Psychological
The Stroke of Midnight 4
Yes, I peeked into that room and now I wish I hadn't. I was actually pushed by something. The lights flickered. The fireplace roared. The masks that were not supposed to be in this room, believe it or not, were sitting as if having a conversation. I felt a hand or something give me a push, but I stood my ground till I got my bearings just a little bit. I continued to study those masks and did approach cautiously where they were sitting. One spoke 'It seems you made it." My voice shaky answered "I guess I did. "Ouch!"
By Mark Graham2 months ago in Fiction
The Stroke of Midnight 3
As I reached the bottom of the stairs the whispering was louder and coming from down the hall. I was hoping that whispering was not coming from the room full of masks that relatives kept giving me, but that I did do something with them. Wouldn't you know it as I was slowly walking down the hall and found myself at the door to the 'mask' room the door right across slightly squeaked open. Do I dare peek? I asked myself. I wonder if curiosity did kill the cat in situations like this. I started to open the door slowly.
By Mark Graham2 months ago in Fiction
Aurelius Ascends (part 2)
Geneva, Earth The arcane bunker, which, for secrecy and privacy, could be accessed only via sublevel two of the local hospital's main electrical backup department, was currently housed there for clandestine reasons. It had previously been accessible only via a series of 320 abruptly descending stone steps to reach the 192-foot sheer depth (58.5 meters), and was originally fitted with cheap wooden railings on both sides for stability, alongside electrically powered bulbs for lighting; those had failed over the years, making the trip down increasingly unreliable when making the descent to the bunker, particularly as the deeper down someone went, the more the stone walls and steps had been damaged by natural surface water seeping in through the rock face.
By Jonathan Townend2 months ago in Fiction
Taking the prohibited path
You may have heard that curiosity killed the cat, and yet you can't resist the urge to investigate where you should not go. Over and over, you have been warned not to go into the wooded area behind your home, but you feel beckoned.
By Cheryl E Preston2 months ago in Fiction
The Christmas Music Box
Halloween had always been Darren’s favorite. It was a shame, Rebecca thought, that he was no longer here to celebrate it. She thought about the last Halloween - how his sandy blonde hair had stood on end, pulled by the static as he slipped off his batman mask, blue eyes twinkling in the orange glow that permeated everything that night. She thought about how she was torn over celebrating, or not, as she hoisted tote bags full of his favorite peanut butter filled chocolates onto the counter. She knew he would want her to celebrate, how his smile would have crinkled into a mischievous smirk planning costumes and tricks to go with the treats, but her broken heart felt so empty now that faux tombstones had turned into real monuments of grief. Her melancholy escaped from her chest in a deep sigh as she looked around the quaint kitchen until her eyes found the trim around the door that led to the mud room.
By Ellie Hoovs2 months ago in Fiction
The Stroke of Midnight 2
There I was laying in my bed and I heard "You're next." whispered so hauntingly. For some reason I was not really just afraid I was terrified for I also heard a growl. I got up and believe or not I faced the fear and grabbed the crucifix I had on the dresser. I slowly opened the door, and it seemed quiet and I proceeded quietly looking around all corners. The whispering started again and carried the crucifix higher and spouting "Get out Evil." Whispering continued as I continued to the end of the hallway and then went downstairs slowly.
By Mark Graham2 months ago in Fiction
Stitch: The Flash-Freeze of '96
While the rest of the riders at the Orlando regional track were choking on dust and chasing brackets, Bane was trying to drown out the oppressive, ninety-two-degree Florida heat. It was late October of 1996, and the air behind the staging lanes smelled heavily of sunbaked asphalt, race fuel, and hot metal. He leaned his shoulder against the rusted frame of a tool trailer, spinning a pedal with the toe of his skate shoe. To everyone else, he was just another local kid killing time before the next moto. In reality, he was completely detached, exhaustion pulling at his eyes.
By Syl De'Vil2 months ago in Fiction
The Stroke of Midnight
At the stroke of midnight when things start to go eerily quiet. You are sitting wherever at your desk, in your favorite chair, or maybe even in bed all nice and cozy. Then it starts the scratching, the whining, the whispering. You sit or lie there hoping and praying that the sounds stop. It goes eerily quiet again. The clock still shows midnight, but it seems later and at that time the footsteps plod along, stopping at your door, whispers you can't make out, but you try to understand. There's a screaming howl just then and you hear "You're next."
By Mark Graham2 months ago in Fiction
Stitch: The Scent of Rain
You smell jasmine first. Not the soft, powdery kind that blows through open lace curtains in the spring. This jasmine is sharp, almost bitter, tangled with the thick, oily perfume of crushed neroli and the heavy, metallic scent of rain. It is the exact sensory loop that has haunted your sleep since childhood, a phantom aroma that always wakes you up with your pulse hammering against your throat. It is the only warning you get before you step into the clearing.
By Syl De'Vil2 months ago in Fiction
