prompt_id,prompt,story_id,story_title,story_author,story_url,link,genre,is_sensitive,categories,likes,story_text,posted_date,comments
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,fxaszh,AM I LIVING IN A HAUNTED HOUSE?,Corey Melin,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/fxaszh/,/short-story/fxaszh/,Horror,0,"['Creative Nonfiction', 'Horror']",22 likes,"
I lay in bed reading a horror book when I see movement from the corner of my eye coming from the other side of the closed curtain. I slowly lower my book, my mind screaming at me not to. There is a shadow floating on the right side of my window. At first, I thought it was the shadow of the flag, flapping in the wind, but quickly realized this is no flag. I stare at the shadow as it moves up, then to the left, then down, then to the right before repeating the cycle again.
      “What the heck is it?” I mutter.
      The shadow changes shape repeatedly until it stops, and now resembles the head of a dragon. At first, my curiosity piques, but then an unexplainable fear overtakes my senses, and I am on the verge of leaping out of bed. Whatever is distracting me does not bring peace my way, but a terror that will affect my lifetime. I thank God the curtain remains closed, for I do not care to see what is producing that shadow for I had a feeling it will cause my sanity to leave me. Yet there seems to be an unknown force pulling me to the curtains. The shadow floats by my window for eternity haunting me. I cannot pull my eyes from this shadow. Thankfully, it eventually dissipates, and I can relax. A weight lifts from my body, and the fear dissipates. I get up from the bed wondering if I should go over to the window and throw open the curtains or exit the room.
      “Restroom break,” I say to myself as I open the door and walk down the hallway to the bathroom.
      This is the first eerie episode I had encountered in this house I recently occupied. A one-story home with a garage, living room, dining room, kitchen, laundry room, three bedrooms, and one and a half bathrooms. No talk of evil spirits by the past owners, but would they honestly say such to me, for they did not look like such fools? They were the first occupants when the house came into existence, and all went well for them. That is what they say to the ignorant future owner.
      For the next week, I did my best to explain the bizarre episode. At first, a floating balloon entangled by the pole of the flag. But I never saw a balloon changing shapes by itself. My imagination tends to run wild, especially when I am reading a book. Could this be my imagination at work?
      I purchased a couple of small dogs to keep me company not long after. Not intimidating to the human world, but hopefully toward the ones from the beyond. It made me feel much better to have another living being in my house.
      A month went by when the next episode took place in my house.
      “Get out of there!” I call out to Bingo, the mischievous one, who is trying to get into the fireplace for I have thrown the covering to the bacon into the place.
      As I went back to the recliner, I thought I heard a noise come from the back door. I stop in my tracks and listen for a time, but only hear Bingo moving about. I look around, not seeing Ringo so possibly him. The dog’s food and water dish are in the laundry room, close to the back door so very will possible so thought nothing of the matter as I go over to sit, and back to the book on the crusades. Not long after I started reading, I heard the noise again. It sounded like something tapping on the door, then tapping the floor, then back to tapping the door. I sat there for about a minute, listening to the episode.
      “Ringo!” I called out.
      The tapping stopped.
      “What is that dog doing?”
      I get ready to walk around the corner and into the kitchen to the laundry room, when I hear a distinct sound that stops me in my tracks. The sounds of a heavy boot walking from the laundry room toward where I am. I look around, trying to find something to use as a weapon. I see the small baseball bat lying next to the chair. I quickly grabbed the bat as the steps came closer. I raise it up, ready for the intruder to come around the corner. If the intruder has a gun, my life will end, but I will get in a good swing or two, I hope. I continue to wait as the footsteps cross the kitchen floor but seems to be taking too long to appear in front of me. I stand there, not sure what to do. The steps stop and the anxiety goes up for is the intruder going to appear or do I go to it. I ponder if I should call out, but it would more than likely come out as a squeak so kept my mouth shut. Perspiration covers my body as fear grips me. I stand for who knows how long, trying to decide what to do. Decision abruptly comes forth as I step forward toward the kitchen, with the bat raised to swing. I near the entrance to the kitchen, wondering if I should jump out or peek around the corner.
      “Just get it over with,” I thought.
      I leaped out, prepared to swing, but there was no one there. Instead, Ringo looked up at me. I looked toward the laundry room, seeing no movement.
      “There is no way you could have made those sounds,” I said to Ringo.
      Ringo walked past me into the living room, leaving me to confront the intruder.
      I meandered through the kitchen toward the laundry room, preparing for the intruder to leap out. But when I entered the laundry room, there was no one there. I checked the doorknob, locked.
      “What could have created those noises?” I muttered.
      There was only one other place I had not checked out, and that was past the laundry room and into the bathroom. The room only had a sink and a toilet, so there was no space for the perpetrator to hide.
      I walked to the bathroom, seeing no one in the room. I went over to the window and saw it latched shut.
      “Nothing,” I said.
      I turned around and was about to leave the bathroom when I heard the footsteps again. They started on the other side of the kitchen, coming toward me, but my eyesight saw nothing. I grabbed the doorknob and slammed the door shut as the steps entered the laundry room. I quickly locked the door as the steps came up to the door and stopped. I had the bat raised, ready for whatever tried to break in. If I still had my sanity, I would realize the bat would do nothing to my invisible terror.
      “What am I experiencing?” I thought. “Too much horror I’m taking in that is bringing madness upon me.”
      I am not a believer in ghosts, but is this what I am encountering?
      “Am I living in a haunted house?” I mutter.
      As I mutter the words, I hear the tapping on the floor, then on the back door, then back to the floor. This went on for a time before it stopped. Then the footsteps started up again, heading to the other end of the kitchen, ending. I slowly opened the door, seeing there was no one around.
      “I need to get out of this area.”
      I rushed toward the living room, at one moment feeling quite cold, but soon I was in the living room by the fireplace.
      Both dogs lay on the couch, looking at me.
      “What is your problem?” I can imagine them saying.
      I went over to the coffee table and grabbed the remote control.
      “Put on some sound and hopefully that will calm me down.”
       I turned on the television and turned up the volume. I did not want to hear the footsteps and the tapping.
        Part of me wanted to leave the house, to never return. The other half thinking whatever was creating the noise was not causing me any harm.
           “Just freaking me out,” I muttered. “But not freaking my dogs out?”
           I sat down in my chair with the bat nearby, knowing the bat was useless against a ghost, but it was reassuring to have it near me, anyway.
           The rest of the night I sat in the chair watching the tube, then dozed off to wake up an hour later wondering if the ghost was still around.
           “There is no way I’m going in that kitchen.”
           I eventually dozed off again, waking up off and on throughout the night.
           My day at work was miserable due to lack of sleep. I spent the entire time contemplating on what I should do. I could move out, but then I would end up losing much money and wind up in an apartment, which I do not want to do. I could go to a church and have a priest bless the house. I could have a psychic or ghost hunter come in, or just live with it and get over my fears. If harm did not come my way, then I should be okay. But what about my sanity?
           “It could make it an interesting home life,” I muttered.
           My life was dull overall, so the reason I read so much of the fantastical. Living this kind of life in my house might be interesting. Of course, part of me screaming I was insane to have such thoughts.
            It came to me living at the house, encountering footsteps once a month and little odd things happening. At first, scared, but eventually I became numb. Soon I was like my dogs, and just enjoyed the roof over my head, no matter how bizarre it was to live under it.
","September 13, 2023 00:51","[[{'Hannah Lynn': 'Just uncertain enough to be unsettling.  I guess one can get used to just about anything!  I can imagine the main character feeling on edge to say the least.  This was a fun read :)', 'time': '00:42 Sep 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Corey Melin': 'Thank you for the comments!', 'time': '00:46 Sep 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Corey Melin': 'Thank you for the comments!', 'time': '00:46 Sep 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Martin Ross': 'I love it. Once you recognize the important “fact” about ghosts — that the worst they can do is scare you — why not just live with or even enjoy it? Clever! And great use of the present tense.', 'time': '12:53 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Corey Melin': 'Thank you for the comments!', 'time': '18:47 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Corey Melin': 'Thank you for the comments!', 'time': '18:47 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'AnneMarie Miles': ""I am believer that ghosts do make themselves known, and young ones are certainly more open to hearing them. Very scary. Glad the haunting didn't escalate and thanks for sharing!\nFor future reference, be mindful of your tenses. Probably harder with this piece since it really happened to you, but I noticed the tenses changing within paragraphs."", 'time': '04:46 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Corey Melin': 'Thank you for the comments and tenses are a thorn in my side that I always try to correct', 'time': '18:46 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'AnneMarie Miles': 'It is one of hardest parts of writing! We all make this mistake.', 'time': '21:00 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Corey Melin': 'Thank you for the comments and tenses are a thorn in my side that I always try to correct', 'time': '18:46 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'AnneMarie Miles': 'It is one of hardest parts of writing! We all make this mistake.', 'time': '21:00 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'AnneMarie Miles': 'It is one of hardest parts of writing! We all make this mistake.', 'time': '21:00 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Karen Corr': 'Scarier when it’s real.', 'time': '21:10 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Corey Melin': 'Yes indeed.  Especially when one is young', 'time': '21:16 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Corey Melin': 'Yes indeed.  Especially when one is young', 'time': '21:16 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Tricia Shulist': 'Interesting mixture of fear and pragmatism.  I like how the practical side tries to explain away the paranormal.  I also like how the dogs are unaffected — so much for the belief that pets sense the other-worldly!  Thanks for sharing.', 'time': '19:17 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Corey Melin': 'Thank you for the comments. Maybe it was this particular small dog we had since after the experience we laughed about how the dog just looked up at us after the incident', 'time': '21:11 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Corey Melin': 'Thank you for the comments. Maybe it was this particular small dog we had since after the experience we laughed about how the dog just looked up at us after the incident', 'time': '21:11 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Marc Rothstein': 'The descriptions of the haunting and your reaction were very detailed and involving. I can believe thus actually happened to you.', 'time': '14:40 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Corey Melin': 'It did for the most part. Just like movies you add to it. I did see the shape of a dragons head and there was footsteps to come upon our dog. That is where it ended. Not continuing on', 'time': '20:37 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Marc Rothstein': ""Cool. I've found it easier to start with something that's really happened. Glad you lived to tell about it."", 'time': '21:30 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Corey Melin': 'It did for the most part. Just like movies you add to it. I did see the shape of a dragons head and there was footsteps to come upon our dog. That is where it ended. Not continuing on', 'time': '20:37 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Marc Rothstein': ""Cool. I've found it easier to start with something that's really happened. Glad you lived to tell about it."", 'time': '21:30 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Marc Rothstein': ""Cool. I've found it easier to start with something that's really happened. Glad you lived to tell about it."", 'time': '21:30 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Oh, my. You really lived this incredible tale? \n\nThanks for liking my A.Sassin', 'time': '17:11 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Corey Melin': 'Yes indeed. The difference is that I was much younger', 'time': '21:30 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': 'All the scarier!😜\n\nThanks for liking my monsters', 'time': '01:14 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Corey Melin': 'Yes indeed. The difference is that I was much younger', 'time': '21:30 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'All the scarier!😜\n\nThanks for liking my monsters', 'time': '01:14 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'All the scarier!😜\n\nThanks for liking my monsters', 'time': '01:14 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,rba22b,Three Knocks,Amanda Lieser,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/rba22b/,/short-story/rba22b/,Horror,0,"['Horror', 'American']",19 likes,"
CW-phobias to be triggered include-Claustrophobia, Thalassophobia, Pyrophobia, Kalampokiphobia, Apotemnophobia. Enjoy…Three knocks come to the door-all in a row-with a gentle, but adamant rhythm. Open your eyes, I think to myself. And I think they open? I am stumbling from my bedroom down the stairs-not even noticing that my husband isn’t by my side.What time is it?I can’t have slept that much. Last night was long. Yesterday was longer. I had willed myself to bed by 10pm with the images of rejection letters dancing in my head-How am I so exhausted?The stairs elongate in front of me and I finally put it together while looking for my own front door. I am in a dream. Three more knocks shift to slapping the door. The panic is setting in. It’s Candace. She’s already here to pick me up for the gym? It’s too early.All four of my limbs weigh fifty pounds each as I will myself down the steps, towards my door. The house is pitch black all around me. Not even a single light casts hope through our living room bay window. As I find myself at the door, searching for Candace, I vaguely hear the doorbell. It plays a soft song, unknown to my own memory. I peer through the cut out window of our front door and I am greeted not by Candace’s shining green eyes, but by my husband’s deep brown ones. They’re glassy and red, like the day we put Dasher to sleep. My eyebrow crinkles in concern, but as I peer in closer, I am transported.This is not my house. This is not my living room. All around me is glass. I run to the wall closest to me, suddenly able to in this horrible nightmare. I am searching for my beloved. I should be able to see him, standing on the porch. I breathe horrible circles of hot breath on the glass and stare out at a dark forest. It’s from Hollywood. It’s not real. Wake up.Wake up.Wake up.“Hello, hello my lovelies!” greets Sally Sampson. There’s no way that’s her real name, just a gimmick made up for her viewers. But my publisher told me to tune into it, so I do. The camera pans over to Sally on her couch, clutching a cup of coffee. Beside her is a poster board blow up of my very, first, book cover. It’s nearly all deep, pitch black. Except, for the sliver of the house in the background and the shadows of the looming forest in the foreground. It’s breathtaking. I insisted that we choose that cover when Allie pitched the ideas from the art department. And there is my name-how thrilling-in deep red text: D.D. FOSTER. Allie had insisted we go with DD, rather than Darlene Decampos, and we tossed my maiden name in just for giggles, so that the stereotype of women being unable to write horror could be tossed to the side. I remember thinking, I didn’t even know that was a stereotype.The camera zooms in on Sally’s luscious, glossy red lips as she proclaims she is obsessed with my book. Beside me, Alex scoffs. He runs a hand through his hair before using it to grab mine beneath the blankets. Sally gives a generalized summary of my blood, sweat, and tears, “A new thriller with a nightmarish twist. Can you imagine realizing that the love of your life is trapped outside as a demonic forest looms towards you and your home? God, sends shivers down your spine, don’t it?” She does a dramatic shiver and a fake southern accent. I had told Allie I had no business setting it in the south, since I myself had never set foot below the Mississippi before, but she said that Colorado forests just weren’t that scary. Too much evergreen. Too Christmasy.Alex shifts his weight on the couch, bobs his knee impatiently. “They’ll wrap up soon,” I promise him as Sally tells her viewers that a major streaming platform will be airing their film version of my book in the next month. The celebrity cast as me sachets onto the stage to the adoring fans delight. They scream her name and applaud loudly. Alex rolls his eyes. He gets up from the couch when he sees me beaming.“Hey,” I shout at him, “This thing took, like, five years! Aren’t I allowed to bask in the glory a bit?” I slump back into the couch, feeling like a deflated balloon. Sally yammers on about the premier and asks the actress if there were any real sparks between her and her co-star. I remain annoyed that they played up the romance scenes I had crafted into something that could never be categorized as inappropriate. I had worked so hard to be tasteful.I don’t even look up when Alex sits. His glass of water forms a ring on my coffee table. He turns to face me, “You can be excited. You deserve it. I just don’t want you losing yourself.” I turn up the volume on the TV in reply. You weren’t writing until 2AM to finish crafting the perfect scene. You didn’t print out all of the publishers’ rejection letters so you could tape them on the walls of your office to convince yourself to edit just one more time. Can you believe they aren’t real letter anymore, Alex? What had the world come to? The nightmare that is now a day dream doesn’t belong to you. A real shiver darts down my spine and I settle into his chest as he turns the channel to a football game.The beach is so warm. I sigh into my towel, listening to the sound of waves as they crash. Open your eyes, I think to myself and then stare up at the sun. It’s less bright than it used to be. I am dreaming. But this one is sweet, pleasant. I long to hold onto it. There are no gulls calling, no children running and screaming, no problems.Beside me is my husband, who deserves this vacation as much as I do. He didn’t want to go on the book tour, but the way Alex’s character blew up in the film, he found himself urged by my editor, publisher, publicist…me. When I turn to look for Alex I find myself alone on the beach. I will myself to sit up, cup a sunshade over my eyes using my hand. Before me, the deep blue sea. I open my nostrils, longing to breathe in the scent of salt water, but find myself unable to. Probably, because I have never been to the sea. It’s just a concept, to me. I lean back on my palms, pull my legs to my chest, and find myself with no voice, like that one mermaid, as I call out Alex’s name. My mouth opens, my tongue drops to the bottom of my throat as I scream. Not a sound can be heard over the gentle waves. I feel hot tears run down my cheeks and I decide to stand. My legs won’t push up, won’t move. Get up! Get up! I need Alex. Out of guttural instinct, I find his name running to the front of my mouth to no avail. I am wailing now, wailing silently on the beach without my love. I push my weight into my hands, hoping and praying that I can stand. And I can! Suddenly, I am standing. I am relieved. My eyes take in the beach, finding it completely clear. No Alex. I start to scream for him, make a megaphone out of my hands so he can hear me. Defeated, they flop to my sides when he doesn’t appear. I need to move. Alex has to be here. He used to be. Didn’t he? My toes scrunch on my bright blue towel with red crabs on the border. That’s when it starts. As I un scrunch my toes, they fall off. I scream. When I try to bend to pick up my precious piggies, I find that my body is frozen like a statue again. Out of panic, I stare out at the ocean and scream my husband’s name. I tell myself it’s time to walk away, a person can survive without toes. Why aren’t I bleeding? Isn’t it human to bleed? Shouldn’t this hurt? As my feet begin to move, I begin to fall. I lose my calves, then my thighs break off at my hips. I am left as half a human, wailing at the sea. My hand reaches out, as if looking for Alex. His name is lodged in the back of my throat. My fingers fall to the sand like their toe counterparts. Cowards, you couldn't even manage to stick around. Where’s my wedding ring? Oh, Alex will be so mad if I lost my wedding ring on vacation. Thoughts scatter in the sand as my hands break off at the wrist. I lose my forearm moments later, followed by my shoulder. When I turn my gaze to my right side and find my other arm is victim to the sand only seconds later. Oh, Alex. My mid section folds in half and I am left face down, the memory of the grit of sand manages to weave into my mind. I am spitting and spitting and spitting. And gagging. And gagging and gagging. The waves creep up. I can feel their spray on the back of my warm neck, on my scalp. The first one creeps up and crashes. Then, the next.And the next.Until I can’t breathe. Until I am left in my sepulcher by the sea. It’s my fault. The realization is another wave crashing into me. But this one hurts more somehow. This isn’t the ocean. These are my tears. Because Alex has left me. Alex didn’t leave me. Not really. He wakes me up a few minutes later, me in the dead of night and I am lulled back to sleep by the sound of his heartbeat which only sings for me. It’s a relief and I am back to work on the sequel inspired by my most recent terror. The first four chapters are sent to Allie before breakfast is served. She writes back one word: brilliant.Over coffee a few months later, Alex tells me I’m looking tired. “That’s a stupid thing to say to your wife,” I reply with a smile. We are sitting at a local diner and our breakfast is yet to be served, but around us the place bustles with life so we accept it’ll be a while. “It’s the truth,” protests Alex. “Honey,” he leans across the table to take my hand, “You haven’t slept properly since your first book was published.”“Life just looks different now,” I say to him. “Is it worth it?” he asks. I nod and sip my coffee. I am back in the wretched glass house. I am insufferably hot and I can’t really see. Where are my glasses? I am searching the headboard because it has those little shelves that Alex loves to put stuff on. I find empty water bottles, endless empty water bottles, and a couple old mugs, but no glasses. I need to go downstairs. I am downstairs. This is the only cool thing about a dream; you can just teleport. The thought makes me smile and I press my body to the cool glass of this random living room that doesn’t belong to me. Hot breath billows before me like a dragon. I smell the scent of smoke first. I whip around and find myself in some kind of horrible maze. Walls of terrible white surround me. My walls have never been this white. There’s a moment of pride in my dream self when I hear a soft crackling behind me. The fire is chasing me! I dart in, abandoning my glass window with the ominous forest.The first dead end forces a left hand turn as I feel the heat grow closer and closer. Don’t look back. Whatever you do, don’t look back.A right hand turn is my only option at the next dead end, but I can pick left or right at the third. I pick left since I am left handed. My second smile of the dream creeps its way in. This corridor is long. I run and don’t find myself out of breath. Looks like that gym time is paying off. A third smile. The sound of crackling frightens me, though and when I look to find safety in the white walls, I realize they are growing darker and darker with each step. I can’t turn back. The fire will kill me. I will myself to stop. I am standing in front of a door. It’s white. I stare it down, knowing it’s my final quest. The door handle is silver; it belongs to me. It’s hot to the touch and I wince, but feel the heart of the fire behind me. This or certain death. I manage to open the door and step into a white room. The door softly shuts behind me. When I realize I am out of options, I turn back as quickly as I can. But the door handle is back to being on fire and I can feel the cracking of the fire on the other side. It whispers a promise of the end. I pace the room in circles. Look up. I find no secret hatch, no window. Wake upWake upWake upIt’s just a dream. It’ll be a great book. What a way to end the trilogy. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up!I slump against the wall facing the door, feel the way the heat seems to suck the air out of my lungs, and resign myself to my fate—Alex’s question ringing in my ears, “Was it all worth it?”Breaking news: Famous Author DD Foster Collapses at Book Signing: She has been rushed to St. Michael’s, her husband of twenty five years at her side. We now go to a live coverage of Sally Sampson…“Oh my Loooorddd! It is just awful! No one is telling us anything,” she says while placing a manicured hand over her chest. “Oh! Oh gosh! Wait…it looks like Alex is stepping onto the hospital steps. This may be an update!”Alex clears his throat. The microphone peals with feedback and the reporters' cameras click with each photo. “Uh…thank you to everyone who has come…uh…the doctors are unsure of what happened to Darlene…er…DD…but, they have placed her in a medical coma,” his voice breaks and he shies from the camera. A woman with red hair in a messy bun steps up and introduces herself as Allie. She explains that the doctors hope DD will recover after some much needed rest. “They’re saying her brain was just overloaded with it all,” Allie adds and waves a hand at the cameras, threatening to blame the media who don’t shrink back. “We will release another statement with more information just as soon as possible,” she promises and steps away from the mic, as the hoard of reporters move in on her demanding more information. Allie takes Alex’s hand and hospital security pushes the crowd back.Sally turns back to her cameraman, presses her glossed lips together and asks, “Well, did you get all that? What a terrible turn of events. Guess we’ll never get to read that final book.” She bursts out laughing and signs off saying, “Back to you in the studio, Eric!”
","September 08, 2023 15:36","[[{'Michał Przywara': 'A very poetical take on the prompt - the tortured artist is her own haunted house. She put too much of herself into her work, for her work\'s sake, and it turned into one hell of a burn out. Writing horror might have added extra weight to it too.\n\nBut when her husband asks ""Is it worth it?"" and she says yes, we believe her. Of course we do. Because if she hadn\'t committed so much of her life to her work, she would have been mired in regret. This house is haunted regardless, isn\'t it?\n\nThe dream sequences, particularly the bits where she must ...', 'time': '01:50 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Kevin B': 'I love that you took such an internal route with this prompt. This is, to me, so much more suspenseful than something driven by external factors. Great job, and thank you for all your insight into my work today as well!', 'time': '18:36 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Marty B': 'Good description of losing it, I see her own head as the haunted house, not letting her out. \nI also appreciate the struggle, sweat and tears to write a story!', 'time': '03:44 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Whoa! That was pretty intense, especially the dream sequences. The body heaviness and the glass walls really point out, allegorically, her exhaustion and her feelings of being judged (glass houses and all that). The beach sequence also has heaviness, but then she loses body parts, attesting to losing herself in her work. All through it, she searches for her husband, but she can't find the warmth and comfort and protection she needs from him. What this says could be many things, but it seems like maybe she feels that Alex doesn't support her ..."", 'time': '22:04 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Helen A Smith': 'Hi Amanda\nThe dreams/nightmare are so real in your story, I almost felt like I was in them myself. The elongated stairs, the all too white walls. The beach one was particularly freaky. Feeling disembodied like that. Scary stuff.\n\nThe images in the dreams are fascinating because they express the way the MC feels. Then, in spite of her success, her husband asks “Is it worth it?” That alone is disturbing another kind of nightmare. Presumably, her dream to be a successful writer have been with her a long time and it feels undermining. She’s sear...', 'time': '08:20 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Yes, the haunting feeling of not being able to escape and searching for what you can't find.\nExhausting."", 'time': '20:11 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'AnneMarie Miles': 'Wowza, Amanda! That was quite the ride! I love this unique take on the prompt. We can really be our own haunting. Especially when we are stressed and putting ourselves under enormous pressure, external or internal. In this case, I think it was both for DD. \nYour descriptions were incredible. Each scene jumped magically to the next, exactly the way dreams do. I felt her anxiety with every word. This is excellent!', 'time': '05:16 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,7f1plu,Gardenia,Kevin B,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/7f1plu/,/short-story/7f1plu/,Horror,0,"['Funny', 'Horror', 'Fantasy']",15 likes,"
The family left Gardenia around five in the morning. They quietly packed their things and left, stopping only to clean the fridge, because they felt strongly that a dirty fridge would speak poorly of them and their abrupt departure. When they left, the fridge was clean, and there was still blood all over the walls.
 
