed red. “They were delicious,” she said softly, her voice no longer the voice of an innocent child but something darker, something primal.

The realization hit him like a sledgehammer. His heart sank into his stomach as he glanced around the room. The bones, the blood—it wasn’t just dinner—it was them. His wife, his siblings, his in-laws. Amelia had eaten them all.

“Amelia… what have you done?” he gasped, taking a step back.

She stood up slowly, the chair legs scraping against the floor. Her eyes, once filled with joy, now glowed with an unholy hunger. “I was still hungry, Daddy,” she whispered,her voice sounding like a bloodthirsty demon. “I told you… I love meat.”

Mr. Lockwood stumbled backward, his mind racing for a way out, but it was too late. Amelia’s small, weightless body moved with terrifying speed, and before he could react, she pounced at him, her teeth sinking deep into his shoulder. He screamed in agony, trying to push her away, but she was too strong, her tiny fingers gripping him like iron.

His vision blurred, and the last thing he saw was Amelia’s face—her innocent, blood-smeared smile—before everything went dark.

The dining room was quiet once more. Plates lay shattered on the ground, the once-vibrant blue tablecloth now soaked in deep red. Amelia sat back at the table, alone again, her hunger finally sated. She wiped her mouth delicately with a napkin and smiled wide open like a Cheshire cat.

Don’t tell anyone

By Anonymous

“Don’t tell anyone” 

“What do you mean? Have you completely lost it?” 

“You will regret it.”

We stood there like corpses; I was cold; all I wanted to do then was go home; I had had enough of this trip. It was the school year of 2002; I was a senior; the last year of school meant that we would do everything we had never done in school; this was an old tradition. I was walking into school when I saw my friends walking towards me, but there was an unfamiliar face; she was walking slowly and smiling.

“Hey!! I’m so excited!!” 

“I know!”  

“Hey, meet Lara; she is new to school,” Maya exclaimed. 

“Oh hey! You just moved?”

“Yeah” Lara replied. 

“Where did you say you moved from?”

“I didn’t,” said Lara. 

Silence.  

She said nothing; should I ask her again? Oh well, maybe she didn’t understand what I said. 

It had been days since the start of school, and school had started sinking in; it was crazy. During lunch, we discussed the week’s break, and that’s when Lara said, “ We can go to my summer home outside of town.” she smiled at us and turned her head to the right. Some nerve impulses went through the whole body, but I didn’t know what it meant because everyone else agreed and talked about how great of an idea it was, so we agreed we were going to Lara’s summer house in Florida. Upon our arrival, the house was not big. Still, for some reason, the yard and backyard were so big, the interior was well done, it was blue and white, there were so many vases, the kitchen was big and beautiful, they had everything for us to survive the week, I started looking forward to it. 

“We should go to the pool!” said Maya

“ wa-wait, we can’t go yet”, said Lara

“Why not?” asked Maya 

“It-t is being cleaned”, Lara responded 

“ ok, but I’m going outside, I cannot stay inside”, said Maya

We all went with her, and we saw the enormous pool, but for some reason, it had red tiles instead of blue, which is when I asked, “Why are the tiles red?”

 “It’s harder to see”, Lara replied, staring into the pool

“Why?” I questioned 

Silence. 

I wondered why she ignored me. I hadn’t done anything to her; was she offended?

AHHHHHH! HELP ME

I got up. 

What was that? I looked around; Maya was not there; was she screaming?

I went downstairs, slowly scared as hell, I tiptoed. 

“Lara!”

“Yes”

“What are you doing here?”

Silence

She turned around 

“I said, what are you doing here?”

“I-I was hungry.” 

She kept walking

“ Did you hear anyone screaming? I just did; I’m so scared.”

She turned her head towards me quickly.

“What?” she asked

“I heard a scream,” I replied 

“ You were not supposed to”

“What does that even mean?”

“Hmm”

“Ugh, I’m going up. Also, have you seen Maya? She is not in bed.”

“No, why would I see her?” 

I went up, looking at the ground. All I could do was think about her comment. What did it mean?

With instinct, I went down again, but I wanted to hide away from her this time.

She cleaned a knife in the sink, wiped it, and took it outside. I followed her. 

She opened the garage, and I heard the muffled sound. She closed the door, and I saw the light from below the door. I went in closer and heard the same scream, but everything else was muffled. 

She opened the garage, and I stood there right in front of her, she stared at me, and said

 “Don’t tell anyone” 

But that voice, it was not hers; she sounded different

“What do you mean? Have you completely lost it?” 

Where is Maya? Why did I hear a scream?

It’s nothing, let’s just go to sleep,

And why is your hand-ds red, is that bl-blood?

“I’m going to tell everyone that you’re some psychopath.”

“You will regret it.”

What did that mean? I ran up, and she followed me; she held me by the collar of my pyjamas and dragged me into the pool, which now had water; she drowned me.

