The house was empty.
The house was empty.
She had made sure of that.
The rest of the family was gone for the night.
She had put the animals in their kennels for the night.
The house was empty. So why was she afraid?
The night was like any other she had spent in this house.
Only now she sensed something else walked with her, something with no name.
But the house was empty.
Empty, except for that feeling.
She passed through parlor and kitchen and bedroom after bedroom.
She was being watched. She was being watched by nothing.
It was watching her pass from room to room, alone and waiting — but waiting for what?
Even she didn’t know. But it knew. Nothing knew. It new so much that she did not know —
that her family would not return, that the animals would remain in their kennels, that the night would never end.
She would not know, passing from room to room again and again, that the house would always be full of nothing, and her fear would remain — fear of what?
Nothing has her now, letting her eyes see the lurking shadows, unending in their gloom.
She walks and walks and she wonders,
will she ever get to sleep?
~~~~~~~~~~
©Abigail Siegel, 2021
~~~~~~~~~~
This is a short horror story, or poem-type piece, inspired by my slight fear walking from my bedroom to the bathroom at night. Now, I know that there’s nothing there for me to fear, really. But walking through my dark kitchen, I can’t help but feel that preternatural fear that something is lurking. Do any of you ever feel that way?
About the Creator
Abby Siegel
Currently a grad student in classics researching Latin poetry as well as myth and folklore. I write poetry most of the time, and I am working on my first poetry collection. I also write book reviews and other blog pieces.
Keep reading
More stories from Abby Siegel and writers in Poets and other communities.
Clinging to Childhood
The playground is empty, as it should be past sundown. There is a warm breeze, and I can see everything despite the late hour. What time is it, anyway? It could very well be past midnight. I can never keep track of time, especially in the summer. A prickly piece of popcorn hides like a stowaway in the left cup of my padded training bra. I stuffed the tissue in last minute— a decision I’m beginning to regret, based on the events that are unfolding rapidly before me. To my left, laying non-chalantly on his back, is my date for the evening. He is two years older, could probably grow facial hair if he wanted to, and drives a secondhand Honda. He may as well be a Man. I, on the other hand, feel like a fraud with my too-short short-shorts, sparkly lip gloss, and makeshift push-up bra. I keep my arms pinned to my sides as I feel the dreaded circles of sweat beginning to manifest on my brand new Abercrombie top. I cup my elbows with my hands and stare down at my hint of cleavage, praying that the tissue doesn’t pop out like a white flag surrendouring my lack of womanhood.
By Marti Maley6 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.