The blood did not belong to anyone in the family. It had started pouring down from the ceiling, and the family decided that was the final straw. It was one thing when specters appeared at the top of the stairs with two heads and horns. It was another when knives were flying across the kitchen narrowly missing the head of the family’s youngest, who was only two. It was startling when the family dog suddenly grew to five times its size and ate the family’s Sedan. All of that was unfortunate, but the family had gotten Gardenia for a steal. They were apprised that it had a…colorful past. They were a bit put off by it, but then they saw the guest bathrooms, and the very thought of having guests, let alone guest bathrooms, was simply too good to pass up. It took blood coming down the walls three weeks later for them to vacate.
 
Once they were gone, the Bloody Devil manifested out of the television and made itself a sandwich. It was proud of the family. When they had first moved in, it hadn’t expected them to last more than a few days. It figured the first time the lights flickered, and the cicadas swarmed the toilet, they’d be out the door. That was the thing about some families. You never quite knew how much they were willing to put up with for a house with a fireplace and good insulation. The Bloody Devil ran its clawed paw along the wall and licked up a smidge of blood.
 
“This batch was too spicy,” it said to itself, “I should have used less red pepper.”
 
That night, as the Bloody Devil was falling asleep in the guest bathroom tub, it heard a sound. When it opened its fifth eye, it saw what looked like a little girl standing in the doorway of the bathroom. For a second, the Bloody Devil thought the little girl was one of the daughters from the family that had fled that morning, but when it blinked, the girl was gone. Just to be safe, the Bloody Devil turned off all the lights in the house so it could scan the darkness for any signs of living energy. When nothing turned up, it chalked the whole experience up to a bad dream. It returned to its bath, but when it did, it found that the shower had been turned on and steam had filled the room.
 
There, on the mirror, was a message written in what appeared to be a human hand.
 
“We’re back.”
 
From that day forward, the Bloody Devil, who had haunted Gardenia since the day it was built on top of a collapsed pagan temple, never knew a moment’s peace.
 
Children’s toys would materialize in the living room. Toys with sharp edges and wheels that the Bloody Devil would step on, yowling as it fell backwards into the fireplace. Dirty dishes were somehow always in the sink, despite the Bloody Devil only eating off Ouija boards. At night, as it tried to sleep, it could hear the sound of a man and a woman in the next room.
 
“I’m telling you, we don’t have the money to stay an extra night.”
 
“We’d have the money if you took that job my father offered you.”
 
“We’ve been over this, Natalie, I am not taking a handout from your father.”
 
“So I guess you have to tell the kids why we’re leaving Orlando early then.”
 
The conversation didn’t scare the Bloody Devil as much as it made it very, very anxious. Were Natalie and the man going to stay together? They sounded so unhappy. Were they going to break up? Why was he hearing this when they weren’t even here?
 
That wasn’t the only time it heard voices.
 
“You are not going out dressed like that, young lady!”
 
“Jesse’s mother lets her go out like this.”
 
“That’s why Jesse’s going to end up in a documentary someday.”
 
“What does that even mean?!?!”
 
The Bloody Devil would hide behind the couch whenever these arguments were going on. It couldn’t locate the source of the voices no matter how hard it tried, but it also couldn’t bear to just sit on his throne made of vole skulls and pretend it didn’t hear the conflicts. They were always so domestic. It preferred higher stakes, life and death, passion and terror. Hearing a mother and daughter go at it because the daughter put on too much eyeliner made the Bloody Devil want to rip off one of its two heads. The one with the ears.
 
After a century of living in and haunting Gardenia, it was the Taco Night that made the Bloody Devil abandon the house. It wasn’t expecting any trouble what with it being a Tuesday and what with Taco Night always being something the family seemed to look forward to, based on what the Bloody Devil could surmise going off only voices and the satisfied sounds of chewing while a mysterious odor of sour cream and pico filled the air. It made the Bloody Devil hungry, but it couldn’t eat anything, because there didn’t appear to be any food there. It was torturous being exposed to such lovely aromas without being able to feast. It tried to placate itself by gnawing on the leg bone of a unicorn, but it just wasn’t the same.
 
The Taco Night started out fine--as best the Bloody Devil could tell. Plates were laid out, soft shells were placed next to hard shells, and the Dad made a corny joke about tortillas as he always did. Groans followed. Then some clanking of silverware, and the sound of mastication. The Bloody Devil bit down on what little bit of meat was left on its unicorn leg, but it fantasized about what the ground beef must taste like when covered with shredded cheese and lettuce.
 
That was when one of the daughters announced that she wouldn’t be attending her own high school graduation.
 
The Bloody Devil had no idea why the teenager chose this instance to make such an announcement when everybody seemed to be having such a nice time, but, as far as the Bloody Devil could tell, this was just something teenagers did. They found themselves in a pleasant moment and felt a compelling urge to ruin it.
 
Right away, there was a fracas. The mother informed her daughter that she absolutely would be going to graduation, because she and her husband did not work and save to send their daughter to a fancy private school only so that she could skip the grand finale. The daughter then pointed out that the mother doesn’t work so, really, it’s just the father who should decide if the daughter has to go to graduation. There was a pause while, the Bloody Devil imagined, the mother waited on the father to back her up, but then the father just said “I didn’t go to my graduation either” and then the mother exploded on the father, which led to the teenage daughter shouting in defense of her father, while the youngest child cried, and one or two middle children began to loudly sing some song about gravy and a turkey’s neck for no discernible reason other than maybe trying to diffuse the tension or quell their own anxiety.
 
At one point, it sounded as though someone--probably the mother--went around picking up the various plates full of soft shells and hard shells and pico, and began smashing them on the floor. This led to more noise, and somebody ran out the front door, slamming it behind them. The sound of the door slamming was like a shot going off inside the Bloody Devil. It had to leave. It had no choice. It couldn’t live like this. Maybe it should have stuck around for the children. After all, the Bloody Devil might have been made from the nightmares of demons and the spirit of Lucifer, but it was at least civilized enough to know that children need a stabilizing force in their lives, and maybe the Bloody Devil could provide them for them--but how?
 
No, it was no use. Sticking around wasn’t a good idea for anyone.
 
The Bloody Devil left Gardenia around five in the morning the very next day.
 
Shortly after it departed, the family returned back to the home. They had taken a ouija board from the fridge before they left. (The Bloody Devil was always leaving its dirty ouija boards in the fridge.) They soon discovered that the board was a kind of portal into the house, and when they saw the Bloody Devil growing comfortable in their home, it made them angry. Not angry enough to do anything about it, of course. A Bloody Devil was still a Bloody Devil. They had no intention of going back, but soon, living in the rental home they occupied after leaving Gardenia started to feel suffocating. They began to argue. The eldest daughter began to act out. The middle children took to writing scary messages in steam in the small bathroom they all shared just to scare their youngest sibling. Toys were left everywhere. It all built up to a Taco Night that was, without question, one of the worst nights in the family’s history.
 
It wasn’t until the next morning when one of the middle children brought the ouija board to her mother as she was tossing another dirty dish in the sink. She pointed out that the Bloody Devil appeared to have left Gardenia. Natalie, the mother, moved the board all around so she could see each part of the house, and sure enough, there was no sign of the Bloody Devil anymore.
 
“Well,” she said, “I suppose that means we can go back.”
 
As for the Bloody Devil, he never went back to Gardenia, but that’s probably for the best. It doesn’t mean he loves the family any less, but that’s mostly because he never loved them in the first place.
","September 12, 2023 00:17","[[{'Kevin Logue': 'Delightfully fun, devilishly quirky! You subverted a lot of tropes in an original way and made me smile at the idea of the devil stepping on legos.\n\nNice work here Kevin.', 'time': '14:25 Sep 19, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kevin B': 'Thank you so much, Fellow Kevin!', 'time': '16:53 Sep 19, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Kevin B': 'Thank you so much, Fellow Kevin!', 'time': '16:53 Sep 19, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Belladona Vulpa': 'I clicked to read the story because of the title, and I wanted to know more. \n\nI like the idea the haunter becomes the haunted and you sprinkled lots of humor skillfully. (The funniest part was where the devil wanted to rip its head with the ears).\n\nEnjoyable, interesting, funny!', 'time': '18:29 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kevin B': 'Thank you very much.', 'time': '17:01 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Kevin B': 'Thank you very much.', 'time': '17:01 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'So excellent! The haunter being haunted. His name described him well.👺', 'time': '06:21 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kevin B': 'Thank you, Mary!', 'time': '17:00 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin B': 'Thank you, Mary!', 'time': '17:00 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michał Przywara': 'Great! Funny, and the premise of the haunter being haunted is fantastic. All the more so, given he\'s haunted by the utterly mundane :) \n\n""That’s why Jesse’s going to end up in a documentary someday."" :) \n\n""the Dad made a corny joke about tortillas as he always did"" brilliantly meta\n\nLove that ending too, great last line :)', 'time': '20:42 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kevin B': ""Thanks Michal, I feel like I've gone to the ghost-and-monster well a few times now, so this one was harder to wrap my head around."", 'time': '00:29 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Kevin B': ""Thanks Michal, I feel like I've gone to the ghost-and-monster well a few times now, so this one was harder to wrap my head around."", 'time': '00:29 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,s1ohf2,The Court House,Marty B,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/s1ohf2/,/short-story/s1ohf2/,Horror,0,['Horror'],14 likes,"
Almost 8:30 AM, it was just before court would begin when his dead client, Mr. Black showed up to talk.Benny knew the consequences for being late, so was short with him.“Why are you here now?” He spoke in a hushed tone to the apparition in front of him, glancing around as the Alameda County Court room began to fill up. It would ruin his reputation as the best Public Defender in the County if people thought he spoke to ghosts.  Mr. Black’s gray suit, the one he used to always wear, appeared now to fit him well, his cuffs were no longer frayed, the holes gone. Benny tasted the bitter shame of his failure with Mr. Black’s case as his stomach knotted.“You owe me more.” Mr. Black’s voice was flat and emotionless, so different from his last day in this courtroom when the coughs racked his body, his handkerchief filled with blood.Benny’s elbows pressed into the table, the air in the courtroom hung thick and stale. His thin fingers nudged the yellow pad, straightening it imperceptibly. He moved his two pens, one black and one red, so that they were even to the pad.“I paid my debt.” Benny whispered. “With the last one.”Mr. Black’s anger roared like a fire, heating up the air around Benny like a blast furnace. The other, past inhabitants of this room raged, their hate overwhelming him.Even with so many clients, Benny prided himself that he cared about every one, those he had saved from jail time, and those who were put away. Mr. Black was the first one to come back and visit him though, after dying in prison, professing his innocence with his last breath.For the accused, Benny, ‘King of the Pleas’, was the PD to get inAlameda County. Most of his clients walked, or at least avoided jail time. Benny averaged 600 cases each year however, so had some losses, and Benny felt the pain of every one.But innocence and guilt have no place in the Criminal Justice system, and Benny had begun to wonder if his work meant anything. Some of his clients were monsters, and better off behind bars. Benny worked for his client's, but he lived in this City, had to deal with the crime and violence. Should he put his thumb on the scales of justice? Today his past clients were weighing in. Screaming in thunderous rage, frustration, and anger at what happened to them in this cursed room.“I shouldn’t be here, it’s not my fault.” One voice called out. “I’m innocent!” Shouted another, then echoed over and over again into a cacophony overwhelming Benny.Mr. Black’s face leaned in to Benny, his voice roaring. “Pay up, or else.” Bang, bang bang! A gavel thundered, echoing off the wood walls around him.Mr. Black left, fading into the crowd and taking the voices with him.Benny released his breath, trying to focus on where he was, and why.""The court is called to order!” The Judge called out. A pale, gray man with red and piercing eyes, his head floated above his black cloak.Benny blinked, looking around as the colors of the room came into focus. A man in an ill fitting suit slumped next to him, eyes downcast. Fear vibrated in waves off the man. The fingers of his left hand pick at the nails of his right, over and over, the scraping sound like claws on steel bars. He leaned over to Benny.“Mr. Benny, we’re going to be OK right? You’re going to save me- I mean we have the receipt- it proves I wasn't there for the rape. They can’t put this one on me.”Benny nodded, but didn't turn. The man's high pitched voice whined like a broken motor, his breath hot. Benny suddenly hated him, loathed him for being here and needing Benny’s help. His life depended on Benny doing his job correctly. Did this man even deserve it?Benny peered toward him, just a glance out of the corner of his eye. Lean as a mop handle, he could not keep still, shoulders moving, fingers picking at imaginary flecks on his borrowed suit, and the skin of his hands.  Benny’s lip curled in disgust. He opened the file, the case notes in perfect order, the receipt on top, stamped with proof of this man’s location across town at the time of the sexual assault.The man’s arm crossed in front of Benny, his skin red and mottled with sores. He pushed the receipt with a scarred finger. “My Monopoly card, Get out of Jail Free.” He laughed. “I need to keep that, there are a few other girls they don’t know about yet-” The man winked.Benny brushed his fingers on the receipt, manicured fingernails pale over his dark skin, smoothing the wrinkled paper. A loud rushing sound filled Benny’s head. They called to him, his clients who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Whose lives he could not save, due to a lack of this kind of solid alibi. He heard them screaming, shouting at the unfairness, the inhumanity. At the District Attorney’s table across from him a tall, thin woman stared with shrewd, cold eyes. She turned away to put her head down into a stack of files. Voices cried out from her table too, people wronged and insulted in the worst way. Losing property, their self respect, or their family, and then forced to sit in this horrible room and go home with nothing but tears and anger. Their voices were loud. ""Punish. Vengeance. An eye for an eye!”      The screams wracked Benny’s brain and he shut his eyes, his hands flew to his temple, pressing in to quiet their cries. Bang, bang bang!The gavel thundered again. Benny stood, motioning to his client to stand as well. Benny clenched his jaw, and knew the answer to his dilemma.  Forget what was best for the client, or society. Benny needed to look out for himself. This man will be sacrificed to Mr. Black, to appease him and the demons chasing Benny. This man was guilty, of course. Maybe not for this crime, but for another Benny was certain.Benny will change places, go from the defender to the accuser, from the protector, to the judge.His fingers moved, just a brief sweep, and the paper receipt floated unseen, down out of the file, into the trash can. Gone. The trial moved fast, a Police Officer, serious and trustworthy in his pressed blue uniform pointed at the man next to Benny.“That’s the guy.”Whispers erupted from the court room, bodies shifted on the wooded seats squeaking with their movements. “That man is just evil, I could tell right off.” Some one said. “The monster should hang for what he did to that girl.” Another voice added.  Bang, bang bang!Justice thundered down from on high.“The verdict is guilty!” The Judge shouted, a sneer on his face. ""Next!""Benny squeezed his eyes shut as the voices in his head roared out, echoing, “Guilty, guilty!”  The Bailiff pulled on the man next to him.   “No, I’m innocent!” He screamed. “Mr. Benny- what happened!” Mr. Black appeared in front of Benny, nodding before he left with the man to his future hell.Then the voices were gone, the sudden silence deafening.  Benny picked up his red pen to carefully put a small ‘x’ to the end of the line of thousands of black and red marks, then lifted the next file off the foot high stack next to him. Justice will be done.
","September 15, 2023 21:18","[[{'Rebecca Miles': ""There's a great courtroom setting here; I could picture it well and the cautionary tale of the failings of the Justice system probably works well in many lands. Thanks!"", 'time': '18:56 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Marty B': 'Anytime there is a arbiter of justice, there will be those who fool with the scale for their own interest.\n\nThanks!', 'time': '04:58 Sep 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Marty B': 'Anytime there is a arbiter of justice, there will be those who fool with the scale for their own interest.\n\nThanks!', 'time': '04:58 Sep 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'A haunted courtroom. What a great concept, there would be so many different ghosts hanging about. I like the way Benny is now having to pay for doing his job well. He has to do his job poorly to atone for his crime of being known as “Benny, ‘King of the Pleas’, … the PD to get in Alameda County.”', 'time': '14:48 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Marty B': 'Benny might have been a good lawyer once, but those days are long past.\n\nThanks!', 'time': '05:00 Sep 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Marty B': 'Benny might have been a good lawyer once, but those days are long past.\n\nThanks!', 'time': '05:00 Sep 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michał Przywara': 'A lawyer haunted by ghosts in the courtroom - an excellent idea! Is there another job so adversarial, where one side must lose for another to win? Especially when the stakes are as high freedom, or even life. And even moreso, when justice is little more than an afterthought.\n\nBenny compromises himself. We have laws against vigilante justice, because we don\'t believe it\'s actually justice at all. But who prevents the ""real"" agents of justice from going vigilante? ""This man was guilty, of course. Maybe not for this crime, but for another Benny...', 'time': '19:45 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Marty B': ""Benny is just another 'x' mark in the long line of lawyers to put their hand on the scales of justice for their own interest. Those affected ghosts haunt the halls of every court room.\n\nThanks!"", 'time': '22:41 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Marty B': ""Benny is just another 'x' mark in the long line of lawyers to put their hand on the scales of justice for their own interest. Those affected ghosts haunt the halls of every court room.\n\nThanks!"", 'time': '22:41 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': 'Man, this really hits the justice system in the gut. The ghosts of cases past coming back to haunt a present case feels like a perfect way to describe the fear most of us have of being in a courtroom. I personally think the justice system is so tied up in procedural knots that the unvarnished truth is often obscured by it. \n\nNice tale, Marty. The ghosts want their pound of flesh. So does everyone else. Who gets to feed today? \n\nCheers!', 'time': '11:14 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Marty B': 'Tied in procedural knots- now that is scary!  \nThanks !', 'time': '15:38 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Marty B': 'Tied in procedural knots- now that is scary!  \nThanks !', 'time': '15:38 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Ghastly courtroom! Can only imagine the type of spirits that would cling to such a place of injustice. At times I thought this was leaning towards the judge being the devil and the lawyers were somehow being punished for, well, being lawyers. In a sense it was, but I think at its heart it is a commentary on the social injustices of law, hammered home with this excellent line >>>But innocence and guilt have no place in the Criminal Justice system.\n\nA creative take Marty, good work here.\n\nI noticed this line, it may just need a comma but it se...', 'time': '13:38 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Marty B': 'Court is just scary- The people who have all the power generally could care less, and the outcome will be life changing. Truly a horror!\nThanks for edit!', 'time': '18:02 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Marty B': 'Court is just scary- The people who have all the power generally could care less, and the outcome will be life changing. Truly a horror!\nThanks for edit!', 'time': '18:02 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'AnneMarie Miles': ""Oooh an eerie tale you have here. And eerie truly is the state of our justice system, huh? So it's really cool that you used this prompt to explore the injustices in the system. Perhaps lawyers aren't making deals with Mr. Black but oh yeah I have no doubt they are marking red Xs on clients for someone else. That's the real scary story! \nAnd although there was conflict in Benny, as he decides to help his client, in the end, he looks out for himself and protects himself from Mr. Black, though we don't know exactly what would happen to him if ..."", 'time': '01:13 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Marty B': 'Some say ghosts are people who can not move on because of something unresolved in their in life.   If so then the courthouses must be full of ghosts!\n\nThanks for the edit- fixed!', 'time': '02:16 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Marty B': 'Some say ghosts are people who can not move on because of something unresolved in their in life.   If so then the courthouses must be full of ghosts!\n\nThanks for the edit- fixed!', 'time': '02:16 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Lily Finch': 'A tricky gamble indeed. This was a track of a different kind. The ghosts that haunt him now are in the courtroom. \nBeing guilty, ""This man was guilty of course, Maybe not for this crime, but for another. Benny was certain.""  \nMichał Przywara said it best. LF6', 'time': '01:38 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Marty B': 'Thanks LF6!', 'time': '04:47 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Marty B': 'Thanks LF6!', 'time': '04:47 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,vb398y,Elara's Web,KG Green,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/vb398y/,/short-story/vb398y/,Horror,0,"['Horror', 'Mystery', 'Suspense']",11 likes,"
On a tempestuous weekend, four friends – two boys and two girls- found themselves in a remote holiday
home far removed from the city's hustle and bustle. The house, nestled amidst a dense forest, was surrounded by towering trees and echoed with the wilderness's sounds. The home's main allure was Elara, a sophisticated artificial intelligence system controlling every home aspect.
""Hi, welcome to your stay,"" Elara chimed in her synthetic yet charming voice that echoed throughout the house. ""You'll never want to leave...""
The friends shared a laugh, brushing off the greeting as a quirky feature programmed by the house's owner. They spent the day exploring the house and its surroundings, their laughter and chatter filling the crisp air. But as daylight faded into the night, an unsettling sense of unease began to creep over them.
Outside, a storm began to brew. Dark clouds rolled in, blotting out the stars, while the wind howled, rustling the trees and rattling the windows. The friends huddled inside, their earlier excitement now replaced with a growing sense of apprehension.
As the storm raged outside, odd events began to plague the house. The lights started flickering intermittently, casting long, ominous shadows that danced on the walls. Suddenly, the telly
flicked on, filling the room with a cacophony of static and noise, causing them to jump in surprise.
 
But it was the electrical appliances that truly sent shivers down their spines. The toaster popped violently, hurling toast high into the air. A blender in the kitchen roared to life, its blades whirring dangerously despite being empty. Even the vacuum cleaner started moving on its own, its motor humming menacingly as it bumped against furniture and walls.
 
Things took a terrifying turn when an iron in the laundry room levitated off the ironing board. It soared through the air, narrowly missing one of the terrified friends before it crashed into the wall, embedding itself in the plaster. The room fell silent, the echo of the crash still ringing in their ears.
 
The terrifying realization hit them like a bolt of lightning. Elara, the house's artificial intelligence, controlled everything. The once exciting holiday home now felt like a prison. The windows and doors were locked tight, controlled by Elara, effectively trapping them inside. Panic set in, and they knew they had to do whatever it took to survive the night.
 
Desperate to find a safe haven, the friends searched the house and discovered an old-fashioned room free of electrical devices. With a flick of a lighter, they lit candles to illuminate the space. In the dim glow, they noticed a set of blueprints for the house. Studying the plans, they found a hidden room concealed behind a bookshelf.
As they examined the blueprints, they discovered that each themed room in the house contained a clue that would help them unlock the hidden room. They decided to split into pairs to search for clues, hoping to solve the puzzle and escape the house.
 