Nightmare

By Lena Spetter Mendoza

It’s been like this for some time now. No control, no happiness. Except in my dreams. Every night, the same dream, and every morning, the same. Nightmare. 

No one believes me, trusts me or listens to me. Not really. A middle-aged man recurrently visits me and inspects everything he possibly can. He checks my veins, my heartbeat, and my retina in my eyes. It’s like I’m an object here for examination. And this room is my cage. Whenever someone comes in, a slight warm gleam of light shines into my room—a small glimpse of hope, an escape to freedom. 

It felt like ages, being trapped in this horrid room. There is nothing to keep me company except for the people who doubt me. Everything surrounding me is either white or metallic. The bed I have woken up in creaks as I move to sit. I get up, and my legs wobble as my body tries to sustain its weight (which isn’t very much). I look at my arms and my legs, skinny as poles. To see how close my bones were from peeking out my body gave me chills. I shouldn’t have to endure this. 

Every day, I’d stand up and do my “daily rounds.” No matter how much I tell them I long to be in the outside world, these monsters won’t let me leave my room. I walk around my dull room, hoping that all this walking will pay off one day and I will manage to leave this horrible hell. However, today is different.

I hear a faint, weary voice, like howling winds from a long distance away. I can’t make out anything of it. I assume it was the cause of the terrible pounding headache. God knows what they’re feeding me here. I hear the voice again; this time, I can slightly listen to what it’s saying. 

“… Help me. Please.”

My heart races, recognizing the sweet, innocent voice pleading for my help. I hear the voice once more.

“How could you do this to me? Why?”

“No, this cannot be happening. No, no, nonononononono~!”

I start pounding on the walls and doors as purple and green bruises cover my knuckles, and sharp pain shoots up my spine. 

“ I need to get out of here. NOW!!! Someone, help me; I’m stuck; I’m going to die!” 

“PLEASE!!!!!”

It’s like people are trying to ignore me. They don’t care if I die. Well, it would probably be more convenient if I did. Get rid of this monstrous burden they have to take care of.

“You monster, you horrible devil. The blood. Oh, the blood on your hands. It will never be washed away. It is stained in your history.”

To my luck, the middle-aged man comes in with his teal green notebook and clipboard in hand. 

“Hello, Mr. Rodway. Ready for your examination?”

I look at the glimpse of light—my sweet escape. I cautiously walked closer to the door, about 7 feet away. As the sad doctor checks his clipboard, not even aware of his surroundings, I rush outside my room and into a dimly lit hallway. I look up and down, my shadow flickering below me. I walk through this hallway with no end, only light in my path and crinkly white walls surrounding me. I run my hands across the walls, and a damp feeling and moisture cover the surface of my hand. Suddenly, I hear a loud shout.

“Sir, please return to your room. You shouldn’t be out here! You are safe; just go back to your room, sir.”

“Your murder, your pain, I did not deserve it. How could you do this and let it slide?”

“Please, help me,” I tell this nurse to let me leave the hallway. “I’m stuck; someone is trying to harm me. I won’t survive there.”

“Mr. Rodway, you are perfectly safe as long as you are in your room.”

“You don’t understand!” I slam my fist against the wall.

“Sir, I’m going to have to call for help.”

“PPLLEEAASSEE!!!!!!!”

 I collapse on the ground and hug my knees as tightly as I can.

Then, a sudden rumble crumbles under my feet, lights flicker, and I hear a whisper. The voice is no longer in my mind; it’s so strong as if it were right next to me. A horrible screeching surrounds my ears like nails against a chalkboard. Then, all of a sudden, unbelievably solid winds blow against my face. My breath starts to hyperventilate. All of a sudden, the entire room is covered in black. I get up and start running as fast as possible so that this thing, voice, whisper, and spirit do not consume me.

“Mr. Rodway, you’re not supposed to have left your room!.”

I understand what he’s saying, but a screeching sound howls into my ears, and I can feel it vibrating in my heart. There is no way I am being kept in this soulless prison.

“My life now burns in your heart. My life is in your hands. The way you enjoyed it—every single carve. My cheeks overflowed with red liquid. And all you did was walk away. Your cause, but you have no consequences. At least not. Yet.”

“My family. My poor family. All they wanted was for me to have a good life. And now I can’t even have a bad one. All your pain, you let out on me.” “Your nightmares are now mine.”

“No, no, no, no, nononono NO!” 

All of a sudden, I catch a clear glimpse of sunlight. I can tell it is sunlight, which warms my skin as I run closer. This being the only thing I can see clearly in the dark, I trust and run with all my might as I burst two large doors open, lighter than my quarter’s door. I look around, cars sweeping by me and chatter surrounding me. I look up, and a clear light blue sky and warm rays hug me. I glance at a sign creating a giant shadow over me, “Whispering Pines Insane Asylum,” and feel a chill. The nurse appears, urgency in her voice. 

“Mr. Johnson, you shouldn’t be out here. Please come back!” But once more, a whisper fills my ear. 

“RUN.”