Crow Street was Misty's favorite street. It was long and swerved like a snake as you drove along it. There were fields along the sides, while big barns and houses stood beside them. Rolls of hay covered the fields on one side while the other faced the water, laying out imagery so beautiful that people stopped to paint there quite often. At night it looked mesmerizing. There were barely any street lights so that you could see each of the stars above us. They twinkled in the night so bright you could see them over your headlights.
One particular night Misty was driving home from her shift at the art store she worked at. It was cold and foggy, but not so much that you couldn't see the street before you. She had a pit stop at 51 Crow Street tonight. It was Mrs. Georgeson's house. She was a little local older woman to whom Misty delivered art supplies due to her legs being unable to leave her house. It's not physical reasoning either that keeps her inside. It's her mind. She's had agoraphobia since she gave birth to her first son and had someone try to kidnap him from the hospital. Luckily they didn't succeed past the exit doors, but the experience left her unable to trust the outside world and the people roaming amongst it.
Misty approached the house and saw a tall, slim shadow pass in front of one of the windows on the second floor. She turned off her car, got out, and headed towards Mrs. Georgeson's door. She gave it three knocks. She waited about a minute until someone finally came to the door. It creaked slightly open, showing the chain lock, keeping it from opening fully.
"I have your paint supplies for you, Mrs. Georgesons," Misty explained.
"You can just leave them on the porch, dear." She tells her. "Is anyone else out there?" She asks as Misty sets the bag down.
"Nope, just me," Misty answered back.
"Good, good." She says.
Misty left right after, though concerned that she didn't see Mrs. Georgesons this time. She only heard her voice. She usually goes in and has a quick conversation with her since she's usually alone all day and needs the company of someone she trusts. Misty decided just to let the thoughts subside and continued with her night.
The following night, Misty drove past Mrs. Georgeson's house on 51 Crow Street after her shift. She stopped to check and see if the woman needed any more supplies picked up this upcoming week. She also needed an excuse to see the woman again. For some reason, something from the night before didn't feel right. Mrs. Georgesons usually told stories at night. Stories of her son mostly. How he was a child and the days when he would play around in the sun. When hearing them, she always thought of The Lost Daughter by Elena Ferrante, which has been that it was always just herself and her son in the stories. Never anyone else besides their family members. Never any of their friends. Like they were an inseparable duo.
As Misty pulled in, she saw a shadow sitting in front of the window on the second floor upstairs. She got out of my vehicle and went up to her door. She knocked twice and waited. A few minutes passed without any response, so she knocked again.
"Don't!" Someone says behind the window next to the door.
Misty jumped up in the air, startled off her feet.
"It's not a good night."
Misty can tell now that it is Mrs. Georgeson speaking.
"Mrs. Georgesons?" Misty asks in a whisper. "Are you alright?"
"Yes, dear. I am for now. It's just one of those nights. One of those nights that cause us all a fright. Even my son. He sits, stares, and does his job but doesn't stop. He continues. On with his life. On with his days. Like nothing of any bad sorts has happened."
"What are you trying to say, Mrs. Georgesons? I don't understand." Misty admit.
"It's just one of those nights, dear. When he was younger, the nights were days. The animals were just for play, is what he would say. I believed him but didn't let him keep them. They frightened me. Now, as an adult, the animals look the same as him, just a different body and face."
Misty stayed silent, unsure of how to respond to the woman.
"It's time for you to leave, Misty. It's not a good night."
"Do you need help, though, Mrs. Georgesons?" Misty ask.
"No, I'm fine, dear. My son is here." She tells her.
Misty decides to listen to the woman and leave for the night.
The next day she tried to drive down Crow Street, but she couldn't get past blinking blue and white vehicles and the yellow crime scene tape.
About the Creator
"The House at the Edge of Shadows"
The house, built in the 1600s, had been on the market for over a year and was haunted by rumors of unseen spirits and lost souls trapped between worlds. The owner reduced the price, but the narrator convinced Priscilla to stay in town. The house's colonial architecture contrasted with the wilderness, and the owl, an owl, seemed to be a guardian, a lookout like the house itself.
By Kamran Alam4 days ago in Horror
Six Feet Under
Buried alive. What a horrible way to go. Yazz lay there, in her own thoughts. What else could she do? She was hungry, thirsty, tired, mentally, and physically exhausted, and more than anything, she was bored. She hoped she would die of boredom before anything else, anything else would've been more painful. Like many people had, she and her friends had talked about what they reckon the worst ways to die were, it was a morbid subject, but it came up every now and again. Yazz had always been one to argue her point on drowning, others had mentioned burning alive, slowly and painfully bleeding to death, hung drawn and quartered, and being starved to death. It was strange that none of them had considered being buried alive, it had never come up. But now, she was thinking back to those conversations her and her friends had had, how could they have not thought about it? It took a lot longer than the others, you were completely confined, you couldn't move or do anything, you just had to wait, until your body was physically unable to support a life system anymore, which could take up to four days. Four! By far the longest out of all of them. She recounted some of these conversations just to try and pass the time, anything to pass the time. It was difficult to know how much time had passed since she had been underground, it was difficult to know anything. There were many things that Yazz didn't know, she didn't know where she was, she didn't know how she'd got into the coffin, she'd just woken up there. Yazz also didn't know what time it was, or even what day it was, she guessed at Tuesday, it was Sunday evening when she'd been buried alive, intentionally, and although it had felt like weeks had passed, she was still alive, which means she hadn't died from dehydration, and therefore it couldn't have been more than four days.
By Liam Storm3 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
So many troubles in the world. Sad but well written story.