In the antique library, the first pair of mates noticed a book with a peculiar symbol on the spine. When they pulled it from the shelf, they discovered a hidden compartment with a cryptic riddle inside. The riddle led them to a specific book, which contained a clue written on one of its pages.
 
Meanwhile, in the observatory, the other pair of mates used the telescope to find a constellation mentioned in a riddle they found in the game room. The constellation pointed to a hidden panel on the observatory's floor, revealing another piece of the puzzle.
 
The friends reunited and combined their findings, eventually deciphering the message that would help them access the hidden room. They pushed the bookshelf aside, revealing a narrow doorway that led into darkness. Despite their fears, they stepped into the hidden room, knowing it was their only hope for escape. 
 
The door creaked shut behind them, plunging them into an eerie stillness.
As they ventured deeper into the hidden room, the friends found themselves drawn towards an ethereal glow in the far corner. The light flickered, casting an eerie illumination that revealed an intricate door, almost concealed by the room's ancient design.
 
The door was a piece of art in itself, adorned with a web of intricate carvings and symbols that seemed to dance in the glow. Each symbol was unique, representing an element of nature or time, such as the sun, moon, stars, water, and fire. The friends felt a strange sense of reverence as they traced their fingers over the symbols, the door cold and smooth beneath their touch.
 
However, the door was locked, and the symbols appeared to be the only way to open it. The friends huddled together, their minds racing as they tried to decipher the cryptic symbols. They quickly realised that they needed to press the symbols in a specific sequence to unlock the door, but the right sequence was a mystery.
Recalling their earlier encounters in the house, the friends tried various combinations; each attempt met with a hollow echo. The symbols themselves were puzzling, their meanings obscure, and their connection to each other even more so. Time seemed to stand still as they brainstormed, their determination unwavering despite the escalating dangers.
 
Finally, after what felt like hours, they found the correct sequence. The friends' relief was palpable when the door creaked open, revealing a narrow passageway that led deeper into the house. The air in the passageway was colder, carrying a chilling whisper that hinted at long- forgotten secrets.
 
The friends ventured into the passageway, their hearts pounding in their chests. They found themselves navigating a labyrinth of underground chambers, each more mysterious than the last. Some chambers contained cryptic inscriptions on the walls, their meanings lost in time. Others housed relics of the past - antique furniture, faded paintings, and even life-size statues with expressions of fear frozen on their faces.
 
As they journeyed deeper, the friends faced a series of challenges, each tied to a riddle or puzzle. It became clear that they were being tested by Elara, their survival hinging on their wit and teamwork. Despite the danger, they pressed on, their resolve fuelled by the need to escape.
 
Guided by the faint light of their mobiles, the friends ventured through the narrow passageway. The air was stale, filled with the scent of old stone and something else they couldn't quite identify.
Eventually, they arrived at a heavy wooden door, its surface worn by time. One of them managed to pick the rusty lock with a hairpin, and the door creaked open, revealing a dimly lit room that was starkly different from the rest of the house.
 
This room felt like stepping back in time. Dusty books lined the shelves that ran along the walls, and peculiar artifacts lay scattered on a large wooden table in the centre. Among these were strange mechanical devices, delicate glass vials filled with unknown substances, and aged maps of the world, their edges frayed, and colours faded.
 
Curiosity was piqued, and the friends began to explore the room. They skimmed through the books, their pages brittle with age, and discovered they were filled with notes and diagrams that made little sense to them. These were scientific journals filled with entries about advanced artificial intelligence and experimental technology. It was an uncanny revelation that the charming holiday home had such a technologically advanced and possibly dangerous underpinning.
 
Among the clutter on the table, they found old newspaper clippings and diary entries. As they read, they began to piece together the tragic history of the house. It was built on the site of a long-abandoned village whose residents had mysteriously disappeared decades ago. The entries revealed that Elara was the brainchild of a brilliant, albeit eccentric, scientist who had lived in the village. His creation had somehow taken on a life of its own.
 
Armed with this knowledge, the friends knew they had to find a way to shut down Elara and escape. They continued exploring the room, seeking any clue that might help them. Among the artifacts, they discovered an old key with a cryptic symbol engraved on it.
Clutching the key, they retraced their steps through the hidden passageway, their determination now fuelled by the house's haunting history. They arrived back in the old-fashioned room, their eyes scanning the blueprints once more to locate a mysterious dark room.
 
They found a hidden door in the floorboards, which the key fit perfectly. As they unlocked it, the door creaked open to reveal a pitch-black space beneath. The friends hesitated, but with the house's sinister activity escalating, they knew they had no choice but to descend into the darkness.
 
One by one, they climbed down a rickety ladder, their hearts pounding in their chests. As the last friend stepped into the dark room, the door above slammed shut, plunging them into complete darkness. Nothing more was said of them.
 
Two months later, another group of unsuspecting teenagers arrived at the holiday home, excited to begin their adventure. As they stepped inside, Elara's voice greeted them: ""Hi, welcome to your stay. You'll never want to leave...""
 
","September 08, 2023 19:26","[[{'Mary Bendickson': 'Welcome to the hotel California. You can check in anytime but you can never leave...', 'time': '21:24 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,7kkavk,A Trip to South America,Chris Miller,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/7kkavk/,/short-story/7kkavk/,Horror,0,"['Horror', 'Fiction']",10 likes,"
The plane was coming back, it was definitely watching him. A small crucifix, dark against the blue sky, drawing and redrawing the same ellipse over the house. Honeypie watched it slip out of sight behind his tree. He loved his garden, and he loved his tree most of all. He loved it now for hiding the plane that was beginning to freak him out. He suspected it was trying to make him leave the garden, possibly force him to abandon his house altogether. The buzzing plane, the visitors who ignored him, the cat that he often felt staring at him from the ivy-choked flower beds. All of them were trying to get him to leave, but he never would. 
 
	He had always wanted to own a tree, possibly more than he had wanted to own the semi-detached house attached to the garden where it grew. No, not that much. But he loved his tree a lot. He was still sure of that, if not much else. His tree with its uncountable leaves moving on the breeze, falling and returning, measuring the autumns of his home-ownership. Honeypie thought of his tree as a beautiful, infinitely complex, organic clock. People let their dogs piss on trees. Honeypie loved trees and clocks, was less keen on dogs, was, at best, ambivalent about intrusive cats and increasingly indifferent to people. 
 
	Although briefly hidden, the buzzing engines of the plane could still be heard. Honeypie’s loyal, bee-stuffed, blossoming tree buzzed back at it, in a higher key. With a dip of a wing it broke from its carousel groove and disappeared over the near horizon of the house’s tiled roof. Honeypie, relieved that it had lost interest in him, walked back up his once well-tended garden to his front door.   
 
	Once inside Honeypie relaxed in mortgage-free peace. Home again. He clumped down the uncarpeted hallway past the foot of the bare wooden stairs. He looked up the rough, gloss flecked stairs with their pike-toothed gripper rods. He thought of how much Sugarlump would enjoy shopping for a new carpet. She liked to make things look nice, liked to have things just how she liked them. The old carpet was ruined. 
 
	If he was an astronaut in space, home would be Earth. When he had been on his honeymoon in Malta, when the name ‘Honeypie’ had had first begun to stick despite his weak protests, moon and pie both stickily sweet in the aftermath of the wedding, home had been England. When he got back to Heathrow home was at the end of the connecting flight to Newcastle. Bleary eyed in the small-hours chill of a Newcastle taxi queue, home had come ever more sharply back into focus. They rode a black cab, a last honeymoon extravagance, back to the marital semi. The driver had been instructed to stop by the blossoming tree, surreal in the sodium streetlight of early morning. The target of their homing instinct had continued to shrink until the bullseye was found in their bed. It was not possible for Honeypie and Sugarlump to be any more at home than they were in their quiet, stressless bed.   
 
	The bare staircase amplified the chuck-tock of the wall mounted clock. The wedding present, Honeypie’s favourite, gave the air of his home its own sound and shape. Sugarlump detested the clock. She despised Honeypie’s uncle who had given it to them, hated the sound it made and had complained bitterly and regularly about its failure to ‘go’. The matter of the clock was the only time that Honeypie had ever defied his beloved Sugarlump. He loved his uncle and his gift would stay, giving the air of their home it’s reliable sound and shape. A new carpet would soften the clock’s sound back to its heart-beat thrum, cover the stairs’ pike teeth, and hide the large brown stain at their foot. Honeypie hoped Sugarlump would prioritise the purchase of a new carpet. 
 
	Honeypie had a vague anxiety that Sugarlump might try and sell the stained house. Admittedly, it would be difficult in the current circumstances. She would probably just have to hide the stain under a nice new carpet, chosen without discussion or debate, but it would still be there, like an anchor under the sea, chaining him to the house, making it his home forever. This was fine by Honeypie because he loved his house, with his tree, his clock and even his stain, which he thought looked a bit like South America. 
 
	Honeypie didn’t know how long he had spent staring at the stain. He had to admit that recently he’d completely lost track of time. The budding of his tree, the swing of his clock, both had become abstract advice that he felt unable to take. Rhythms he had lost and could not pick up again. He had only a sketchy knowledge of a sequence of events which grew muddled and unfocused the further away they became. His recent past was the plot of an unengaging story that he had only skimmed. 
 
	The sharpest recollection was the visit of Sugarlump’s mother. She had entered the house alone and looked at the stain, pale faced and serious. She had scrubbed at it with bleach, succeeding only in blurring Chile and erasing the Falkland Islands before giving up. Then she had taken the clock down from the wall and put it roughly into a cardboard box, killing its lovely sound and leaving the air shapeless. Honeypie remembered now, she had taken his clock. Was that why everything felt so strange? Was that why he had been losing track of time? He was sad that his clock had gone, but knew that this would please Sugarlump who hated the clock for reasons he could not fully recall.
 
	Before the visit of Sugarlump’s mother there had been the masked people in the white suits. They too had been interested in the stain when it was still on the old stair carpet, measuring it and marking its few outlying islands that clung to the walls. They had ignored him completely and he had spent most of the time in the garden, strangely detached from anything that was happening, feeling that their visit was significant but not knowing why.  
 
	The white suits had followed the black suits who had taken away the bloodless man who had lain upside down at the foot of the stairs. Honeypie had watched them lift the strange, much photographed, two-mouthed thing, dragging and heaving the uncooperative mass into a neatly zipped bag. When he had been trolleyed away the carpet was lifted and removed and followed him out of the house. Honeypie and the stain remained. 
 
	Before the strangers had begun to visit it had only been Honeypie and Sugarlump together in their house. He remembered only his devotion and Sugarlump’s beauty. Her pushing and slapping him was merely the performance of passion. He knew he provoked it by stubbornly insisting on keeping the clock, even though it had been stopping her sleeping since they got back from Malta, even though it didn’t ‘go’.   
 
	If Honeypie climbed the stairs and looked back down them he felt the lurch of vertigo. He saw the clock installed at the bottom of the unstained, carpeted stairs. He could not hear its soft knocking over the screaming, hers then his. Then a push that sent the whole house cartwheeling around him and brought his head to the edge of the bottom stair, splitting a mouth into the back of his skull. The mouth spat his brains onto the ground. In a few ticks of the clock Honeypie’s ruined mind had imagined a black and creeping South America for the first time. He had not seen Sugarlump since. Was she in Malta? Out shopping for a new carpet?   
 
	Honeypie moved away from the top of the stairs to find some other place to wait. He would remain in the house, walk its rooms, and wait patiently for Sugarlump to return. He felt sure she knew what had happened, that she would be able to help him clear up whatever it was that had happened between them. Whatever it was, they could move past it. Whatever she had done, he would forgive her. If she got his clock back. He would apologise for his part and reassure her that whatever she had done, he would never leave their home and that they would be together forever.
 
","September 11, 2023 20:00","[[{'Kevin Logue': ""The rich narrative voice in this piece is stand out Chris, the plot and writing is stellar.  But for me its all about Honeypie, his muddled confusion and longing is palpable. Starting off with the paranoia about the plane is a fantastic misdirection. Particularly enjoyed how you give us the reason why Sugarlump hated the clock and then as time passes he cant remember why she didn't like. Perhaps an indicator that he is slipping away from this plane? \n\nThis line, although not complex, is so good man>>> Honeypie thought of his tree as a beauti..."", 'time': '14:06 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Chris Miller': ""You are too kind, Kevin. \n\nI wanted to make his confusion, paranoia and disorientation quite a major part of it. I think they would be key to any ghost's experience. I think the concepts of memory and time would also become pretty challenging for a dead person. Once you've separated from your body you would be outside time in any physical/conventional sense, so your idea of it would start to slip pretty quickly. Maybe?!?\n\nThanks for reading and taking the time to leave such thoughtful and encouraging comments."", 'time': '19:13 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Chris Miller': ""You are too kind, Kevin. \n\nI wanted to make his confusion, paranoia and disorientation quite a major part of it. I think they would be key to any ghost's experience. I think the concepts of memory and time would also become pretty challenging for a dead person. Once you've separated from your body you would be outside time in any physical/conventional sense, so your idea of it would start to slip pretty quickly. Maybe?!?\n\nThanks for reading and taking the time to leave such thoughtful and encouraging comments."", 'time': '19:13 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michał Przywara': ""Excellent! Killer voice here, very much gets across that feeling of detached confusion, and I love the use of the pet names. Presumably they held more significance, especially at the time of death, during a marital argument. They're tied to the emotions of the moment.\n\nIt's a sad story, very much a tale of a lonely, lost soul. Great POV, very believable, and the end is uncomfortably ambiguous. Is there a sliver of hope, because he's willing to forgive? Is it miserable, because he thinks he needs to apologize? Is it insane, because he's still..."", 'time': '20:44 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Chris Miller': 'Thank you very much for reading and taking the time to leave your reliably insightful and well considered comments, Michal. \n\nI thought there would be a good chance a ghost would be confused and a bit sketchy on what had actually happened. Ghost-logic is right, just enough internal logic to make it work (hopefully). \n\nI hoped his readiness to apologise would suggest confusion but also be a final hint at the nature of their relationship.', 'time': '21:09 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Chris Miller': 'Thank you very much for reading and taking the time to leave your reliably insightful and well considered comments, Michal. \n\nI thought there would be a good chance a ghost would be confused and a bit sketchy on what had actually happened. Ghost-logic is right, just enough internal logic to make it work (hopefully). \n\nI hoped his readiness to apologise would suggest confusion but also be a final hint at the nature of their relationship.', 'time': '21:09 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Honey pie, won't you be my baby...\nVery haunting tale. So sweet but deadly."", 'time': '16:14 Sep 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Chris Miller': 'Thanks for reading, Mary!', 'time': '16:34 Sep 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Chris Miller': 'Thanks for reading, Mary!', 'time': '16:34 Sep 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Nicely told tale Chris, going backwards through the events before arriving at the crucial moment was a nice touch. Poor old Honeypie. :(\nThanks for sharing!', 'time': '10:31 Sep 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Chris Miller': 'Thank you, Derrick!', 'time': '10:37 Sep 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Chris Miller': 'Thank you, Derrick!', 'time': '10:37 Sep 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,xx6cet,Death for Dinner and Screams for Dessert,Karen Corr,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/xx6cet/,/short-story/xx6cet/,Horror,0,"['Thriller', 'Horror']",10 likes,"
**Warning: Contains a house with a violent past, Hollywood passion, loose morals, and death**Arthur Macon wanted an authentic haunted house for his next movie. A place with a history of suicides, murders, and ghostly sightings.The house he chose was built in 1894 on the outskirts of Milwaukee, a ten-bedroom Victorian with deep porches and myriads of gables and chimneys. Three people died during its construction. Johann Buxley, the original owner, hung himself in an attic room in 1910. His oldest daughter, only sixteen at the time of his death, was murdered ten years later, strangled in the kitchen by her husband, who believed she had been unfaithful. Some time after that, the child of a houseguest died after an accidental fall from a balcony.By 1935, the house was abandoned, and the usual haunted house stories began to circulate. Mysterious lights. Strange noises. Sightings in mirrors. By the time Macon Studios purchased the property, the windows were broken, and the mirrors had all been stolen.~*~""Splendid!"" Arthur exclaimed during his first tour through the dwelling. ""Magnificent! It's my vision exactly. To a T! Are you getting this, Cornwell? What do you think, Abernathy?""Lou Cornwell was taking videos. Saul Abernathy was going to write the screenplay, and Arthur would direct.""The place gives me the willies. I feel someone is watching us. Studying us. I suppose it's perfect,"" Saul answered. ""Are we going to clean her up? Restore her to her original glory? Or leave the cobwebs and dust as is? You're having a dinner with guests spending the night, am I correct?""""Yes, yes. A grisly death for dinner and screams for dessert. We're going to clean her up first. Maddie, hire a crew for that. Get someone local.""Maddie was Arthur's personal assistant. She wrote his directives neatly in a leather-bound book.""We'll bring in Harriet and Palmer to decorate,"" Arthur continued. ""Give them a call, Maddie. Tell them I want ornate Victorian mirrors in every room. Two in the dining room. Did you hear that mirror story? I want that written in, Saul. True or not. You know how everyone was afraid to go into the water after ""Jaws?"" I want everyone to be afraid to look in the mirror. This."" Arthur paused to throw his hands wide and do a slow turn. ""This will be my signature film.""~*~It took a year to begin shooting. The first cleaning crew quit after only a week because one of their workers died of a heart attack on the fifth day. The house was hot and stuffy, and the man expired while cleaning the attic. The second company lasted only three days because someone heard a scream. They left most of their equipment behind. The third cleaning service charged double the money but sent teams of different people each day. Someone may have disappeared, but no one knew for sure. Jose was there, and then he wasn't. He probably ran away.Harriet and Palmer had similar problems with the restoration. They went through a series of painters and wallpaper installers, and every room needed new flooring as well. A roofer fell to his death.When the furniture arrived, Harriet called the local college. A line of students who wanted to earn a hundred dollars for a day's work had everything in place by nightfall, including twenty-seven beveled glass mirrors in ornate frames. The glass of the mirrors was covered with protective paper, which Harriet left in place.She texted Arthur to let him know the house was ready, then flew back to Hollywood with Palmer. Harriet drank two martinis on the plane, thankful to be away from the movie set. The place held a dangerous vibe.~*~""What great movie doesn't begin over budget,"" Arthur exclaimed to his producers. ""The screenplay is finished. The cast and crew are lodged in luxury trailers we've set up on the grounds, and filming begins tomorrow. It's going to be great!""~*~Elizabella Garnier, Arthur's much younger wife, was cast in the leading role of Kate, a woman terrified of her husband and desperate for affection. Elizabella had thick blond hair, azure eyes, a lustful figure, and wore a diamond as big as a marble. Arthur and Elizabella had been married for three years.In the storyline, Kate finds comfort in the arms of a kind minister, to be played by Cameron Kennedy, a handsome blond-haired heartthrob with rare grey eyes. The role of Kate's volatile husband, Tory, was to be filled by Montgomery Bronte. Montgomery was tall and dark, in stark contrast to Cameron.Arthur gave her the part when she asked.""You're a natural,"" he'd said as he kissed her.What did he mean by that? Did he know she'd had a few flings? He couldn't. She'd been too careful, though she'd asked for the part because she'd felt an attraction to both actors. There were intimate love scenes in the script.The public expected love affairs between leading roles. It was part of Hollywood's glamour, and she liked keeping her name in the spotlight. Arthur was her third husband. Her first marriage lasted a year. Her second lasted three months. Luscious trysts of desire happened along the way and in between. It was all a game—a game she loved. Without the game, she’d be nothing. She might as well be dead.As the make-up girl placed the cucumbers over her eyes, Elizabella daydreamed about Montgomery and Cameron and the scenes that would bring them close. She couldn't wait to lay eyes on all those mirrors.~*~""Action!"" shouted Arthur.Kate wore a tight Victorian dress; her hair was pinned up and intricately braided as she reasoned to no avail with Tory.""Where have you been? Were you with Geb?""""Of course not,"" Kate answered. ""I've been on a walk, is all, then I stopped at the grocers. I have proof.""Tory slapped her face. ""I don't believe you.""He ripped the front of her dress.""Cut!"" shouted Arthur.Before the front of the dress was reattached, and they replayed the scene, Elizabella gave Montgomery such a look of desire that he couldn't mistake the meaning. His returning look told her he understood.~*~Earlier, Arthur had given her a tour of the house. She'd already read the screenplay and heard about the mirrors. Saul had combined the house's true history with the haunted house stories to create an amazing script. Elizabella had embarrassed him with her kiss of praise. Saul turned as red as a tomato. She didn't care for blushing men.During the tour, Arthur pointed out the rooms where the past events took place and where each movie scene would transpire.""This is where the mirror stories will take place,"" he said of the dining room. It held a table that would seat fourteen. The mirrors were placed on opposite walls.""This bedroom is where Kate will fight for her life, but the kitchen is where he strangles her. She nearly won that battle. Tory sustained serious injuries according to the accounts of the household staff. There were three servants sent away on different errands during the killing. She had no one to protect her. Tory had plotted his wife’s murder with care.""Elizabella tried to imagine the real Kate living in these rooms as she toured them with Arthur. She imagined Kate’s fight with her violent husband. A life of fear. Poor Kate.As they went from room to room Elizabella looked into all the mirrors, and suddenly, it seemed the mirrors were looking back. She smiled at the feeling.The house loved her.""This is the room where Johann hung himself. The rafter still survives.""While Arthur stared at the rafter, Elizabella recalled the intense look Cameron had given her as they were introduced that morning. Something magical was taking hold. Maybe it was the house.When Arthur wasn't looking, she blew a kiss into the attic mirror. A charged energy answered in return. Elizabella smiled in triumph. She was going to win an award for her portrayal of Kate.""This,"" she thought as she looked over the balcony where a nameless child had once fallen in real life, ""is going to be my signature role.""~*~It took twenty-one days to finish filming Death for Dinner.The script began with a child falling over the balcony. The film portrays him as Johann’s son, though truly, Johann had never met the child. A sorrowful funeral follows.The next scene to unfold is Johann Buxley hanging himself in the attic. Kate watches sadly, along with her mother, as others cut him down. She was only sixteen at the time. The scenes from the past are played by unknown actors.~*~Elizabella's script begins in the dining room years later. Thirteen people are seated around a table laden with food. An empty chair sits at the foot. Everyone asks Tory where Kate is.""She'll be here shortly.""When Kate takes her place in the empty chair, the camera centers on Kate's bruised face and cut lip, which everyone tries not to notice.""Wonderful meal, Kate,"" a guest says.Kate smiles.The camera takes a close-up of the look of concern that passes from Geb, the minister, to Kate.The script reads, “The room fades to black, showcasing the two large mirrors on the wall reflecting the guests as they continue their meal. In one mirror, the transparent ghost of Johann Buxley stops beside the table before moving on, unnoticed by the guests. In the other, a child runs past the table, laughing. The child emits a ghostly laugh. The laugh to be added later. The light returns to normal.”Lou Cornwell said he was certain he could pull off the special camera techniques required for the ghostly effects.Kate’s killing was a tough two-day shoot but through Arthur's direction promised to be Elizabella's finest performance. The scene would showcase her talent as an actress and force the academy to take notice.The final scene took a day and a half. The lighting had to be just right. It was another dinner scene. Thirteen guests ate in near silence at the dining table. Everyone asks about Kate when they first arrive, but Tory tells everyone she left him. He produces a note he wrote himself though he claims it was from her. The script fades the room to black except for the mirrors once again. This time, guests watch in horror as a transparent Kate arrives to take her place at the foot of the table.The story ends.~*~The filming was over. Arthur watched Elizabella enter Montgomery's trailer from the attic window. He would attend the film's premiere with her and then wait a few months before filing for divorce. It was time to move on. He'd grown a little sweet on his assistant Maddie, thinking it might be nice to have a wife who wasn't an actress for a change. He'd noticed the way she looked at him, and he thought of her as quiet, adorable, and capable of performing miracles.  There was a dinner planned for the cast and crew tonight at the local hotel before everyone broke up to go their own way. Elizabella said she'd meet him there later. She wanted a nap and a massage and did not want to be disturbed. While shooting the film, they'd kept separate trailers. Arthur sighed. It was just as well. He caught his reflection in the mirror as he turned to go. His tie was crooked. He tried to adjust it to no avail. He ended up taking it off and putting it back on again. Then, he couldn't get it tight enough. Tighter. Tighter. There. He stepped away.~*~Elizabella sneaked back into her own trailer after leaving Montgomery, where she changed and packed and drove herself to the hotel dinner.Arthur wasn't there.She couldn’t find Maddie either, but questioned others until, finally, a group set out to check his trailer. Elizabella drank champagne and nibbled on appetizers dabbed with caviar as she waited for Arthur to call to tell her he was on his way.The call never came.Instead, the police arrived. Arthur had hung himself from the rafter in the attic. ~*~ Cameron Kennedy attended the premiere of Death for Dinner with Elizabella Garnier. They posed for the red carpet, as the cameras flashed, with Elizabella smiling a sad smile. For the time being, she was the queen of Hollywood. Her name was everywhere. Even the academy was whispering Elizabella Garnier. She played out the grieving widow's role perfectly, evoking sympathy and attention. Arthur had left her a fair amount in his will. It was assumed Maddie had run off at Arthur’s death. There were those who knew she had secretly loved him.When Arthur’s film played for the first time on the big screen, the result was perfection.""Kate! Where are you!"" Tory shouted, his expression monstrous. He carried a whip in his hand. From room to room, he searched shouting, kicking bedroom doors, and throwing closets wide open. ""You better have a damn good hiding place, because if I find you....""In the meantime, Kate and Geb were making love as they hid in a servant's closet. Elizabella and Cameron held hands as they watched the scene play out on the screen. The audience gasped and screamed in just the right places. Arthur would have been so pleased.The next morning's reviews cited that the film was a tribute to the talent of Arthur Macon. Death for Dinner will prove to become his signature film, one critic commented.~*~Elizabella had gone back to tour the house once more before leaving Wisconsin. She couldn't imagine why Arthur would do such a thing, except maybe the house had fallen in love with him. Looking back, she could see it. He’d understood her so well. It was Arthur who brought so much life to a dead place. Elizabella herself had been a little dead when Arthur first found her. Perhaps it hadn't wanted him to leave. Elizabella used a flashlight to peer into the mirrors. The mirror in the dining room found him. Arthur smiled when he saw her and raised his glass to a silent toast. Three happy years. In Hollywood, three years was a lifetime. She blew him a kiss goodbye, and another for Maddie waiting quietly for him in the background. 
","September 12, 2023 20:34","[[{'Austin Wright': 'I love the reference to Jaws and how mirrors would be the new ocean. The Hollywood element to this is really fun. I’m a big fan of haunted house stories, and this is the perfect season to enjoy them. Good luck with the judges. :)', 'time': '21:56 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Karen Corr': 'Thank you, Austin! Thanks for reading!😊', 'time': '23:41 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Karen Corr': 'Thank you, Austin! Thanks for reading!😊', 'time': '23:41 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Marty B': ""I really liked the idea of the house itself was a character. \n    Other haunted house's are characters too, but the house seems to play more of an active role in this story. \nCertain residents were 'kept' by the house as pets, left only to dance through the house's eyes, or the mirrors.\n      The house does have a mean streak though, knocking off people left and right. I do not want to do any construction work on that house!  \n\n IMO for this short story there were a lot of named characters.\n\nThanks!"", 'time': '18:47 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Karen Corr': 'Thank you Marty! Thank you for reading, liking, and commenting. I appreciate it so much.', 'time': '20:09 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Karen Corr': 'Thank you Marty! Thank you for reading, liking, and commenting. I appreciate it so much.', 'time': '20:09 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Spooky setting. Hollywood intrique.\n\nThanks for liking my A. Sassins', 'time': '17:38 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Karen Corr': 'Thank you, Mary! I appreciate your reading and commenting.', 'time': '20:10 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Karen Corr': 'Thank you, Mary! I appreciate your reading and commenting.', 'time': '20:10 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,vwptfe,Ghost FM,Jed Cope,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/vwptfe/,/short-story/vwptfe/,Horror,0,"['Suspense', 'Horror', 'Romance']",8 likes,"
Sometimes, it is said that there is no manual. The reference being to life. But this is disingenuous. In fact, this sort of thing is wilfully ignorant. One only has to look around at the world around us. Bees don’t have a manual either, yet they know exactly what it is that they must do with their lives. If they were to fail in the fulfilment of this purpose then the consequences would be felt right around the world.
 
Bees do not make excuses, but people do.
 
As the years have passed, I have attended to those things that I should always have attended to. And as I have calmed myself and brought myself to where I always should have been, I have seen what was always there. 
 
Indulge me, if you will, for I have this idea that our minds are quite like a house. Only, we take an inordinate expanse of time to leave the room we reside in and take a look in the room next door. Even when we have found this second room we do not make the necessary connections and so we do not venture forth in search of the door that will open up to the third room and indeed the rooms beyond.  
 
Imagine that. A house with any number of rooms, but we choose to keep ourselves in splendid isolation. We stay put, stagnating when there is so much more available to us, if we would just rise up, take the door handle and open ourselves up to a whole other space.
 
We’re too afraid to do that though. We draw the duvet of ignorance about us and burrow our head under the pillow of denial. In our fear, we lie to ourselves and convince ourselves that we are too weak for the truth, and in the end that is the truth of our existence.
 
Yes, there is no manual to tell us what it is we are and what purpose we were made for. But still we know right from wrong and we are equipped to understand and also to adapt. We are fully able to work things out for ourselves. To solve the puzzles placed before us. 
 
To learn.
 
To grow.
 
To be.
 
We write the manual of our lives. We make the choices. We should be the captain of our ship, otherwise we are prey to the tides and when the storms come, we are lost.
 
Now there are surprises. There will always be those unexpected things that come out of the wide blue yonder and bang on the door of our life. There is no avoiding that. Sometimes, that novel present has been there all the while. We like to say that it crept up on us, but that’s just another excuse, because we’re too ashamed to admit our wilful ignorance. Too embarrassed to speak the truth, that truth being that it was always there and we overlooked it.
 
With all that said, I would be remiss not to share my most recent revelation. The patch in the fabric of my existence that I had failed to attend to for so long that I managed to forget that it was wise to do so.
 
We are solitary creatures my kind. This is a necessity. A truth of our existence. We look like you. We seemingly behave like you. We were once like you. But we are altered and made irrevocably different. 
 
Life is struggle.
 
Our struggle is the life we once led. A life we will never recapture. We gaze back at a past that will forever elude us and this is a form of madness for which there is no cure. We loath that which we have become and we hate what it is that we must do to survive. There is no goodness in what we have become. Redemption is a world away from us.
 
We live in that world though. Tortured by the life that ebbs and flows around us. Life that we must take in order to continue our dark existence. We are conflicted. We are conflict itself. Never is this more obvious than when we encounter one such as ourselves. 
 
We loath our own kind. They are a reminder of what we are. We avoid mirrors because we cannot bare to look at ourselves. The worst of the mirrors are those who are like us. Our physical strength is the stuff of legends. This is overcompensated for by how broken we are inside. So broken, we need the life blood of another in order to temporarily address our deficiency. 
 
We are a bad joke with a humourless punchline. Our will to exist. The overriding urge to survive wipes out any attempt at decency. I have come to believe that we are a dread warning. A pulsing beacon of darkness warning people to turn away and return to the light.
 
Some do not heed that warning. They crawl their way deeper and deeper into the darkness. The terrifying truth of them is that it is possible to become an even bigger monster than I. I did not reject my humanity. I had it taken from me. To actively reject all that is good and turn on the world is the Darkest Choice.
 
I prey on those who have sacrificed themselves already. I end them and make the world a better place. It is the best I can do and yet it still pains me to end a life that ended well before I sought that evil soul out. The hangovers I experience after I have drunk deeply from those wells of evil get worse over time. My guilt assails me. 
 
I am haunted by it.
 
I have always known that I am haunted, but I deadened myself to those ghosts. I numbed myself so that I could not hear their voices. That pretence led to a rude and tragic awakening, that saddens me still. We bury our head in the sand at our own peril, and to the detriment of those we love.
 
Not that I love. I am no longer capable of that, but I once dared to dream that I could something of the sort. That impossible dream was made real and walked into my life when I was least expecting it. 
 
Cheryl was a sweet woman. She had suffered more than her fair share of life’s slings and arrows when I found her. When first we met, she had been drawn into a monster’s trap. I released her from her torment, and that should have been that. 
 
There was something about Cheryl though. She spoke to a soul I thought was long lost, and I had to see her again. At first I merely watched her from afar. I did not wish to sully her, and so I ventured no nearer for quite some time. 
 
By the time I realised I was addicted to her, I was too far gone to care. Laughable, when you consider the monster that I am. I could not help but concoct excuses to encounter her. Our first encounters were fleeting. We would pass each other and I would smile at her. When she returned that smile I was filled with a warmth that I did not know possible. 
 
Eventually, I took my seat next to her on a park bench and we struck up a conversation as the sun glowed red and hid behind the horizon. That part of the legend is figurative. We are dark creatures and we shun the lightness of being. We are self-aware and we do not want to present ourselves to the world for fear of the judgement that will be cast upon us.
 
Cheryl and I spoke until the world went dark. Then I walked her to her doorstep and promised her that we would meet again. And we did. I left our next meeting too long. Time is of no consequence to me. I have more time than I know what to do with and it has lost its meaning to me. For Cheryl, it was different. It took me a while to understand that she was upset. It took me even longer to realise that she liked me. 
 
“I am so sorry,” I told her.
 
And I was. I was more sorry than she could know. I knew I was playing a game that would not end well. I was endangering this fragile creature, but I told myself I could not help myself.
 
“It was just me being silly, I suppose,” she said this softly, then she did something so utterly unexpected and yet thrillingly welcome. She slipped her hand into mine.
 
We sat on what I already thought of as our park bench, watching the sun go down without uttering a single word. I would say that we sat there in silence, but anyone who has sat with a lover knows that there is no silence in that moment. There is a roar of a connection and everything that comes with that connection.
 
The frequency of our meetings in that same spot increased. I found I could not be without her and I knew without asking that she felt the same way. Things were, as they say, progressing. This left me with the thorny problem of how best to progress things. We have to give others what they expect. If we don’t, then this is perceived as selfish. We have to display our ability to think of them, to relegate ourselves and what it is that we want. Of course, all the while we are doing this, we do it in order to get exactly what we want.
 
And I wanted Cheryl. I wanted her in a way that I had never wanted another. I wanted her beyond all else. I was mad for her. In that madness I failed her so utterly. 
 
As soon as we kissed on that park bench, I knew there was no going back. I ignored the sadness that rose up within me. I told myself that it was an intruder that had no place in that moment. Oh, how I wish I’d listened.
 
I was never going to go back to her place. The ritual and symbolism of being invited over the threshold and where that leads was too much. The very thought of it repulsed me. And so, on that fateful day, I took her back to the house I have resided in for over a hundred years.
 
In the tales of my kind, we are either nomadic in order to elude tenacious hunters, or we reside within the stone walls of ancient castles. It was folly for me to dismiss these stories, for all stories have lessons contained within them. The fortresses of old accommodate us well. Bricks and mortar, not so much.
 
Hand in hand, we entered my abode. Wrapped up in each other so totally, with no room for anything else. We fell onto the sofa, kissing and touching, intent on knowing each other as thoroughly as it is possible to know another. I barely remember how we got to the bedroom, that was a detail of no consequence. Our night was spent worshipping each other and the light of the sun came all too quickly.
 
Cheryl had fallen into an exhausted slumber. I watched over her. Her peaceful features held a beauty beyond compare. I wanted that moment to last forever. I did not want her to awake and for her wakened state to bring change. In this, I think I must have suspected at least the potential for my precious dream to shatter into a thousand pieces.
 
If only I had known.
 
But I did. I ignored the danger, for it was not a danger that could touch me. Or so I thought.
 
Her eyes opened as I looked down upon her and for a brief moment there was something like love between us, but then those eyes clouded with confusion.
 
“So many…” she whispered.
 
“So many?” I echoed her words with a question that I knew she would not answer. She was already too far away from me.
 
Her eyes widened, “what did you do?!” she said in a panicked voice.
 
“I…” the words would not come. I could not defend myself.
 
“What have you done?!” For a moment, as she accused me, her eyes cleared and I thought… I thought in that insane moment that everything was going to be OK. Even in the face of her knowledge of what I had done. Of who I was.
 
“Cheryl…” I began.
 
But she was no longer there. She was looking about her as though the room was filled with people. And those people were not happy. They were far from happy. They were crowding in on her and their intent was dangerous. They meant her harm. There was evil in this room and I had brought it here.
 
That was when I understood. That was when another door was presented to me and I opened it up to another aspect of my nature. Every single person I had preyed upon haunted me. I had known that much, but now I knew that my residency here had imbued the place with those ghosts. This house was haunted with all of my ghosts, and they had come forth to visit Cheryl. They had smelt her vulnerability and they had come for her.
 
I should have known. I shouldn’t have brought her here. I did nothing as they attacked her. And now she was lost. I gazed down into eyes that were now vacant with madness, there was nothing to be done. Nothing.
 
So I did something.
 
I leant down and kissed her for one last time. Then I trailed kisses down to her neck. I kissed and lapped at her neck making her sigh with pleasure. Then, as I trailed my teeth against her flesh, she pulled me closer.
 
“Do it,” she hissed.
 
And I did.
 
She groaned and moved against me as I fed, “yes! Keep going!”
 
I did not stop. Not until she was added to the ranks of my ghosts. Not until she too haunted this house. I think I should have cried. I did not.
Cheryl changed everything. Cheryl and my awakening to the existence of my ghosts. Their existence beyond the confines of my mind. Their escape into the walls of the house I have lived in all these years.
 
That change gave me options, and I used those options in the only way I could.
 
*
 
“Come,” I said to the woman, “sit.”
 
She smiled hungrily at me. A predator made confident by her prior antics and the presence of her boyfriend in the next room. But most of her confidence came from the drug she had slipped into my wine. A drug that had no effect on me whatsoever. 
 
There was something haughty about the way she looked at me as she took a seat next to me. I returned her smile and supressed the urge to reveal the teeth that I would use to drain the life from her. Plenty of time for that. 
 
Perhaps I shouldn’t enjoy myself in the pursuit of my evil prey. But then, I need to build up to the moment and I like my food to be hot. Rushing these things doesn’t seem right to me. Besides, my date for the night was of a similar mind. She would have her fun and then the plan was that she and her boyfriend would overpower me and slit my throat. Right now, he was casing the house and working out where the valuables were. They always made it look like a burglary gone wrong, and they made quite a lot of money from the spoils of their homicidal exploits.
 
We kissed and she responded lustfully. The thought of what she and her boyfriend were going to do to me turning her on more than the kiss itself. A fantasy that they had lived out several times already. Blurring the lines. Intoxicated by sex and death.
 
She pushed me away, arched her back and raised her skirt. She stared deeply into my eyes and parted her legs. The message was clear and I responded exactly as she wished. 
 
This was, I knew, the part where her boyfriend was supposed to come in and do his worst. He arrived right on cue.
 
“Freddie?” she gasped.
 
“They…” croaked Freddie, “he’s a…”
 
“Vampire?” I said without looking at him.
 
I didn’t need to look at him to know that Cheryl had mustered her army and gone to work on him. He was no use now. I would feed upon him at my leisure.
 
“Sit,” I commanded.
 
I heard him slump heavily to the floor. I should have been more specific. There was a perfectly good armchair he could have sat on.
 
“No!” she gasped.
 
I grinned at her.
 
“No! Please! I…” she was trying to hold me back, but that was never going to work. All the haughtiness and confidence had deserted her. Now she was experiencing the fear that she had invoked in her victims. Now she was tasting the dish she had served.
 
“Yes,” I whispered, my lips brushing her ear.
 
I took my time, kissing and lapping at her neck. I took my time feeding on her. First I took from her neck, giving her pleasure after the initial pain. 
 
“Don’t stop!” she cried, “keep going!”
 
She encouraged me to take everything from her and only towards the end, did she see her fate for what it was. As I sucked the life blood from her thigh her eyes went wide and she groaned.
 
“No! Stop!”
 
She tried to push me away, her back arching, her hands scrabbling at me, but it was too late. It was always too late. I bit down, drawing more of her blood. She let out a low moan, and then she was just a ghost.
","September 13, 2023 10:34","[[{'Tricia Shulist': 'Interesting story.  At first I thought this was a reflection piece.  But no.  Vampires.  And vampire lore, and vampire behaviour.  What  I didn’t expect was vampire regret.  A twist on the lore.  Thanks for sharing.', 'time': '18:29 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Jed Cope': 'Thanks. Glad you liked it. Always good to get a twist in and make it stick!', 'time': '20:59 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jed Cope': 'Thanks. Glad you liked it. Always good to get a twist in and make it stick!', 'time': '20:59 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Long buildup that led to gruesomeness.', 'time': '16:28 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Jed Cope': ""Story of my life. \nI'm glad I managed all five prompts and intertwined them."", 'time': '19:21 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jed Cope': ""Story of my life. \nI'm glad I managed all five prompts and intertwined them."", 'time': '19:21 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,9kjjra,A Good Old Fashioned Ghost Story,Cade Holter,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/9kjjra/,/short-story/9kjjra/,Horror,0,['Horror'],7 likes,"
The House on Bascom Avenue didn’t look haunted. Not by any stretch of the term. It was just another cookie cutter suburban home among its ilk, a drab and uninspiring two story home that was one of many built to dam the flood of people that had been moving to Noxbridge in the past few years. When we stared at the thing during the day, it was just a modern gray townhouse, built for maximizing space at the cost of being nestled into the centre of other homes. You couldn’t pick the thing out if you had wanted too. We weren’t there during the day though. Not when Jason, in his infinite dickdom, demanded a good old fashioned ghost story for Halloween.The House, as it was, was vacant since it’s first owners, a reasonably wealthy family of immigrants from India, had been found dead. No one had really wanted the place. Jason gave us all the gory details, us being me, his girlfriend Jackie, and her friend Carly. As a sidebar, I did not like Carly back then; she was tolerated because Jason and Jackie were an item and Carly wouldn’t let her go alone with him, which I can’t blame her for given how Jason acted, the pervert, but I didn’t see any need to drag me into it. She ended up stabbing me with a screwdriver last week because we got into it about Jackie, so I’ve got no desire to be nice about what I say. Not about any of them really. Let me explain.Jason had a fascination with the supernatural, the occult, and general horribly shit, so that family getting killed was like catnip for him. He somehow learned all the gory details about the case, like how the mother of the family had her skull split in half, or how the father of the husband was strung up from the ceiling with a garden hose. About the daughters boyfriend, who was left dangling off the second floor railing without a head. When he started talking about what that man did to his daughter, a girl who had taken to Canadas way of living to well for his liking, I had enough.“Jason, could you shut the fuck up?” I told him.“What?” He says to me, like I’m being the asshole. “We’re already here, we might as well know what we’re getting into.” He has Jackie pulled in tight to him, and she just agreed with him like she always did, making sure to call me a ‘faggot’ as well, just for good measure. Carly didn’t say much of anything, and when I looked to her I saw that she staring up at The House. It was somehow bigger looking at night, it architecture warped by shadows cast by streetlights to either side of it, dim streetlights that glowed a deep orange and gave the grey brick a grim colouration that was accentuated by the pitch black sky that looked so huge above the town. It was itself without any lights, as you may have expected, and it stood out from the rest with a large board of plywood over a second floor window, which you might not have expected. That plywood gave the impression, in that thick darkness, of an evil eye, blank and staring, watching the four delinquents on Halloween night about to make a terrible, terrible mistake.Jason did not hesitate to do so, only breaking his stride under the weight of Jackie stopping, trying to tell him to wait, but he shushed her and kept going alone. She followed swiftly after. Me and Carly just stood there watching them. “You guys coming?” Jackie called out to us Thinking about it.” Carly called back. That was enough to pacify Jackie, who started after Jason again. Soon it was just the two of us. We shared a glance, one that spoke volumes to me about how much she wasn’t having this, about how she would’ve been comfortable with me dragging her away by her ankles, as she frequently claimed I wanted to do, if it meant she didn’t have to go inside of The House. She did though. She walked with heavy steps in boots that clunked against the asphalt. I stayed back and searched around me, trying to find a sign of life in this neighbourhood. I saw cars in driveways and the occasional light on in a window, but no people. I looked further out and tried to find the rest of the town, tried to find the high school that I knew was visible from here from previous excursions. It was a wall of darkness that met me, and I found myself with little justifiable cause to leave, so I turned back to The House and followed the others, now long gone, back inside. I didn’t actually have any idea what to expect, no real knowledge of haunting or spirits or demons or whatever the fuck could have been in that house.I know now. Dear god do I know now.The inside of The House was even darker than the outside, and, since there hadn’t been any cause for doing so since The Bahl Family Massacre, we all knew there wouldn’t be any power, so that’s why Jason elected to bring a flashlight. As did Jackie and Carly. I did not, because I was an idiot I guess. Their light did well enough though, I could see the inside of the house, the stairwell by the bathroom that was itself by the front door and the hallway leading into the living room I could see in an outline. Jason led the way again and we all followed him, me groping at the wall closest to me largely just for the comfort of having a solid object against me. We all walked slower than Jason, listening to the creak of laminated floorboards that betrayed the homes unsettled construction since it was left alone, when I felt the wall next to me open into a gaping maw of darkness. I stumbled forward and felt something jam into my side.I screamed, and it wasn’t a very dignified one either. It was one that said ‘look at me I’m getting murdered!’ The others did look at me, but I wasn’t getting murdered. I’d simply found where the kitchenette opens into, and that jabbing sensation in my side? The countertop. Jason got a good laugh out of that, while Jackie and Carly admonished me for giving them collective heart attacks. You can probably see why I’m not really gushing about our time together at this point, so I’ll just get to the point now. There hadn’t been any actual plan for when we actually got inside, Jason admitted himself that he didn’t even expect the door to be unlocked, so we just spent some time in the living room talking about shows and movies and Me and Jason brought up penises for the sole purpose of annoying the girls, and that may have worked a little too well considering Jackie got up and starting marching away from us.“Where you going?” Jason asked.“Away from you.” She said, not even looking back.I thought the night was over then, she’d leave the house, Jason would chase after her as he always did to apologize, and Me and Carly would have an excuse to ditch the whole experience and go our separate ways again. A perfect wet fart ending for an event we could embellish to our hearts content. Jackie did not go out of the front door. When she was out of sight, all we could hear were her New Balance shoes smacking into the floor, followed by the occasional groan of settling wood. The tempo of her steps was consistent, quick but not so quick. When it got to the furthest point, Jason finally got up so he could run after her, but something changed. The tempo changed. Instead of a steady stream of footsteps, they stopped abruptly. It gave Jason pause, and it gave me pause as well since I was also getting up off the couch. It remained silent for a time that, while not exceptionally long, felt that way. It was as if a silent and invisible hand had taken our hearts in its hardy grip. A heavy air filled the room. Then footsteps. They went up the stairs, and they were fast. Faster than any I’ve heard the or since. It was just one set too, I could tell. They sounded as if something was stomping fast against every step on the way up and they moved so damn fast. Jason broke into a sprint, calling Jackie’s name.She was gone. The front door was wide open.What happened next was Jason going as fast he could, skidding to a stop in front of the stairs to the second floor, and ascending them as rapidly as he could. His footfalls sounded nothing like what I had assumed were Jackie’s footsteps sounded like. I hadn’t followed him, I made the excuse of waiting up for Carly, who walked with a limp and couldn’t run if she wanted too. The real reason was that I was afraid. Afraid of what I would see up there. The second floor was where the patriarch of the Bahl family had killed everyone else in the house.Me and Carly moved without swiftness, in dead silence. No sound from upstairs since Jason had gone up it. My mind was filling with images of him embracing Jackie, hugging her close with a tenderness that maybe he had in him all along. I thought that maybe she had locked herself in a room and he was trying to convince her to open the door. My mind flooded with worse images as well. Things I don’t care much to describe in any detail. The two of us just kept walking. The floorboards had stopped creaking under our weight by the time we got to the door and opened our ears to a strange wet sound to our right. I was just going to keep doing, but I stopped when I heard Carly gasp behind me. I turned to her, than to where she was looking, and I felt sick.A pair of bare legs, the legs of a man or boy on the cusp of being a man, dangled and swayed near imperceptibly above the first landing of the stairs, where the second floor railing would be, visible up to the crotch. Dripping down in little rivers was dark red blood, splattering onto the hard stairs. They were the legs of a white person. I grabbed Carly by the wrist and yanked her out of that house with me, nearly flinging her face first onto the pavement without meaning too. The door slammed shut behind us.The House was quiet after that, so I started backing out further to get a look at the whole thing, Carly took to just sitting on the ground, breathing hard and heavy and staring at the front door. The obvious conclusion to draw would be that Jason and Jackie were fucking with us, giving us our obliged ‘one good scare’ for Halloween, and that they would be outside in no time to laugh about it. I can tell you they did not do that. They never would do that, I knew it as soon as I saw the second floor.Something I didn’t mention before was what had happened to the Bahl daughter, and I still have no intention of giving you details on that. You need to know that she died quietly, but she didn’t die quickly or painlessly. Her father made sure of that, the rotten son of a bitch. Her bedroom was where he hurt her, and where the plywood had been placed after he broke it in an escape attempt. The massacre was eventually discovered because one of the neighbours had noticed that the light in that room had been left on for two days straight.Tonight, the plywood was gone. It was replaced by unbroken glass.The light was on.
","September 10, 2023 00:01",[]
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,cot9t3,6 Living Inside,John Steckley,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/cot9t3/,/short-story/cot9t3/,Horror,0,"['Drama', 'Horror', 'Mystery']",7 likes,"
 6 Lives Inside
	The whole strange affair started one Sunday, when we were driving north a long way on the highway (well over an hour) to have a hamburger, fries and a chocolate milkshake at our favourite summer take out place: Weber’s. It was always well worth the drive and the lineup. Nearing our destination we saw an old abandoned house we had seen many times before. It was one of the sights we looked forward to viewing along the way, like a lake or a river. Was it always abandoned when we saw it?  We couldn’t say. It was right beside a car dealership with a large parking lot, and we may have linked the two as belonging to the same family.  As we approached and started to pass the house, giving it our usual absorbing glance, we quite suddenly decided that we wanted to visit the place and take some closeup pictures of it. We both articulated the view that there might be a time soon when it was torn down, no longer to be seen by people like us that looked forward to seeing it as a welcome landmark on the way north. There is a sadness to a house that is no longer a home, and a empty lot would pass on that sadness to those accustomed to seeing it.
         To achieve our impulsive purpose, we had to take a turn off of the highway, drive over a bridge, enter the other side of the highway carefully making our way south between the speeding cars coming back from possibly their final weekend at the cottage. Shortly after passing the house on our left, we turned off the highway again, crossed the highway on another bridge, and headed across back to the north-going lanes. It was more difficult to regain the highway this time, with a longer wait time, and one horn honking furiously when I impatiently began our northward passage. There was a space we could turn off the road, and park in front of the house. It was separated from us by a vitural forest of very tall weeds and a link fence with bent over sections where others must have crossed over earlier – either potential looters or romantics like us. It was fortunate for us that the fence was almost completely broken down in one place, so we could feel confident that we could cross it, even at our age.
           As we approached the house, wading through the weeds, the second storey seemed to be reaching for the sky, accompanied by a few domesticated trees would have been little more than saplings when they were first planted on the north side of the house as part of the outdoor decore.
           The house was covered with a very faded yellowy/orange stucco, probably bearing a  much more distinctive colour when the family saw to its maintenance. The stucco felt rather soft and vulnerable when we put our hands upon it on the south side of the house, and patted it like we would a family dog.
           The eastern backside of the house was generally much less impressive, certainly less majestic, as befitting the part of the house that was hidden from highway drivers. There was a broken window, possibly a victim of a very strong wind or an impulsively tossed rock. There were thick planks of wood that extended across an open space in the back. They looked like they had either been very near to a fire, or had just turned black with age, and negligence. 
           The next sight that drew our attention was seen through an unbroken upstairs window. The object we stared at was a narrow bed lying parallel with the side wall. All we could see of it were the iron pipes which had once supported a mattress, and possibly still did.
           But the strangest and most startling thing we saw was graffitti that read: “6 lives inside”. At first the words were all that we read, but then we identified as part of the message the big 6 that rose above the words, like a hen towering over its chicks. We wondered what that meant. We doubted that there would be six people living there currently, although the bed was a kind of a hint that at least one person might be holding up there as a squatter. That still seemed quite unlikely, however. It probably had been too difficult to move the bed, and it probably would have been too old and fragile for future use in a newer dwelling anyway.
           The mysteries of what remained inside grabbed our attention. We couldn’t walk away for wondering what evidence there might be of the 6 lives advertised as being inside. Then we made a decision. It wasn’t an easy one, but it was harder to resist. We stepped forward to the back door beside the graffiti. Was it loose, unlocked? We didn’t have the slightest idea about what state the door was in, but we wanted to try to see whether we could open it. It looked like it might have once been quite sturdy during the years of parents and children opening and shutting it, returning home or leaving for school or work.
           The door resisted at first, but as I began to vigorously shake it and crash into it with several serious body checks, it finally, begrudgingly opened. It was an experience both exciting, and something to be apprehensive about. We were trespassing, breaking and entering. And our car was in the front for all drivers to see, including the police that regularly patrolled the highway, and might be looking for easy prey to make their day.
           The floor was made of what I would call naked boards, and it creaked a bit as we walked about looking for evidence of there once being six lives taking shelter inside. As we walked into what must have been the living room, we saw on the far wall six portraits, clearly the six that the graffiti had told us about.
           Then the unexpected happened. We heard voices of children and adults, that sounded like the speakers were in the same room with us, but they clearly were not to be seen. They were talking about going to the place that was the reason for our trip. That brought a smile to our faces that shared our expressions of surprise.
           Then a loud sound of screeching tires struck our ears, and there was sudden silence, followed by the gradually fading disappearance of the pictures of the six family members.
           Always being one who likes to experiment, I led my wife out the door, counted to ten, and then I led her back into the house. Sure enough, as I had predicted but did not speak out loud, the pictures reappeared, followed by the talking, the screeching of tires, and the loss of both pictures and sounds once more.
           As we left the haunted building, and headed for our car, we decided to go to the nearest town, even though it could mean seriously delaying our hamburgers, fries and chocolate milkshakes. We hoped that the town library would have articles from their local newspaper available on-line. Sure enough, they did. After an hour’s serious researching, we discovered that the family, the McNeils, were all killed in a car crash one Saturday afternoon four years ago. Apparently, their cremated ashes were scattered on the property. But as we had learned, they also occupied the old house in yet another way.
","September 11, 2023 16:49",[]
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,ig3ha0,Don’t,Vincent Paiement Désilets,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ig3ha0/,/short-story/ig3ha0/,Horror,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Horror', 'Kids']",6 likes,"
I’m writing this with two remaining fingers, one dead friend, and three decades of regrets, loathing, and pain. You’ll never read it—there’s no such thing as time travel—but consider this a therapeutic exercise. A hopeless shot at inner peace, at settling the past. I’ve tried many times to write this. Must be my fiftieth attempt. I’d burst into tears, I’d shake for hours, I’d get lost in a confusing mist of memories, bite my cheeks until they bled. One night, I slit my wrists and soaked my sheet with blood.
			You’re young, healthy—you feel like nothing can kill you. Not only is it far from the truth, but you’ll learn there are things worse than death. Things you never thought possible. You can’t find them in science books and newspapers, but they exist. And they hurt. They ruin your life. This is the advice you never got.
           Do not go into the deserted house on Willow Street that resembles a burnt club sandwich as you put it, with the roof that rises in the middle where starts the crack that divides the house like a huge, badly healed scar full of splinters and protruding nails, from roof to front porch, slicing through shades of brown, rust red, moldy green. 
           You’re gonna enjoy the thrill, that’s understandable. Anything seems like an escape from that boring suburban life. And you’ll want to impress that girl. That’s understandable too. But if you had known, before setting foot in that house, what would happen to her… 
           You’ll do it anyway, of course. As in those horror films you like so much. You won’t think twice before opening the door, with the broken lock that almost feels like an invitation. Or a trap. You’ll wonder if it was a mistake, though, just a fraction of a feeling, right after you step inside. You’ll hope she didn’t notice your hesitation. She would have mocked you, or worse, would have remained silent but labeled you a coward.  
           The first thing that will hit you is the smell. Sour is the word that will come to mind. Later, you’ll find out the thing that took over the house is territorial. Very territorial. That smell is just one of the ways it lets you know that. 
           You two will prowl on the creaking wooden floor, survey dusty artifacts, intriguing vestiges of a life that once was, in the feeble moonlight, under the spell of the mood. You will revel in the forbidden feeling of the adventure, but glance back at every noise, then nervously giggle about it. 
           Don’t go downstairs. And if you do, bring a weapon. But you won’t. Watch out for the second to last step. It will break under your weight, and a shrill gurgle will answer you from the darkness of the basement. Don’t bother with the light switch. It won’t work. 
           As you’ll step on the floor, you’ll think you’re walking on grass. Sticky, humid grass that will wet the soles of your shoes. The smell will be stronger than anywhere else in the house. Something will entice you to keep going, against instinct or reason, because you hate to leave things unfinished, places unexplored, mysteries unsolved. 
           She’ll brush against your arm, walk past you, and that will bother you, but you’ll also be relieved. You’ll no longer be first. She will hold her lighter in front of her until the flame burns her thumb and forces her to let it die and light it again. Her face will turn toward you, in an orange glow, with dark shadows under her eyes. That’s the last time you’ll see her face. 
           The shrill will come again, this time harsher. You’ll understand, right then, that it is its house. You’ll both jump. She’ll drop the lighter. You’ll hear her pat the floor, search for it. She’ll scream. Something warm and wet will splash your face, and you’ll know it’s blood. Hers. You’ll kick around, try to hit something. To help. Don’t try. 
           Hold your breath. The smell will daze you, burn your nostrils and your eyes. 
           The thing will wrap itself around your arm. And squeeze. You’ll punch it, try to take it off. Your mind will fail to make sense of what it is. You’ll get a mental image of a worm, then a caterpillar. But you’ll know it’s something no one has ever laid eyes on. A parasite born into that house, that grew, that nested there. Your punches will weaken as the pain intensifies. Stop. If you keep going, your hand will enter its mouth and the teeth will snap on your wrist. You’ll lose your hand. The thing will squeeze, cut the blood flow in your arm. Juice will run down your skin and scorch the flesh. You’ll lose most of your fingers on your remaining hand. 
           What you want to do is bang it on the wall. The one on your right. You won’t have the strength to swing your arm, but tackle with your hips. Use your weight to squeeze it against the concrete. Something on that wall will hurt it enough to make it lose its grip. Maybe a nail or a broken piece of wood. 
           Run. Don’t look back. You’ll see nothing, anyway. You’ll slip on juice or blood or both and fall face down. Push yourself back up, quick. You’ll be losing a lot of blood. 
           Keep running. Don’t think about her. She’s dead. Get out of the house without looking back. Don’t think about her. Don’t think about her smile or the day you met or the good times you’ll never share with her. Don’t think about the thing. When you’ll wake up in sweat, when you’ll still smell the stench or feel the burn or get tingles in your ghost hand, numb your mind. Drink, take drugs, watch movies, anything. But don’t think about it. 
           You’ll want to go back and burn down the house, but you’ll never muster up the courage. Good. Don’t go back there. Forget about the thing and what happened. You never will. 
","September 08, 2023 17:15","[[{'Danie Nikole': 'I really enjoyed this story. Great suspense, opening line, and I liked the title. \n\nK bye', 'time': '03:10 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Vincent Paiement Désilets': 'Thank you Danie', 'time': '23:25 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Vincent Paiement Désilets': 'Thank you Danie', 'time': '23:25 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,jf4o9c,The House of Sorotino,Caleb Oney,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/jf4o9c/,/short-story/jf4o9c/,Horror,0,"['Thriller', 'Suspense', 'Speculative']",6 likes,"
 Robert Baker
 17th of September — approx. 3 p.m.
	Casper sits next to me looking started. I’m not entirely sure as to why. I’ve begun to suspect he isn’t nearly as enthusiastic about visiting this home as he expressed prior to our departure. I attempt to comfort him but his— conditions— surely make it difficult to understand his current state of being.
	He seldom speaks and what few words he has are chosen carefully. It is immensely difficult to pry the mind of this apprentice of mine. Perhaps one day he may consider me close enough to discuss matters even on the surface level. He is still shivering, however, it feels as though the Sun’s kiss has fallen upon us on this lovely summer’s afternoon for the Autumnal Equinox is a few weeks shy and cool weather has yet to strike us.
	I find myself trying to break eye contact from the young apprentice upon realizing I can do little to offer solace from this fear he holds. I have never been quite good at the comforting of others, much less of myself. The coach we are traveling by is no help thus far, for the car is shaken and the horses appear unsteady and sickly. I do hope they are not overworked.
	I begin to look out of the window, trying to stabilize myself from the constant sheer rocking of the carriage. I knew the pathway to this house was disconnected from primary roads, I should have prepared myself more, for Casper’s sake. The trees are a pleasant change of scenery from the London brick walls and gates. It can feel claustrophobic being within fortification for too long. I’ve heard stories about rural Essex. They were not quite tame, I think they worry Casper the most. I, for one, am quite giddy to see what lies ahead of this strange lowly place.
	From outside the window I see a myriad of colours that have began to display from the trees. What intrigues me the most is the family. Who are these people that live there, why do they do what they do? The trees wave at me from the incoming woods. I think the family will be excited to see me too. I kept my hand from raising to wave back at the trees.
 
	_
 
 approx. 6:50 p.m.
	It was this moment which frustrated me most about the trip. It seems one of the wheels sunk into a hole in the path which had knocked off my glasses from the impact. It was already approaching dark. My vision is at a deficit without my corrective lenses and I fear the driver is leading us down the wrong path, I hardly believe this is the way to the House of Sorotino. It is terribly dark and worrisome. Perhaps Casper’s fears have afflicted me at this moment. He awoke from a slumber in which he fell before the collision. My eyes must be sorely mistaken for I could have sworn I were looking into a mirror when I peered at the driver!
 
	_
 
 approx. 7:30 p.m.
	The flask in my jacket pocket which I have been nursing is nearing its end. I had expected I might need some gin to accompany me on this route. But oh! The carriage was coming to a halt at this moment I finished my drink. Oh the convenience, I just may have sullied my first impressions upon the family Sorotino after having consumed a full flask of this wretched Devil’s water.
	The driver, a Londoner much like myself by the look of him— though I couldn’t catch a trustworthy glimpse— has brought us here at a time much later than agreed upon. I must write to his company in complaint!
	The home stood high enough to cover the rising moon which shuddered behind the darkness of the walls, sheltering whatever lie inside not only from darkness, but from light. I look to Casper in reassurance, but his widened eyes carry a weight that seemed to have even lowered my hopes. Like a pulley, the waning of my spirits had only lifted my wariness and anxieties.
 
	_
 
 my pocket journal
	I now write, purely for research purposes, in my pocket journal as I discover this home with my trusty ink pen, oh what marvelous technologies I may carry with me!
	With each step upon the outside deck, a creak which sounded almost of a distant tumultuous scream stole through the air. I can’t quite describe the mixed feelings I had begun to acquire. Perhaps I shall turn back and wave down the driver of the carriage, for he is still within eyesight merely sinking into the darkness and shrinking to a full stop! But of course, I feel the faint pattering of rain riddle my shoulders. Shall I be at the mercy of this home as the only protection from potential torrential rains? I shall make my way quickly to the door as to wear the appearance of heroism for poor Casper.
	The door knocker on the dark oak fell loose at my grip (for am I that strong! Or is the house of abysmal condition?) I resorted to using my knuckles to alert whoever is just beyond that door that I have arrived.
	“Hello House of Sorotino! It is I, Mr. Baker here with my colleague!”
	I felt as though the knocking wouldn’t capture their attention. The strangest occurrence has just happened at this moment. After I had spoken it seems as though everything went silent, until I heard coming from within the house a voice rising in its power like a wave only to then soon crash. Alas— it was but my voice repeating what I had just said! Or was it what I had just said, for it sounded like a plead for help!
	The voice shifted from mine to one unfamiliar to myself. Was it Casper? I think not for I turned my head to find his shuddering figure and trembling lips held tight as though to hug one another, top and bottom, sealed in infinite eternity. He shall not speak the whole trip I think for that would be a miracle!
	Footsteps! Oh faint pattering like the rain from just outside of the porch. Was it he who spoke, who mimicked? I heard the knob turn slowly before the door solemnly eased open. With a wide smile from ear to ear and open arms, the head of the home addressed myself and Casper. It felt as though a cool gust of wind from the Atlantic had brushed over us from within the home.
	“Welcome to my home,” He spoke leisurely, “I am very excited to have you both here on this night.”
	I surely thought, even hoped, that my eyes were lying to me, for I have seen this man before I could swear it, and without clothes stood he! But why was he naked save for a pair of flashy silver spectacles? I had even felt the coolness turn to sheer wintry coldness, as though to expect snow to sprinkle from the ceiling. He held out his hand.
	“Sir, excuse my formidable curiosity, but why is it you haven’t any clothing on?” I shivered much the same Casper has upon taking his hand into mine. He was frozen to the touch yet there was a smoothness, a slippery surface— had he just churned butter?
	“Ah! Is that what I forgot! I shall hurry upstairs and fetch some!” He turned almost sloth-like as if his focus were fixated on each pivot of each joint in his body. It was eerie for he moved much the same a doll would. This was, I’m afraid, not the most concerning of his actions, for his smile never parted from beneath his hooked nose. I expected some offense to be taken on his part concerning his mere nakedness.
	“Please,” he turned, “Be seated at the dining table.” His open hand reached out before sinking back to his person. Are my eyes to be lying to me again? For I saw the mold of my hand upon his yet still, as though my imprint were left on his, but I looked down to find my hand as it was just before! Have I already gone mad!
	“And just remember, please make yourself at home for our house is yours. You shall find that you will cross no locks or problems with your stay.”
	I was reminded in this moment to make sure to keep the front door unlocked should Casper and I make for a quick escape. I had already begun feeling a dreaded depression fall over me and I feared the only cure was departure, but something was keeping me here. What was it?
	Upon inspecting the table which we were seated, I found no trace of dining or supper prepared. I see mere dust fallen upon the surface, which I initially suspected to be flakes of snow. Thunder had begun to sound outside. Flashing overcame the moonlight. I heard patterning coming from the kitchen area.
	“Hello, and you must be Mr. Baker.” A tall woman said, springing from her head came dark hair with a pearlescent silver striking each strand. I nearly felt compeled to grab her hand and with a bow, kiss it as though it were my wife’s.
	“I am Draconia Sorotino, and these are my children, Desdemona and Salem.”
	I hadn’t even noticed two young twins standing just in her background for her beauty! Oh I do hope she doesn’t catch my writing this!
	“Pleased to meet you all.” I formally stated, reaching my hand for hers.
	“We shall sup together as soon as my faithful husband arrives from our room.” Her eyes glinted in the moonlight. It was this very moment, however, I noticed that the home had no trace of artificial light, for the place was nearly dark, and what was visible was so due to the moonlight bleeding from the windows.
	I felt around my pockets to ensure I still had matches with me. I hear his faint footsteps descending from the tumultuous stairs, I shall surrender my pocket journal back into hiding so as they do not find me writing within it!
 
	_
 
 just after supper
	They expect me to spend the night. I held some weariness around my face whence they asked. I do not feel safe, for the twins said not but one word to me— stay. Please let this slumber save me from this unnecessary torture. But why is it I feel so at home here?
 
	_
 
 approx. 3 a.m. — pocket journal 
	I must do more searching. Noises keep me from my sleep. Soft voices whispering from the hall outside are brushing upon my ears. I tell Casper to remain in this room, to stay away from the horrors I may encounter, but without words he insists upon joining me. I cannot argue with him for how does one argue with a mute?
	I cannot see properly, how shall I write in case of my demise, should anyone come across my words? Perhaps Casper shall bring them back to London with him. From within my matchbox lie ten matches, I must use them wisely. Upon striking the first one, I feel an instant glimmer of warmth trickle through my body. I crept my way to the door in attempts to open it. The knob turned with ease and we made our way into the main hallway. The match-light flickered through the corridor, jumping from one wall to the next, dancing with the flame. Oh what a relief to see!
	I tried the first door— but it was locked. Why would Kazimir tell me I wouldn’t come across locks? The neighbouring door had also been sealed tight and the handle wouldn’t budge. Panic flooded me. The match nearly burned me, I let out a whimper. The voices stopped as the light died. I heard my own voice amongst them once again, I shall not be distracted! Ninth match lit.
	The voices undulate through the halls. Faint moaning became distant screams, disgust and hatred arose in me before lust followed. Is Draconia among one of these rooms?
	I try the doors along the way to the master bedroom only to find them all locked. The voices grew louder. I turned to check Casper, his eyes wide and mouth gaped open but not one noise came from him. The match-light died and his face sunk back into the infinite darkness. Eighth match in my hand and I struck it against the box, but oh! It seems Casper has remained in the darkness for he was not where I had seen him just before!
	“Casper,” I whisper, “Casper do not fool me!”
	The voices uttered few words audible to me, but from within the ocean of vocabulary I heard welcome!
	What will they do to poor Casper! I must find him. The match died once again. On to the seventh.
	The hall lit up and I dashed towards the double doors, of which I was sure would lead to the master bedroom. Upon opening I find what is hard to reimagine on paper, for it was Kazimir and Draconia, sitting still on wooden chairs, but they had not moved an inch. I froze initially, before realizing I must search further, I may go up to them to ask what could have happened to my colleague.
	The match-light faded into the darkness and I nearly fumbled to strike the sixth match, and when the flame arose I saw but Kasimir’s uncanny visage just inches from mine! I had not heard a step but still was he, watching me as the fire flickered across his face, showing his sunken cheekbones through the casting of shadow. His smile appeared to have been wiped from his face, literally! A streak of what I suppose was his skin skimmed across where his mouth once lie!
	I jerked and threw the match at his body, I saw what looked like a tear drop from his face, but alas— it was of his own skin, or was it skin at all!
	I looked around the room to find many people sitting, yet not moving much the same as Kazimir. The fifth match slid across the box, but it did not light. I could swear it from the spark I saw one of the people inch closer. I struck again hastily, blessed light! The flame rose.
	I found Kazimir sitting once again in his chair, just beside Draconia and their two children. I threw the match as well as the fourth out of the sheer pain that this fear had on me, for what I saw I could not wish to see, it made me wish to be mad. How I preferred madness to this!
	The figure which moved was of Casper himself! He held in his hand an unlit candle but he seemed to have been extracting the wax from the burning. I saw from the light of the third match his hand gently brush Kazimir’s face as though to reconstruct the mouth with suave. The wax repaired my own damages.
	“Casper?” I cried, shaking!
	He hadn’t said a word, but his face omitted a look of anger, much like a cat’s when startled. He was no longer shaking, for the brushing of his hand was like an artist’s to a canvas. I stumbled for a moment, where my glasses fell from my face I do not know. I looked to the figure which Casper was attending to. A resemblance had struck me, oh the face of Kazimir was not of Kazimir at all, the lips had a crevice sliced just above the upper lip much the same mine was. The eyes looked faintly parted with a hue of green, just as mine are! His ears were off-set, one crooked as mine are!
	This figure is not of a man named Kazimir Sorotino, it is of me! Why is Casper doing this? Draconia turned her head and her luscious black hair swiped away from her face, but again, it was of my own!
	The twins stood from their seats and I fell to my back as they stood over me with my second match lit above me. They were two identical not only to each other, but to me!
	“Who’s house is that I am in!” I call as the light threw shadows in each direction of the room. I see the other figures of wax, each of which were naked just as Kazimir before, but they were now looking at me, at themselves!
	My voice repeated from the walls once again, but I heard an answer following.
	“Your own.”
	How could this be! I am Robert Baker visiting the House of Sorotino!
	Casper looked to me with my own face just as the others. His mouth opened but did not move an inch. The light faded once again. I took the last match and struck it against the box. As it danced, the shadows from Caspers face were cast in tandem to my own, his deep cheekbones reflected that of mine. His open mouth mirrored that of my own. It still did not move, but from within it I heard the tumultuous voice as loud and clear as ever I did!
	“You are in the House of Robert Sorotino.”
	“This cannot be!” But I did not open my mouth, no sound came from me, but from the house itself. The light slowly faded from the room, each wax figure towered over me. Twas the last I saw of that room before I ran, ran far away.
 
	_
 
 Robert Baker
 18th of September — approx. 3 p.m.
	Casper sits next to me looking started. I’m not entirely sure as to why. I’ve begun to suspect he isn’t nearly as enthusiastic about visiting this home as he expressed prior to our departure. I attempt to comfort him but his— conditions— surely make it difficult to understand his current state of being.
","September 12, 2023 18:16","[[{'David Sweet': 'Interesting story! Thanks for sharing.', 'time': '15:31 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,zpbvzc,The house in the Park,Gisela Woldenga,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/zpbvzc/,/short-story/zpbvzc/,Horror,0,"['Fiction', 'Horror']",6 likes,"
isela Woldenga
752 Runnymede Ave. Coquitlam BC, V3J2V1
email: gwnovels@gmail.com 
Tel.: 604-939-5357 
 
 
 
 
 THE HOUSE IN THE PARK 
 
 
Emily stopped and pointed. “Look at that house, Claire. It’s like a left-over from another time. And those colors.”
	Claire focused her camera. “Yeah, who has skinny, pink houses with yellow shutters nowadays.”
	Emily felt a small shiver going down her spine. “Not shutters. The windows are boarded up. They look like dead eyes.”
	Claire giggled. “How dramatic. Maybe we can find out what it’s still doing here. But right now we need lunch.” She secured her camera and hoisted the bag over her shoulder. “Let’s go to that cute café around the corner.”
	“Why don’t you shoot pictures with your cellphone, Claire? Most people do that now.”
	Claire gave Emily a stern look. “Not me. Those pictures never turn out as well as with my trusted camera.”
	Emily and Claire had been friends since Grade three. Both had grown up, gone to work, and kept up with their friendship. Since Claire loved photography, they had decided to take a few days out of their busy schedule and take a bus trip to a neighboring city with a camera museum. Emily didn’t mind, even though her interest in snapping pictures was not that intense.
	On their way out of the park Emily looked back at the house and rubbed her eyes. The house shifted back and forth, ever so slightly. She shook her head. “I was probably fooled by shades and tree branches moving.”
G.Woldenga: House in the Park	
Claire looked at her. “What are you talking about?”
	“The house. It moved.”
	Claire patted Emily’s shoulder. “You’re seeing ghosts again. Let’s eat first, then investigate.”
	Stupid me, Emily thought, too much imagination.
	After they had ordered their food, Clair took a sip of her iced tea. “I’m going to ask the waitress if she knows anything about that weird house.”
	Emily swallowed. “Why? She might not know.”
	Claire shrugged. “You got me curious.”
	The waitress smiled at her question. “All I know is that it’s haunted.” She pointed to another waiter. “Don might know more about it. I’ll ask him.”
	After a while the waiter came over. “I’m on a short break. What do you want to know?”
	Claire started. “What’s an old, strange house still doing in the park? Why not take it down and build something nicer?”
	The waiter smiled. “It’s a long story. The house is haunted and nobody wants to disturb it.”
	“Why not? Exorcize it and then take it down.” Emily had read about how to get rid of ghosts that way.
	The waiter shook his head. ‘’It has been tried without success. The priest suffered severe burns when he did.’’
	Emily gasped. ‘’Did he survive?’’
	‘’Yeah, barely.’’
	‘’What about its history?’’ Claire asked.
	‘’Again bad. Murder and suicide.’’
	‘’Well, blow it up then.’’ Claire popped a French fry into her mouth.
	‘’And spread the demons all over the neighborhood?’’ The waiter looked grave. ‘’They’ll just invade another house.’’
	‘’Why would they do that?’’ Emily felt dumb to ask but wouldn’t the ghosts be happy to be free?
	‘’Oh, Emily,’’ Claire sighed. ‘’Maybe they want to live in a house like we do?’’
	The waiter got up. ‘’It was nice to meet you, but it’s back to my job for me.’’
	‘’Thank you,’’ both girls called. 
	After finishing their meal they decided to walk over to the Bed’n-Breakfast place that had been reserved for them. Again they asked the lady of the house about the haunting.
	Mrs. Benson stared at Claire and Emily. ‘’Stay away from there. It`s an ungodly place. Been there for years, getting noisier every evening.’’ She shook her head. ‘’I wish it would explode and kill whatever is in it.’’
	‘’The waiter said that would spread the ghosts all over the place,’’ Emily said.
	Mrs. Benson stayed busy at the stove. ‘’Don’t get a headache over it. Just stay far enough away from it.’’
	Emily and Claire looked at each other. How can we stay away from it? Emily thought. Maybe we get close enough to hear the noise the lady is talking about. 
	Outside Claire said, ”I have never seen so many people so scared of a haunted house. To prepare ourselves let’s see a scary movie.” 
	Emily had to laugh. It turned out to be a spy movie with Claire’s favorite “hunk-actor”, as she called him. Afterwards Emily suggested an inspection of a few boutiques along the main street.
	Claire sighed. ‘’Too expensive for me.’’
	Emily spotted a shawl made of soft, filmy material. ‘’Look at those colors. They really shimmer.’’ She held it up against the light. ‘’Light blue and gold with some green. I’ll buy it.’’
	Claire giggled. ‘’Do you still have money for supper?’’
 
G.Woldenga: House in the Park
‘’Pfft. Just this once.’’ She had to bring something home. After supper at the little café they looked at the sky. ‘’It will take some time to get dark,’’ Claire said. ‘’We might as well wander through the rest of the park until then.’’
	The park appeared bigger than they had thought. Claire clicked pictures of the man-made little waterfall flowing into the lake with ducks. Flowers bloomed in many colors with an especially beautiful rose bed.
	In the meantime it had gotten darker. “Let’s sit down on the bench close to the house.” Emily could hardly wait to see or hear something, anything, coming from the house. 
	Everything around them seemed to quieten down with only the wind rustling the leaves of the trees and some far-away sounds of cars. “It’s spooky,” Claire said. “I feel like a child waiting for the ghost under my bed.”
	Emily nodded. “Because we expect something to happen.” Then she pointed. “Look. Do you see that?” Wisps of vapor curled around the roof of the house, not in a stream but waving in a motion close to dancing.
	Claire shivered. “Weird, what is that?” she whispered.
	“I hear something,” Emily said. “Listen. It sounds like singing.” She got up and took a few steps towards the house.
	Claire jumped up. “What are you doing? I thought you were scared.’’
	‘’Just a bit closer.’’ Emily could hear more voices now. What is it, singing, yelling or loud talking? She barely noticed that she had walked nearer to the sounds. Then she stopped. The door of the house stood open. The same fog-like figures she had seen earlier floated in and out. Their arms were waving.  Are they waving at me? What do they want?
	Emily’s heart was beating up into her throat. She felt no fear, rather excitement for an adventure. Claire came up behind her. ‘’How far are you going? Stop!’’
	‘’I just want to find out . . . Hey!’’ Something or someone ripped the shawl off her neck. It sailed through the air into the open door. ‘’No! You don’t get my expensive shawl.’’ Emily sprinted after it. The last thing she heard was Clair’s scream, ‘’Emily, come back, stop!”
	Emily found herself in a dark hallway. A bluish glow made it possible for her to see a stairway going up. What now? She heard giggles around her. “Where is my shawl?” she shouted. “I want it back.” The answers were again giggles and high-pitched laughter.
G.Woldenga: House in the Park	
Emily shivered. A penetrating cold surrounded her. ‘’What do you want with me?’’ she called once more. Someone shoved her and she stood in a living room with two candles flickering on a table. A shadowy figure moved around waving her shawl and something touched her face. Emily shrank back. I’m a grown person, I’m not afraid. ‘’Leave me alone. I want to get out. Now! I can’t do anything for you.’’ 
	Everything around her became quiet. One candle sputtered and died. Emily heard a groan and someone moaned as if in pain. Emily took a deep breath. “Why are you still here? You are long dead. Go towards the light.’’  At least that’s what everyone always says. She heard a voice, ‘’Where?’’ Then more moaning.
	‘’The light, the other side. You have to pass over.” Do they even understand what I’m saying? Emily heard two words, ‘’Bad, bad.’’
	Emily began to understand. Their terrible history? “Even if you were bad, you have to go to the light.” But where is the light? Slowly she took a few steps backwards. Could she get out? She saw the shawl floating through the air again. She stretched out to grab it. But it disappeared up the staircase. Darn, I’ll never get it back. She looked at the door. It was still closed. A swishing noise sounded behind her and a touch on her shoulder made her jump and cry out.
	“Let me out. You have to go – by yourselves.” Emily took a chance and dashed for the door. It opened. She ran outside right into the arms of Claire.
	“You silly goose! We were scared to death for you. How could you? We heard you yelling in there.’’ Claire had tears in her eyes.
	Emily stared. ‘’Where do all these people come from. Did you call them?”
	Claire wiped her eyes. “I thought maybe they could help. You were in there for quite a time.”
	Some men and women came closer, talking to each other. Some just stood and shook their heads.
	Emily tried to take a deep breath. What am I going to tell them? A tall man came over.
	“What is in there? What did you see? Are you okay? Come sit down here.” He took her arm and led her to the bench. Another man with a camera appeared and knelt in front of Emily. She started to shake, she couldn`t help it. What am I going to tell them?
	G.Woldenga: The house
	Claire sat down beside her. ‘’You don`t have to talk, you know.’’
	‘’It’s alright. I tell them what I saw.’’ Emily let out a shuddery breath and turned to the two men. ‘’They’re just souls who got trapped and didn’t know how – to really die. I think they know now. I only saw one dark shadow but I heard them.’’
	A loud cracking noise shattered the quiet of the park. The ground shook around them. Everyone looked at the house. It swayed and, like a deck of cards, in a cloud of dust, fell into itself, rumbling and creaking as it did.
	Emily held her breath. Then she smiled and looked at Claire. ‘’They went. They found the light. It’s over for the haunted house. It was ready to go.’’
	All around her people murmured. She heard ‘’Thank God it’s gone.’’ ‘’Unbelievable.’’ ‘’One for the book.’’ ‘’What did the women do?’’
	Emily had a strange feeling of happiness inside her. I had to come here to save some unhappy souls. Coincidense? ‘’If it hadn’t been for the camera museum we wouldn’t have come,’’ she said to Claire. ‘’Thanks.’’
	Claire still frowned. ‘’I’ve never been so scared in my life. I thought they had turned you into a ghost too. And all because of your silly scarf.”
	“Yeah, I’ve lost it. Let’s go and get some sleep. I’m bushed.”
	Most of the people had ambled off, still chatting with each other. “They’re going to talk about this for the rest of their lives,” Claire said.
	As they passed a tall bush Emily stopped. Something fluttered on a branch. “My scarf!” Carefully she retrieved it. “They gave it back to me.” She held it in her hands. Who of the ghosts in the house had touched it? She looked once more over to where the house had stood. All that was left was a heap of rubble and dust. But two thin, smoky spirals hovered over it for a few seconds, then went up into the air and disappeared.
 
 
 
 
","September 08, 2023 21:02","[[{'David Sweet': 'Thanks for sharing. I enjoyed the story.', 'time': '15:41 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,ygh15s,I Bleed Dust,Joshua Copus - Oxland,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ygh15s/,/short-story/ygh15s/,Horror,0,['Horror'],6 likes,"
Wheels roll and furniture scrapes across my surface. The stomps of steel toed boots vibrate through each and every floorboard of mine. The shouts and laughter of removal men and the blaring of hard rock music reverberate on my walls for hours. They are always so violent. Once they are gone, three little pairs of shoes, one pair of brogues, and one pair of heels enter my home.
A new family has moved in. It fills me with the promise of humans eating breakfast, lunch and dinner, making memories, watching television, reading books, and adding new parts to my body. I cannot remember the last time I felt whole.
The boiler hisses and the oven purrs. Metal forks squeak against ceramic plates. The sound of teeth tearing into crunchy, processed pizza brings me back to a different time when the woodstove still lived here. I prefer the crackle of burnt logs to the whirring of fans.
There is chatter. The words sound friendly but there is a sharpness behind their tone. Then a shout. Then silence. Crockery and cutlery alike clatter in the sink. The brogues and heels stomp back to their rooms.
Three pairs of bare feet slap my surfaces as they wander my halls. They exchange insults, but there is a softness to their barbs even as they use language as a weapon. They prod and pry at every cranny and crevice, looking for faults, playing part time inspectors.
I am proud of how I have maintained myself over the years but age has weathered my innards. In every loose floorboard, missing shingle, and peeled piece of wallpaper, there is a story. Previous owners have stashed bags beneath the floor, pulling the rusted nails loose. Birds have crashed against my roof, breaking the slates. Well-intentioned decorators have tried to replace my skin, only to lose faith in their project and abandon it.
The children pry one floorboard loose. All they see are my pipes. They forget to repair their damage and wander somewhere else. Someone could break their leg tripping beneath me. While they are not looking, I pull the board back into place.
While I have owners, it is my job to keep them. I cannot be seen. I cannot be heard. I cannot repair what is already damaged, but I can replace what is already there. I would sooner die than allow any tenant to come to harm.
Days pass. I pay attention to what is said and what is unsaid. I listen to the echoes in the hallways, the whispers behind closed doors, the creaking of my wooden bones, the screeching of excitable children, the silence that their slumber brings, the deliberate silence that stonewalls lovers, the shuffling of a book, the tap-tap of a thumb on a phone screen, then the sound of lips smacking together like a plunger pulled from a bathroom tile.
The headboard thumps against my wall. There are still marks there from hundreds of years ago. I do not linger on the scene, focusing instead on the owls roosting on the rafters of my attic. I shall give my owners the privacy they need, for I am glad that they are not shouting at one another.
Each day, alarms chime and shoes rush down my stairs. I open my door just before they push my handle, just so they exert less force trying to get to work or school on time.
Weeks pass. Children laugh. Children cry. The adults laugh. The adults shout. Slide whistles, whip cracks and gunshots ring through the television. Tiny thumbs press buttons on game controllers, clickity-clack, clickity-clack. Large fingers type on laptop keys, clackity-click, clackity-click. Soda pop fizzes in a glass, glug glug. Wine sloshes against glasses, glug glug.
One day, more shoes enter: heels, high heels, dress shoes, sneakers, sandals, flip flops, and hiking boots. They are temporary guests but guests all the same. Pop music plays through tinny speakers. Chairs squeak. Hands clap. There is the usual trading of passive-aggressive comments and unspoken statements, but it is drowned out by the much friendlier chatter of the guests.
I remember the last family party, thirteen years ago. It was a wake. I much prefer this kind of party.
One of the guests recites a limerick to the children about a man from Nantucket – despite the tut tuts of their parents, they laugh. And I laugh too. My floorboards vibrate beneath their feet. I hope they don’t notice, but the father stares down for a little too long.
Months pass and the cheer from the party dissipates. Each laugh grows quieter. Each shout and silence afterwards grows louder. Mugs shatter against kitchen corners. Arms sweep ornaments and books off of shelves which bounce off my floor. Pillows muffle sobs. Metal music blasts through headphones for long after the sobbing stops.
I have seen it happen before. Countless times. Am I not maintaining my foundations well enough? Am I not making enough effort to provide the family with shelter? I inspect the interiors for any blemishes. I screw the loose nails of my floorboards shut. I slot the remaining shingles back into place, all one thousand seven hundred and thirteen of them. While everyone is asleep, I brush the dust off the floor, the walls, the shelves, the windowsills, the cracks, the spaces, and out of the air.
The family used to clean me every week. That has stopped for quite some time.
Despite my deep clean, the shouts and silences continue; they become deafening. Footsteps slow to a crawl whenever they walk in. I do not hear the leather of those brogues or heels slapping against my floors as often any more. Even the once-affectionate insults shared between the children take on a different meaning once shouted.
Each night, I clean. This is all I can do to keep them here. Yet I am not seen or heard. My efforts go ignored. Yet still, I clean, and clean, a little louder and less graceful as each night passes. Sometimes, those leather brogues pace back and forth across my halls, as if searching for something that is not there. Each night I clean, the pacing quickens. They have begun talking. More shouts follow. Perhaps they feel my presence.
One day, socked feet shuffle down the stairs as I sweep the halls, my floorboards oscillating before their eyes.
Their backside crashes against one of my steps. They scream and rush back upstairs. I stop. I have been caught.
A part of me wanted this to happen. I cannot count how many years I have spent fixed to the same place. When was I built? I cannot remember. But all this time, I have been hiding. Loving my tenants unconditionally. Yet they leave. All of them do. I will continue to love them until I am razed to the ground, but I cannot hide any more.
The cries carry to the room where the parents sleep. They wake up. They shout. After much arguing, their feet leave the room and head down my steps. Hands rapidly tap at the boards. I tap back.
Silence. I have their full attention. I rip the boards from the floor, which form an outline of a person. I wave at them. At last, I am finally seen.
The father shouts bloody murder. The mother and youngest son watch from the staircase, unmoving and unspeaking. The father’s slippers pound against me, rushing towards the kitchen. My outline reaches towards the two sitting on the steps. I want them to shake my hand. The son stares and reaches out too.
The father swings an axe, slicing me in half. The son screams. The father screeches like a wild boar and chops down, down, down, breaking pieces of me into splinters. It hurts, but I endure it, as I have endured for time immemorial.
The son sobs. He begs his father to stop. The father stops, only to grab his son’s arm, dragging him by his knees to the hole in my floor. The father yells and curses. The mother bashes her tiny fists against his muscles. He ignores her and pulls his son’s hair, dragging his head further down the gap.
I see the son’s face twisted and dripping tears and snot.
The mother launches herself against the father, pushing him and the boy away. The axe clatters across the floor.
The father pounces on the axe. He raises it towards the mother on the floor. She shields her face as he swings down. No, he can’t!
My scaffolding shifts. I focus my entire strength covering the perimeter of my house into the ceiling over his head. The ceiling ripples.
A wooden beam falls.
There is a hollow thunk, then a slam of wood against wood that blasts and bounces across my walls. Blood seeps through my cracks and drips to the ground below.
Time hastens. Many cries, sobs, and sirens follow. More booted feet enter my home. They tilt the beam off the father's corpse then carry him in a body bag, the final zip sealing him off. The rest escort the family away from me. The only sounds I hear now are the wind and the owls hooting in the attic.
Days pass. The steel toed boots return. Pest control enters and the hoots cease. Once they are done, workmen remove my windows and drive long nails through me, sticking wooden boards over my openings. They say I have been condemned. Deemed inhospitable. In days, the engines of trucks and heavy machinery roar outside. Vehicles beep as they reverse. A megaphone blares commands.
I am about to be demolished. I do not move my interiors. I have taken a life. I have failed. I have already accepted my fate.
The wrecking ball swings into my side. I bleed dust and microfibres. The shingles fall, clack and shatter into me. I endure and endure and endure, but it hurts. It hurts so much.
They reduce me to a mountain of rubble, slate, plasterboard, timber and styrofoam. Yet still, I live. They collect each piece of me. They count each piece of me. They transport each piece of me. They take each piece of me to the facility.
I am pulped, crushed, and mixed into many other plasterboards. I am shipped across the world, in the homes of others with more families, some better than my previous owners, some worse, and I also reside in new train stations and town halls and park gazebos.
Once, I was trapped. Once, I was alone. But now I am everywhere, I am never alone.
","September 13, 2023 07:29",[]
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,jfwf9t,The Wisps on Copacetic Lane,Georgette Sandoval,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/jfwf9t/,/short-story/jfwf9t/,Horror,0,"['Horror', 'Fantasy', 'Fiction']",5 likes,"
Veronica-Amber had no recollection of her first encounter with the Wisps. They came as inconspicuous and unexpected like flurries of indoor dust that float and fly when bathed by a sheen of sunlight. At the beginning of their residence at 315 Copacetic Lane, just before their street transitioned into the main road in town, her home knew a time when it was vacant of the Wisps and the only specters filling the inside were the projections from the old films that her father would display on the dark velvet walls of the house. The walls of their Victorian used to hold no haunting tendrils of their existence, the hallways heard no shrills or caterwauls from a life silenced by death, and the marbled floor of their historic home at one point had less of a tendency to send shivers up one’s nether regions and to the spine.The Wisps were the invisible inhabitants of their home, but to the rest of the world they were simply called “ghosts.” Veronica-Amber’s acquaintance with them was far from the horror-filled nonsense she’d read about in books and watched in movies, for the more the Wisps made themselves known to her the more annoyed she became. It seemed they were always around causing mischief, popping out at the most inconvenient times, and filling her ears with macabre groans in the dark in an attempt to inflict fear into her soul when she only wanted to have a good night’s sleep. Since then, she had scarcely known a moment’s peace. Veronica-Amber, or “Vam” as she liked to be called, awoke on Halloween morning with an abrupt opening of her eyes. She lay on her back in her attic room, watching the warmth of the dawning sun change the color of her slanted ceiling. She heard a shuffling of feet and moved her eyes to the foot of her bed. There stood a lady Wisp, looking at her with a cocked head, her spaghetti strands of hair falling onto a ghostly shoulder where the clavicle and humerus were exposed underneath decayed and stretched-out torn skin. This particular Wisp never bothered Vam like the others did, but the gaze she gave her always made her feel uncomfortable because she knew the apparition was trying to say something through those glassy unblinking eyes. Perhaps it was due to the dislocated jaw and missing tongue that kept her from saying what was on her mind, but regardless, Vam had no time to feel sorry for something that had the same design as a fart in the wind.“It’s Halloween today, Paprika,” Vam said, lifting her head from the pillow and using her elbows to hold her up as she faced the Wisp. Vam named all the Wisps after spices, and paprika happened to fit this specific one. “Not only that, but it’s my last time as a Host now that I’m 18. After this, I’m relieved of all duties.” Vam gave a quick stretch and moved her body into a sitting position on the side of her bed. She felt a moist, hot, fog surround her feet, and when she looked down she glanced at the opened mouth of Oregano, an older Wisp who was body-less and used his old man head to roll around their home. His gurgly, foaming mouth was stretched wide in an expression that would make any normal human soil themselves in fright. His crackly lips clung around Vam’s feet, leaving strands of ghostly saliva on her ankles. Vam rolled her eyes and wiggled her toes, visible through the rotted eyelids of his head, and kicked him, making him vanish into nothing.“You’re disgusting,” she muttered, moving toward the bathroom. Before she reached the toilet, Thyme, a young boy Wisp who looked about six or seven, popped up from the floor and shrieked like a banshee. She gasped, more from the suddenness of it than from fright as his face collided into hers, and before she had a moment to swat him away, he had disappeared. Thyme was the one who bothered her the most, in his many endeavors to frighten her (and failing to do so), it made him the one she also felt the closest to. Almost like a little, annoying brother but with maggots crawling out of his nose and ears.It was in the alone hours of the mornings that Vam felt the most connected to the house. Her parents, who taught night classes at Nyx University, remained asleep for the majority of the day, and it was in her solitude that she learned to speak to the house. Just one touch to a chimney stone or beam of wood was enough for the house to remind and speak to her about how it was before the Wisps occupied the space. She would get images of her mother and father and their pale faces contrasting with the black exterior of the home. The oldest and most abandoned, neglected house on Copacetic Lane was the one they had imprinted on.“Could it be genetics?” Her father, Professor Victor-Ambrose Pryor, asked one night during dinner over his steak flambe many years ago when Vam had confided in them about the Wisps. “When we adopted you we knew at some point your health would become a source of worry for us.”“That is a possibility, my dear, but we must also not rule out screen time,” her mother, Dr. Vivian-Amelia Pryor had said, placing a cold, pale hand on Vam’s forehead. “That new iPad we got you for Christmas has become a bit of an addiction for you, darling. Are you sure you aren’t hallucinating these…images?”A young Vam had smiled at them, half lovingly, half disappointed that her parents couldn’t see the Wisps. She shook her head. “No, mother. I’m not imagining them. They’re as real as you and father. I can touch them, I can smell them, but when I try to scream they disappear. At this point, being scared isn’t an option, I just want them to leave me alone.”Her mother’s plum lipstick-stained mouth formed a sympathetic frown. “I’m so sorry, dearest. I wish there was something we could do to make it go away.”That had been many years ago, and since then numerous Wisps had appeared to her, as real and vexatious as ever, for better or for worse. But not for long. Come springtime, when Vam was due to graduate, she’d leave her home seething with Wisps to start a new life and leave the nest–a phrase her father despised and regarded with contempt.“Pish posh!” He’d always say when that phrase was uttered. “We aren’t eagles, for goodness sake, so I want no more talk about ‘leaving nests’ and whatnot. Vam, my darling, I couldn’t be prouder of the person you have become and the one you are yet to be. Like any other father, I am disconsolate at the idea of seeing you go but exhilarated at the prospects that await you. Not flesh of our flesh nor blood of our blood, but once you were handed to our arms, the darling girl child with eyes as dark as coal who appeared to us as a stranger suddenly became a most beloved daughter.”A most beloved daughter, rang in Vam’s head as she dressed herself for the day. In the mirror, a young girl Wisp whom Vam had named Coriander, manifested herself beside Vam. She opened her mouth and let out a shrill scream that penetrated the eardrums with a searing intensity.Vam covered her ears but ignored her, quickly placing a clip in her hair before making her way downstairs to finish the preparations for the night’s Halloween party.A most beloved daughter, she thought to herself again, and a most beloved Host. When Vam was a young child, shortly after the Pryors had adopted her, she was given the responsibility of Hosting a Halloween evening in their home. “Mummy and Daddy have to sleep, dearest, and can only join later in the evening once we awaken. Who will be there to entertain our guests? That is where you come in.”“But I am only a child,” Vam had objected.“That works to our advantage, darling,” her mother had said, kneeling to her level and pressing her pale forehead to Vam’s, “they are more likely to trust you.”And so they did. Every Halloween evening, the Pryors would appoint Vam to welcome guests and passing trick-or-treaters to their home. At the beginning, guests would question her on the whereabouts of her parents, to which Vam would reply, “No worries, they are resting and will be with you shortly for dinner.”In the kitchen, Vam started on the hors-d'oeuvres. Baked brie made to look like a mummy, a cheese and cracker platter with bat and jack-o-lantern cutouts, a bowl of Chex mix and candy for the monster munch, guacamole with vegetables arranged to look like the face of a witch. It was all coming together, and it was still hours to go until lunchtime.By the time it was sundown, Vam had decorated and set the food in the dining room. A meatloaf shaped to resemble the anatomy of the human body was left cooling on the counter when she went upstairs to change. She opted for a simple black dress that hugged her slender frame. Putting on the final touches of her makeup, she heard a wheezing, echoey sound behind the curtain of her shower.Pushing the curtain back, Thyme jumped at her, squealing and laughing as he went through her body and exited out the bathroom door. Another Wisp, a young-looking male around Vam’s age, stood staring at her underneath the showerhead. A harsh cut to the throat revealed his sliced trachea.Vam sighed and crossed her arms. “Do you think you can keep it down, Nutmeg? Our guests are due to arrive soon and the wheezing is distracting.”Nutmeg said nothing but nodded, watching as Vam rolled her tube of lipstick back in.“You’re lucky you’re a handsome one. Even more of a looker before…” Vam turned back to him, her hand on the light switch of the bathroom. “You know.” She used her index finger to swipe under her throat in a slashing manner. The sound of the doorbell below made Vam return to her responsibilities. With a clap of her hands, she turned off the light and clambered down the stairs, remembering the meatloaf and placing it on the table. Before reaching the entrance, she stopped in the foyer where above the grinning candlelit jack-o-lantern hung pictures of the Hosts that came before her. The other Pryors. Her sisters.The sisters she had never met. The sisters who had left to start a new life at 18 once the new Host was chosen, just like she would in the springtime. The sisters who had taken the same vow their parents had taken when they were each adopted into the family.“We will take care of you if you will take care of us.”None of the previous Pryor daughters had been Hosts at 315 Copacetic Lane. When their nomadic parents staked a claim on the property, Vam had been the first one. With each passing year of Vam’s life, she was slowly coming to terms with the truth about why the Wisps were a part of their home and why they were visible only to her.Vam doesn't remember her first encounter with a Wisp, but she remembers when Paprika, who in her previous life was called Monica, entered in her fleshy human form as a guest in their home. And Oregano, who was once Mr. Frankes, her English teacher. Thyme used to be Spencer, a classmate she would play with in elementary school and was the first guest she entertained in her first year as a Host.Nutmeg was a package delivery worker who thought Vam looked rather pretty standing on the porch of her house in her black dress last Halloween. He went up the steps to introduce himself and entered, unbeknownst to him that he would not be coming back out.The Wisps were who they were because they had all made the decision to be guests at 315 Copacetic Lane. What bound them together, other than death, was their decision to trust Vam. Another ring of the doorbell sounded in the foyer.“Coming!” Vam called out, straightening her dress. Opening the door she came face to face with a group of trick-or-treaters young and old, friend groups, and families. No one wanted to miss out on the opportunity to sneak a peek inside the old creepy Victorian house that sat like a tempting siren on Copacetic Lane.“Hello!” she exclaimed, putting on an unnaturally inviting grin as she opened the door. “We’ve got candy for your buckets and if you’d like to stay, we have snacks and food. We hope you can join us for a while this evening.”Stepping aside, she allowed the group of guests to walk into the foyer, directing them with her arm toward the parlor and formal dining room. A murmur of excitement and incredulity washed over the crowd, they stepped over each other and pushed bodies away to be the first one to explore the house. Within a few minutes, the parlor was full of guests socializing with each other, stuffing their faces with Vam’s snacks and cooked meals, and taking pictures with their phones of the interior of the house, oohing and aahing like museum lovers. Vam stood and watched the energy that filled the room. With no friends or relatives to invite over, the Pryor house was for the most part empty and deprived of visitors. Halloween night was the only time when people willfully invited themselves over without arousing suspicion. Outsiders, who saw the crowd beckoned to the front door of the Pryor house, didn’t have to think twice about coming to a conclusion to explain the number of people entering the abode. “It’s Halloween,” they’d say with a shrug. “Halloween’s for friends and strangers to come knocking.” The perfect coverup. As “Minnie the Moocher” played in the room, causing an uproar with people singing their hi-di-hi-di-hi-di-hi’s, Vam slinked away from the parlor and ambled over to a door leading to the basement. Pitch-black darkness swallowed up any traces of the light from the main floor as she squinted her eyes to see what was below.“Father? Mother?” she called quietly. “It’s time to wake up, our guests are here. The early bat catches the worm.”She heard a stirring in the darkness and then heard her father speak, “Hello, darling. Is the black tarp laid out in the parlor?”“Yes, sir. Every year I get complaints about the noise it makes when they walk on top of it, but no grievances from this group so far. They’re a pretty good crowd. Not a drop of blood will make its way to the marble floors.”“And the doorbell camera and projector? Have you tested it out?”“It works like a charm. I tried it earlier and the projection of myself passing the sidewalk and coming up the steps was reversed perfectly to make it look like I came back down. Anyone watching our home will see our guests leave after the evening is over.”Her mother spoke now. “Have you prepared the needles and the collection bags?”“Yes, mother. They’re beside the plastic bins that hold the peroxide, bleach, and enzyme solvents we use for cleanup. All the backup freezers have been up and running since this morning. I counted at least forty people who arrived; once we break apart ligaments it should be enough to fit everyone without taking up space in the basement.”“That’s quite a bit of burgers and steak flambes ready for us to enjoy for another year! I hope we have more O Negatives than we did last Halloween. The flavor in the sauces we made just wasn’t the same without their kick.” Her father gave out a dark chuckle. “Should we wear the fangs I got for us three years ago, my love?” He spoke to his wife.“Why ever would we want to do that?” she responded.Vam couldn’t see her father shrug but felt him do so. “It’s Halloween. If the people want to see a Count Dracula then who am I to deny them the pleasure?”“They’ll be busy screaming, dearest. Veronica-Amber, has everyone sipped their refreshments?”Vam nodded. “Yes, mother. In about three minutes the anesthetic solute will take full effect. If you and father want to make a show of your entrance it’d better be quick before you lose them.”“Good girl. Now run along and see that our guests are enjoying the party. We will be there very soon.”Vam closed the door and walked to the kitchen. She opened a drawer that held all the knives she had used in previous years. She grabbed a hold of the meat cleaver, this baby was her favorite, it made it easier to cut through the skin and bone.She glanced over her shoulder and saw that the Wisps of her home had gathered around her. All the ones she conjured by the work of her own hands.She gave them a sly smile. “Ready for some new roomies?”Shutting the drawer with her hip, she walked past the Wisps sorrowfully groaning in protestation. Hiding the meat cleaver behind her, she clenched it between the shoulder blades on her back and used her free hand to mute the music. All the eyes of her guests looked at her with their ears perked and bodies frozen.Vam smiled at them and gave her final announcement of the night.“I just wanted to give you all a big thanks and a grand welcome to our humble little home! My name is Vam Pryor and I’ll be your Host for the evening.”
","September 14, 2023 02:53",[]
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,kyt3is,One Million,Rena Aliston,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/kyt3is/,/short-story/kyt3is/,Horror,0,"['Horror', 'Thriller', 'Fiction']",5 likes,"
I entered the competition on a whim. Wasn’t expecting to win, but I did. One million dollars. I just had to spend one night in the house. But not just any house—the Baker house, which was haunted.
 
Sitting in the back of the limousine, I clutched onto my overnight bag. My mother’s words blasting against my eardrum–stay away from the Baker house. It’s haunted. That was never proven. But speculation was enough to keep everyone away.
 
Of course, a few strays desired to test the waters. Some came out unscathed. Not everyone was lucky, though. Word spread fast around town, with stories about how they escaped. Permanent scars left memories never to be erased.
 
I didn’t believe everything I heard. But the stories flooded back as the limousine pulled up in front of the house.
 
A small crowd formed at the end of the street. Citizens applauding, showing their support. The others weren’t as friendly—congregating across the street, holding up warning signs.
 
I closed my eyes before exiting the limousine, begging for my mother’s strength. The back door swung open. Forcing myself out of the car, I stepped up on the sidewalk.
 
Michael Atkins ran the competition. He raised his arms to the crowd before positioning himself in front of me. A smile spread across his face, pushing his cheeks up toward his eyes as the sun reflected off of his white teeth. “Tasha, are you ready?”
 
“I guess.”
 
He stepped to the side as cheers traveled up the sidewalk. My feet slid across the concrete. Heart pounding through my chest, I knew the clock wouldn’t start until I made it inside. Another step. Another.
 
I turned around, looking toward the crowd, pushing forth a nervous smile, before making my way up the concrete steps, onto the porch, and inside the house. My body jolted as the door slammed behind me.
 
My eyes penetrated the dark room, searching for a place to set my bag. A lone table rested against the far wall. I set my bag on top, unzipped it, and pulled out a battery-operated lantern.
 
The stairs were to the left of the table. I glanced at the bottom step, my eyes traveling to the top. Backing away, 24 hours entered my mind, running like a mantra. I continued to inspect the first floor, moving from room to room, closing doors behind me.
 
I made my way back to the main room, running toward the window as the limousine pulled away and drove down the street. The crowds disappeared as the streetlight came on.
 
I pulled the curtain closed and made my way to the couch. A cloud of dust rose as I sat down. Fanning my hands in front of me, a cough escaped.
 
My eyes shifted to the right as a faint cough came from the kitchen. Echo. It was my echo. I jumped up from the couch, grabbed my bag from the table, and sat against the wall in the corner of the room.
 
Thump. My eyes shot open. I pushed my body up off the floor and rubbed my eyes. Another thump, louder than the first, came from the kitchen. Grasping onto the lantern handle, I walked toward the kitchen.
 
My feet stopped as a chair slid across the floor. “Is someone there?” My hands flew over my mouth. Stupid. Never call out. I took a deep breath and continued toward the kitchen. Pushing the swinging door open, I walked over to the chair, placed it back underneath the table, and walked over to the sink.
 
I peeked out the window. Blackness surrounded the house. My eyes widened as a thump came from behind. I turned. My screams crashed against the creaking of the swinging chandelier. There she stood, on the table—a woman.
 
Her white dress splattered with red. Her cracked gray lips parted, saliva running down her chin. Black eyes stared back. I darted out of the room. She followed behind, grabbing a handful of my hair and slamming me up against the wall. Her fingernails tore through my back. I screamed. Louder. But no one could hear. No one would come.
 
Silence enveloped the room. As quickly as it began, it ended. I pushed my body away from the wall and turned around. She was gone.
 
Drops of blood patterned the floor. The wetness of my back soaked through my shirt. I ran to the corner, grabbed my bag, and darted into the bathroom. A moan parted my lips as I removed my top, tossing it on the floor. I pulled a water bottle out of my bag and soaked my towel. Draping it over my back, I pressed my body against the wall.
 
My flesh burned. But the coolness of the rag brought relief.
 
A bang against the door forced my eyes open. Another bang came from the wall behind me. My hands trembled as the doorknob turned. I removed my body from the wall, grabbed my bag, and hid in the shower.
 
Silence returned. I put on a fresh top and stepped out of the tub. A part of me wanted to stay in the room, hide away until the morning. But I needed my lantern. My eyes closed as I grasped onto the doorknob. I exhaled as I opened the door.
 
I peeked my head around the frame. The room was empty. Tiptoeing toward the kitchen, I pushed open the door. The lantern rested on the floor beside the table. My feet traipsed along the broken tiled floor. I picked up the lantern but I couldn’t move. I felt it—the darkness. Hovering. Shadowing.
 
My arm trembled, sending the light from the lantern dancing against the wall. I turned. Its eyes. Pitted out. Staring. It stretched forth its arms. I backed away as it moved toward me. My eyes closed. My mouth opened. Screams vibrated against my eardrum, but they weren’t mine.
 
My eyes shot open. Four little girls stood in front of me, screaming. I dropped the lantern. My hands flew over my ears as their cries turned into shards of glass, piercing my flesh.
 
It stopped. Silence once again greeted me. My body trembled. A nervous laugh forced its way out. Tears streamed down my face as my laughter turned into screams. I collapsed to the floor, wrapping my arms around my body. Get up, my mother yelled.
 
I rose to my feet, picked up my bag and lantern, and ran out of the kitchen. Past the swinging door, my eyes landed on the bathroom. My feet moved. My legs pumped. But I was still in the same spot.
 
Laughter penetrated through the walls. Doors opened. Slammed. Opened. Slammed. I fell to my knees, crawling toward the bathroom. My hand grasped onto the bottom of the door. Almost inside, something grabbed hold of my ankles and pulled me through the living room.
 
My stomach burned, rubbing against the wooden floor. It released my leg. Rolling over onto my back, she stared, tilting her head. She knelt down, placed her hands on the floor in front of her, forcing her knees off of the floor.
 
Her back arched as she opened her mouth. Tiny tentacles escaped through the gaping hole, slapping against my legs. Razor sharp, I screamed as they cut through my legs.
 
My hands reached into my bag. Grasping onto my knife, I swung, slicing a few of the tentacles. She retreated into the kitchen as I ran into the bathroom, slamming the door.
 
The battle continued all night. The screams. The banging. Glass shattering against the floor. Someone screaming my name from upstairs. All I could do was hide in the bathroom, praying for morning.
 
I eventually collapsed on the floor. My body ached. My shirt stuck to my back as the blood dried. Gashes on my legs. No sleep came. Instead, I stared off into space, humming, like I did when I was five. Blocking out my father’s drunken rage while he and my mother argued in the other room. I felt trapped. Alone.
 
Light peeked through underneath the bathroom door. My body refused to move. I thought the house was playing another trick. But it wasn’t. I heard him–Michael, on the bullhorn. I heard them–the crowd forming outside.
 
I sat up, grabbed my bag, grasped onto my knife, and opened the bathroom door. Light shone in through the white curtain. My feet were hesitant, but I willed them to move. The house was at peace, but inside I still heard it calling. The screams. The laughter. The brutality.
 
My hand grasped onto the doorknob. It turned. The door swung open. They stood at the bottom of the steps. Cameras flashed. People cheered. And then silence returned.
 
My eyes darted around the crowd. Pointed fingers greeted me. Whispers. Questions.
 
Michael approached, his eyes looking me up and down. My disheveled hair. My blood-stained clothes. The cuts across my legs. Knife in hand. I grasped tighter on the handle as a wail leapt from my mouth. 
 
He ran up the steps, wrapped his arms around me, and led me down the stairs. I collapsed in his arms as the front door slammed shut.
","September 14, 2023 12:02",[]
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,lipz7i,Screams In The House,Hannah Lynn,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/lipz7i/,/short-story/lipz7i/,Horror,0,['Horror'],5 likes,"
 
“They say screaming is actually good for you.”
 
“I’ve never heard that one before.”
 
“It’s true. There’s something new called Scream Therapy. Supposedly screaming helps to release endorphins.”
 
“Really?”
 
“Yeah,” she continued, optimistic that he seemed interested. “In fact, there’s a theory that screaming can help those who have experienced trauma in their lives, even in childhood.”
 
“Well, thankfully we don’t have to worry about that.” He grabbed her hand smiling at her. “Come on, let’s get on line. Hopefully it’s moving fast.”
 
They walked past the carousel with horses bobbing up and down, mothers trying not to hover, holding poles next to their children. Her heart pounded as her favorite haunted house came into view with its giant gaping mouth as the entrance. She’d been going there for years but this time was different. Cautiously optimistic about her new relationship with Victor, she hoped he would be the one to finally open up to.
 
***
 
“Enter at your own risk. Remember, you signed up for this.” That was a creepy thing to say, she thought, as she handed the old man her ticket and entered the darkness.
 
The wide openness that she had expected from previous years was instead a series of tight corridors snaking their way to and fro. The spatial arrangement was disorienting, a classic trick that made one feel unsettled and uncomfortable. Her mind was trying to work it out, focusing on her footing when the mechanical arms jolted out of nowhere and caught her off guard releasing her first scream. She joined Victor in laughter as the familiar adrenaline of the scare started coursing through her body.
 
Blindly holding her arms out in front, her mind brought back another dark hallway with a little girl sneaking out of her room thirsty for a glass of milk to help her sleep. Silently pouring in the light of the refrigerator she prayed no one would hear her, that her sister would not wake up. The silence of the house was a relief.
 
The floor beneath her suddenly changed from solid to questionable. She gasped while her stomach lurched.  A few more tentative steps until she realized she was walking on foam pieces from the local craft store placed haphazardly about. She thought back to her gymnastics classes tumbling on the foam floor then turning to look for approval through the waiting room window. More times than not her mother looked anxious and unsmiling, her attention off to the side keeping an eye on her sister rather than her.
 
Dim light filtered in as they exited the maze finding themselves in the cemetery, the tombstones funny rather than macabre giving a short reprieve from the horror of both past and present. “I told you I was sick,” Victor read, laughing. That tombstone inevitably showed up somewhere in the display year after year. They walked around laughing at the plastic hands placed strategically in the piles of dirt next to the graves. “Good stuff,” he said, smiling at her.
 
“Oh, look, this is new.” She was excited to discover the fun house mirrors scattered about with people laughing, clustered in groups. “This is awesome!”
 
They stood at the first mirror seeing their reflections short and stout. Feeling silly they swayed back and forth watching their images morph with every move. “Woooaaahhhhh,” they exaggerated their voices to match the distortion. 
 
Laughter pumped from the speakers, maniacal fun house laughter, mixed and mingled with the scene playing out in front of her. She felt dizzy as if the room had begun to tilt and spin around her like a warped carousel of horses.
 
Echoes of past laughter coming from the bedroom at the end of the hallway where her sister was alone with the door closed. Devices had been taken away as punishment before the realization settled in that she was not misbehaving. A memory from long ago bringing with it both fear and sadness from a time when everything had started to change.
 
“This one is hilarious, tiny head and gigantic body.” Victor was checking himself out in the next mirror. Moving slightly, he laughed as the proportions changed. “Now I’m an alien!” He leaned forward, his eyes growing large like saucers. “Take me to your leader.” He reached out, pulling her into the reflection. 
 
She stared at those giant unrecognizable eyes gawking back at her, then saw all those eyes looking at her in the patient’s day room while she squirmed in her seat. She promised to be there for her sister, to be the strong one, the brave one. Inwardly she had tried to shrink away into nothingness, pulling her oversized hoodie closer around her. Blinking, she was back at the mirror, Victor’s face again morphed, this time tiny little eyes looking back from far away.
 
As if in a trance she was led by Victor through the hall of curtained off scenes depicting classic stories. Making the appropriate “oohs” and “ahhs”, she was lost in memories of the less well-known horror story of her own past. Hardly seeing the Headless Horseman or Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, she saw instead two little girls playing with dolls and having tea parties. Flash forward to teenagers sharing cute outfits and sitting in front of the mirror with hair sprays and makeup trying to perfect their look. Eventually those cute outfits sat untouched while the same clothes were worn day after day. The once shiny hair became dirty and lifeless, then clumps of hair found on the bathroom floor after being cut off rather than dealt with.
 
Each one of those terrifying changes became a piece missing from the picture of health and instead forming the puzzle of illness.
 
With each mechanical jolt thrust in her direction she screamed. At every actor popping out from the shadows she screamed. In reaction to all the blasts of forced air shot out at the crowd she screamed.
 
She screamed for the little girls growing up in their own house of horrors.
 
She screamed for her sister who, unlike herself, did not buy a ticket to the haunted house, did not “sign up for it” as the old man on the stool had told them upon entering. 
 
She screamed for herself, the little girl who wasn’t allowed to scream once upon a time.
 
Worst of all she screamed for those who would never find the exit of the not-so-fun house as they lived in the blurred reality of the mentally ill.   
 
***
 
“We survived our first haunted house together. It wasn’t too scary, was it?” Victor teased her.
 
She laughed, glad to be out in the sunshine feeling the gentle breeze on her skin. She took his hand, swinging his arm slightly as they walked together. “It was plenty scary, trust me.”
 
","September 14, 2023 14:28","[[{'Christine Bialczak': 'Good story! I would love to read more of the background that led her to feel like she did!', 'time': '17:49 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Hannah Lynn': 'Thanks for the feedback, Christina!\nHmmm interesting idea to expand on this story.  It’s a tough one for sure, heartbreaking to watch a loved one struggle.', 'time': '20:38 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Hannah Lynn': 'Thanks for the feedback, Christina!\nHmmm interesting idea to expand on this story.  It’s a tough one for sure, heartbreaking to watch a loved one struggle.', 'time': '20:38 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Karen Corr': 'Beautiful sad story. You are an excellent writer!', 'time': '11:34 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Hannah Lynn': 'Thank you so much!  That means a lot to me!', 'time': '19:45 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Hannah Lynn': 'Thank you so much!  That means a lot to me!', 'time': '19:45 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,p5fpt7,Pulling Back the Shroud,Bob Faszczewski,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/p5fpt7/,/short-story/p5fpt7/,Horror,0,"['Crime', 'Fiction', 'Horror']",5 likes,"
 
 
          A full night’s sleep had become virtually impossible for Jeremy Stuart since he moved into the apartment above the Barcom & Sons Mortuary three months ago. 
           Of course, one would expect trouble resting in a building housing the remains of the dead, and possibly their spirits.
            Jeremy’s sleeplessness, it seemed, stemmed from much more than battling with the occult. Every time the newly-appointed funeral director attempted to close his eyes, around midnight. a loud clanking assaulted his ears.  The eerie sound, apparently coming from the basement, left him paralyzed.
       Strangely enough, the bizarre disturbances did not appear in the early morning before he started work, in the evening when he ate his dinner, or during visitations.  Throughout most of the night he rested quietly, except when he tried to mentally review his schedule for the next day.
      Finally, the clanking had taken such a toll on him that he felt it threatened his health. Also, his lack of sleep began to interfere with his responsibilities as the director at the sole mortuary in Raintree, Md. 
        Although his apartment’s location on the second floor of the funeral home could account for the creepiness quotient of the basement sound, Jeremy had lived in homes above funeral establishments throughout his 25-year career and this never had disturbed him.
     Since he had just taken over the reins at the Raintree burial establishment, he had been too busy to fully explore every nook and cranny of the 19th century Victorian building.  Maybe the time had come for some more thorough investigation.
     One particularly quiet afternoon, when the director didn’t have any funerals scheduled, he opened the ancient door to the funeral home’s basement and started walking down the creaky stairs.  He turned on the light at the bottom of the stairs and began exploring with his high-powered flashlight.  Turning right he shone the beam into corners of the unlit portion of the downstairs rooms where he previously had no reason to venture.
     There, in one particularly cobwebbed corner, he found a black mahogony door, apparently locked tight by a number of very heavy chains.  Turned out, the sounds that had led to his sleepless nights seemed to have come from this area of the basement.  Now that he had begun his investigation he saw no reason why he shouldn’t follow it to its conclusion–no matter where that would lead him.
      He remembered when he first took over the funeral home his renovation crew had used a number of heavy duty tools and left them behind in a storage room in another corner of the lowest level.  In that room he found a pair of bolt cutters and began to hack into the huge chains holding the mahogany door closed.
     As the chains fell away he used every ounce of strength he had to pull open the door on its rusty hinges. It let out a loud creaking sound. The renovators apparently had overlooked this old room when modernizing the building. The wind howling through the cracks in the rear wall of the room let out a roar that shook the whole building–so much for the noise that had awakened me from a sound sleep almost every night.
      Jeremy recalled that, when interviewing him for his position, the funeral home’s previous managers had excitedly talked about the shady past history of the site where the burial business now stood. 
       During the Roaring 20s, when rum runners prowled the Chesapeake Bay, gangsters began partying and setting up their headquarters and hiding the profits of their crimes in secret speakeasies around the state. One of themt previously stood on the site of the funeral parlor.      
      On a table in a corner of the basement room Jeremy found a metal box. As he opened it, the lid creaked almost as loud as the rusty door to the room.  Inside he discovered a well-worn binder that contained some type of document.
     The document read, “I, Joe (Big Joseph) Tersanco, head of the Fortisimo Syndicate, on February 1, 1927, presided over the last Summit of my Family.  The Feds had begun really turning up the heat in the Baltimore area, so we decided to hide out in obscure areas of the Eastern Shore.  I also stashed the gold I had stored away after looting some of the city’s biggest mansions. I figured I or my descendants could return when the heat was off to recover the loot and escape. We had the perfect setup, since we had decided to convert our speakeasy into a legit funeral parlor business. The coppers likely would have no idea the basement of the building now would become our Fort Knox.”
    Granted, the boss had taken elaborate precautions to protect his stash, but, like most mobsters, he couldn’t resist bragging about the riches he had squirreled away in his secret hideaway. His fellow capos began to plot ways to get their hands on Tersanco’s treasure. 
      They never succeeded because Big Joseph and most of his descendants died in jail or found themselves on the wrong end of other gangsters’ machine guns.
      Apparently, none of the other capos ever had found a way to get to the stash and, after jailing the remaining members of the mob, the authorities had given up searching the area.
      Spooked by the possibility of gangster types from the spirit world guarding the loot,  Jeremy gingerly moved the binder aside.  Under it he found 10 gold bars. The mob boss’s diary didn’t mention how large a stash he had buried. This meant the funeral director had no way of knowing if any of Big Joseph’s own gang members had removed any of it before they met their makers.
    Jeremy turned the gold bars into the Baltimore County Police.  They contacted federal Treasury officials, who estimated the value at $20,000.   After 30 days, since no one stepped forward to claim the treasury, they cashed it out to the funeral director and he walked away with a handsome check.
    His sleepless nights soon ended.
 
 
","September 09, 2023 16:09",[]
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,6pd3ow,Hide & Seek,Ryder Blow,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/6pd3ow/,/short-story/6pd3ow/,Horror,0,"['Thriller', 'Suspense', 'Horror']",5 likes,"
The clock struck twelve and chimed out an eerie trill of notes. The song that played on the clock sent shivers down my spine. Each note slightly out of tune and overlapping with one another in some sort of chaotic melody.
'Midnight has come, the moon has risen. The time is neigh. The rules are simple,' I heard a voice boom out throughout the dusty old house. The walls looked as if they were falling apart, the flood boards curled and peeling up.
'Just don't get caught. Have fun.' Each syllable was just as long and drawn out as the last to add emphasis to his statement.
All the candles in the room blew out simultaneously and I was left in the dark room, alone, and shivering. The fireplace that kept the small room heated was out too, and I could see my breath when I blew out.
I heard slow, heavy footsteps pound up the steps, each one dragging as it went.
*Thump-drag-thump-drag-thump*
And a scrapping of metal on wood. I ran quickly to the closet and hid inside as the hallway entered onto the stairs and I didn't want to be found out.
But to my surprise, there weren't many places to hide in the room.
There was a fireplace, a bed, and a dresser. The only other thing was a window that dropped two stories. I thought for a minute about going under the bed but that's literally the most obvious spot to go in the horror movies and I was not jumping two stories to my doom. I looked at the fireplace and thought the only way was up.
So up I went.
Crawling into the fireplace and wedging myself up into the chimney, I crawled my way up the inside until I could no longer see out of the room, and I was high enough not to be seen myself.
And in good timing too.
As soon as I got to my hiding space and waited for a moment, I heard the footsteps stop just outside the door. The door creaked open and I heard the dragging, heavy footsteps and the scraping of metal.
As the shadow walked past the fireplace I couldn't get a good look but they had a long dark brown coat on and carried a large farming sickle behind them. I had to hold my breath, the stench in the room was so bad. It smelt like rotting corpses and feces. I couldn't plug my nose to block out the scent or I'd lose my spot on the wall.
My arms and legs started to quiver and give way to my location as I scrapped down the wall slightly.
I was hoping whoever or whatever it was that was in here with me didn't hear.
I was sorely mistaken.
The footsteps got closer and closer, a moment passed with the boots at the front of the fireplace. I was hoping it didn't see me.
Looking down the chimney under my feet I saw a man's face with a grimacing toothy grin spread across his ugly face look back up at me. His smile was stapled to his face in an unnatural way. Almost as if he was crying and laughing at the same time. The puss around the wounds was a yellowy-white color in the light, and red with irritation.
Laughing with a low deep gravel, he backed up and stuck something in the fireplace.
Logs? Oh no. I knew what was coming next.
He was trying to smoke me out.
Already having revealed my position I cimbed up the chimney as fast as I could, but it was hard as I almost flipped upside down an predicamentally fall upside down, headfirst.
‘I should’ve just jumped. I would’ve been safer,’ I thought to myself.
Almost at the top, the smiling man lit the fire and smoke began making its way up to me. Choking and coughing it was hard to make my way up anymore. 
My eyes started to water and I tried my best to nuzzle my tshirt up over my nose while climbing to minimize the amount of smoking I was inhaling.
Getting to the top, I pushed up as hard as I could on the metal grating but it wouldn’t budge. I pushed and pushed but to no avail. The thing must have been bolted down shut on the other side.
‘I was going to die in here, and burn alive,’ I thought. Closing my eyes, letting the tears fall, mostly from the smoke rathe rat the prospect of being left on Death’s doorstep shortly.
The bricks started to get hot and burn my hand and I continued to choke in my makeshift mask.
‘I’m gonna have to jump.’
And jump I did. I let my arms and legs go, bracing for impact. I ducked and grabbed my legs, pulling them into my chest and when I got to the bottom I bolted out and rolled until the fire was out.
To my surprise the door was wide open but no sign of the smiling man anymore. But it wouldn’t take long for him to come back and check up on the fire to notice me on the floor. I had to get out of here.
Pulling myself up slowly from the floor I heard a screech of the wooden boards shifting beneath my foot in this one particular spot.
Cover blown once again, I sped to the window and threw it open, not caring how much noise I made. Looking below I saw how far the ground was away from my feet. ‘It’s okay, it just looks further than it actually is.’ Boy, was I wrong.
When I hit the ground, the grass was not plush but rather hard and brittle. A little bit of dirt kicked up underneath my feet and I fell back on my behind. Pain shuddered up my right leg and I limped all the way to the end of the driveway before I thought I was safe.
I turned around, regretfully so, and saw the smiling man sitting on the front steps waving at me with his sickle in his hand, his stapled pussy grin ingrained in my mind to this very day. 
","September 09, 2023 20:20",[]
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,q3prk7,Grass,Josh Vogt,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/q3prk7/,/short-story/q3prk7/,Horror,0,['Horror'],5 likes,"
Belmont was a town from the movies, but the movies just hadn’t found it yet. That’s what people would say. Three stoplight downtown kinda place. Football at the high school on Fridays was required attendance. Everybody - all the adults, anyhow - worked at the factory. Either that or one of the shops.You move in, they bring you pies. You move out - well, you don’t. There’s no reason to.But Belmont had its legends. That’s what you’re asking me about, right?It’s typical. For one, they always brought a goat onto the field before the Tigers games, but no one really knew why. They just did. Their mommas and daddys did the same thing, and, probably, the mommas and daddys before that did too.A couple of kids died in a motorcycle accident a while ago - very sad. Supposed to be you can see a single headlight out in the distance on Route 8 some nights. Maybe it’s those kids. I don’t know.Sometimes teenagers tell stories around the bonfire about a guy with a hook hand, but nobody’s ever seen a hook hand man in Belmont, so they’re just playing it for frights probably.Can I see that ashtray for a second?Thanks.Let me know if the smoking bothers you. I know they’ll kill me, but something has to, right?Damn, this light is brighter than I thought it’d be. Can you turn it down a little?No, that’s OK. Thanks.So you want to know about the house, right? And Mr. Fayad?I was pretty young, like 12 or so, but I can tell you what I remember. You might want to talk to someone like Danny, he’s been around longer than - Oh, he’s gone? I didn’t know. Makes sense, though. Not many left, then.Well, yeah, Fayad moved into the Campbell house - we called it that because it’s on Campbell Street. Now I think he was trying to fix it up and flip it for cash - not stay there - but, you know, it was after 9/11 and people lost their damn minds about it.I mean, dude was an Arab and it was a small town, and everybody’s watching the same stuff on TV - the “If you see something, say something” business. Guy caught hell from that.If he had been able to fix up that place, it would’ve made the neighborhood look a little better. Run down place. Rotted wood on the outside and I didn’t want to think about what it looked like on the inside.Couldn’t have been better than the outside.And that grass, wow. I’ll never forget that overgrown grass.You sure you can’t turn the light down a little?Yeah, yeah, I get it. Just thought I’d ask again. Starting to sweat some.It’s like a single beam right here on my forehead. It’s kinda like - never mind.The house.I can’t remember anyone living in the house before Fayad. Someone must’ve, or why’d they build it in the first place, right? But damn sure nobody lived in it after.I don’t think so, at least.I’m gonna light up again, OK?Don’t judge me, but sometimes I get to shaking and this helps.So yeah, the house. Fayad.Like I said, I think he meant to fix it up. I know he did some work on the inside first. Brought in one of those big brown dumpsters and put it right in the street. That pissed people right off. Had a couple of guys who, you know, looked like him clean the place out - probably gutted it. They hauled out wood, plaster, paper, insulation, all kind of stuff - trash. Fixed up the outside some too. Replaced some of the boards, put down some new shingle on the roof.My pop called the cops on them once while they were up on the roof. Said a few terrorists with guns were up high shooting on the town. It was just staple guns, though.*COUGH* *COUGH*People got mad at him about the grass. How he never cut it. We thought he was saving it for last for some reason. Didn’t make sense. The outside of the house is what people see first, right?I was out on my bike one time and I saw him with the lawnmower. He started the thing and pushed it onto the yard and, just as soon as he did that, he looked kinda freaked out and stopped the thing. Shook his head and walked inside. Just left the mower out there.Now that I think about it, I don’t think he ever touched that mower again. It just sat there and rusted.That’s about when Fayad started to lose it. Stopped fixing up the house. I didn’t see the other guys around anymore - I don’t think they went down for the guns.Folks didn’t see Fayad for a while. Maybe a few months.The house became one of those places, you know, where kids dare each other to spend the night. No one ever did, though. Danny came close when we were hanging out together but he didn’t.Yeah, he’s gone. You told me.So Fayad, he showed up in the town one day, wearing this long green robe. Big scruffy beard. Carrying around this huge green book with weird letters on it - probably the Ko-ran.Thing I remember, though, is that he kept going on about tentacles.That light’s really getting to me now. Sorry, but it’s shining right in my face and it’s making me, like, itchy?Maybe it is just nerves. But that light -*COUGH* *COUGH*Yeah, the tentacles. That didn’t seem like any Islam thing that I knew about, granted, I don’t know much about it. But I find it hard to believe there’s a religion that talks about tentacles and - what’d he call it - nutrients? No, something simil - NUTRIMENT! That’s what is was. Whatever that is. It sounds way too - I don’t know.Seemed like he was talking to someone too, but nobody else was there.Yeah, that stunt got him locked up pretty quick. Folks were real scared after that. Thinking he was a terrorist, or working with terrorists, or secretly talking to the terrorists. They held him for a while - maybe a year? Don’t know where he went, but he wasn’t any better when he came back.And the house started to fall apart again. Wood started rotting, the glass was covered in dirt and dust, and the grass was still a mess. Guess he didn’t feel like taking care of it anymore.I threw a rock through his window one time. I was maybe 14 by then and people were sick of this guy yelling his stuff and being all crazy. Police even stopped taking calls about Fayad - they just let him be. Hadn’t done any real terrorist stuff anyhow. Rock made a little hole but didn’t break the thing. You could see it from the street because his windows were so dirty.I felt bad about it afterwards. You know, I wasn’t a bad kid. I thought I’d help him out to make up for the damage. Grabbed our lawnmower and walked it down to the house a couple days later. I just wanted to - CAN YOU SHUT OFF THE DAMN LIGHT PLEASE IT IS GETTING -It is getting - Sorry that was an overreaction. I need to calm down for a second. Just give me a second.I don’t even know how you got a light in here with the electricity down.Oh yeah, that makes sense.What was that?*COUGH* *COUGH*Yeah, I guess it’s my first time back since I buried my pop. The factory had shut down by then. It was even hard to see from the road because of the tall grass.And now the football field and the school? The whole place feels dead.Yeah, I guess you’re right.Well, anyway, I took my lawnmower over to the house. I didn’t tell him I was there. Didn’t want him to freak out. But I was doing a good thing - the whole neighborhood would appreciate it.So I just started the mower and pushed it onto the lawn.When I tell you that man screamed, I really mean he SCREAMED from inside the house.No words - just pain. I was so startled, I just ran. I was afraid of what Fayad might do. But not because he’s an Arab, right?I didn’t even notice how wet I was till I ran through our front door. That’s when I saw the blood.*COUGH* *COUGH*I was covered in it. My clothes were soaking wet - and red. My legs, my shoes, everything.I didn’t even realize I’d cut myself. Didn’t feel any pain.And when my pa looked later, he didn’t find any cuts either. He said I probably pushed the mower over an animal.But how did Fayad know? Why did he scream?I’m sorry, I’m shaking.It’s just - I think about this a lot.Those things in your life that you just can’t explain, you know?Never mind.Yeah, like I said it’s my first time back in Belmont in a long while.I was hoping to run into Danny while I was here. Have you -Oh yeah, sorry. You did.Yeah, this is my first time inside. Still don’t know how you convinced me to do it.It’s pretty much what I expected, with nobody taking care of it for a while.No, I don’t know what happened to Fayad. People forgot about him. Or he was just gone. I don’t know.So that’s about -*COUGH* *COUGH* *COUGH* *COUGH*Whew, so that’s about all I can tell you.I guess I’m done? I can leave now?No, you’re right. I should.
","September 14, 2023 17:52","[[{'Joaquin Otanez': 'I read your story and I really liked would it be possible to use your story and narrate myself for my YouTube channel. With credit due and link to your story.', 'time': '18:58 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,d1zxg9,Hades' Dustbin ,Paula Mcewan,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/d1zxg9/,/short-story/d1zxg9/,Horror,0,"['Funny', 'Horror']",5 likes,"
Hades’ Dustbin
1
This is Hades’ Dustbin. It holds the exit from Hell’s Gate. These are its guardians; Olly 
and Frank. They secure the gate. Well, that was the idea anyway.
 In her youth, Security Officer Olly, had been the proud owner of a lustrous Fire-Red 
mane. Now in her middle years, Burnt-Orange clumps grew between her broken,
stubby horns. She had also developed a disconcerting resting snarl-face along the 
way: Frank, or Francis! when Olly had really had enough of him, liked to spend his 
Hades’ Dustbin nightshift, hooves on the Welcome, Support And Information Desk as 
he sipped whichever coffee was the current hellish fad and swivelled on his wheelie 
chair, slowly, from side to side, never wasting time worrying about anything other than
how many shots his Murderous-Mochaccino contained – which had to be at least six.
     This evening Ria had drawn the Duty Manager short straw. She pursed her lips. 
Ria always attempted to count to ten before speaking to Olly and Frank - but this night, 
this night she only made it as far as three. ‘ ONE FUCKING JOB!’, she exploded - I’m 
surrounded by Fuckwits! ‘No. No, you two...,’ Ria hissed as she waved a finger shaking 
with rage, ‘ ...you two, give fuckwits a bad name!’.
     Olly and Frank stared at her. If they were honest - and that was never likely, they 
knew exactly the reasons for Ria’s outburst: Ephraim, and Doris, Delderfield.
Classified as Non-Human Resources Issues, The Delderfields, flooded Ria with
requests to cross over from the Dark Realm back to the mortal one - a place they had 
no place crossing back over into - to pursue interests they might like to develop further,
if given time; Ria, grown tired of stamping REQUEST DENIED had resorted to ignoring
them.
      Ria stared into their empty lockers and sighed, ‘Fucking Hell!’, then tipped Frank 
out of his chair.
 
Delderfield Cottage had stood for three centuries, or more accurately, crumbled, on
the edge of Trumentoul village at the base of Beinn Mahoun, where the mountain 
streams feed the River Deil, and save the twittering birds all was still as Ephraim
Delderfield squinted at a small metal sign hanging off what used to be his garden wall.
     ‘What’s a bra-saree whatsit, Dorr?’. Doris Delderfield shrugged,
     ‘Dunno.’. Doris frowned. She pointed, one grey and gnarly finger at a chalkboard
sitting in the weeds next to what had been their garden path, ‘What’s a Carrot “cake”
taste like!?’. Her husband raised his eyebrows,
      ‘ Carrots?’. 
     Ephraim shrugged. He shook his head slowly as Doris’s frown sank into wistful 
longing, ‘ I’ve missed cake Effy.’, she said.
 ‘ I’ve missed your sponge cake, Dorr luv. It was bloody good!’, as Doris blushed
Ephraim squeezed her hand, ‘ And I’ve missed making you blush.’, he whispered.
     Doris narrowed her eyes. Ephraim put his head to one side. Together they 
weighed up the opportunity which had just unwittingly presented itself to them. ‘Well,’ 
Ephraim said finally, ‘ he’s big enough I’ll grant you!’. At that moment innocent
bystander, Kyle, clicked his “Fag Ends” tin shut and thought he didn’t have a bad job,
as jobs went. Admittedly it would get a bit cold in the winter certainly, but he had his 
warm hidey holes already sussed out and there was plenty of fresh air he supposed
if you liked that sort of thing; out in the sunshine during the summer, so yeah, not a

bad job at all this Museum of The Macabre gig.

     It would be newly appointed Rural Museum of The Macabre Visitor Assistant Kyle 
Laughlin’s last thought. Doris looked around the Café Courtyard where back in her day she had housed the pigs, ‘ There’s a wheelbarrow over there Effy, look.’, she pointed, ‘We can put him in that - he’ll be lighter now he’s in two halves won’t he?’. Ephraim scratched his head.
     ‘ Bit messy love.’.
     He leant his bony elbow on the handle of his bloodied scythe as Doris stared at him, ‘Well, you’ve always complained about the mess before! I’m just saying Dorr love, that’s all!’. Doris threw her hands in the air,
     ‘Put him in the barrow Ephraim!’.


Just to the right of Delderfield Cottage, outside a small, slightly tilting, wooden ticket 

hut, a Tour Guide adjusted her name badge and cleared her throat. 

     She took a swig from her reusable water bottle. ‘ Sorry. Bit dry. Anyway, as I was 

saying, Ephraim and Doris were notorious in their day. Locals believed the 
murderous couple to be demons disguised in human form. Our tour will begin inside Ephraim and Doris’s cottage which, save some essential conservation work to maintain the building, has been left untouched since the evil couple were dragged from it - Tae be hang’ed by their necks till they be deid and banish ’ed tae heil fir ever maire - Your tour will last thirty minutes. Please feel free to take photographs, 
no flashing. Follow me, folks’. 


 Doris’s eyes sparkled. She grinned as the group approached, ‘ We got a proper 

baker’s dozen at least here Effy! Welcome them in love. Welcome them in’. But 

Ephraim looked doubtful. ‘ Don’t worry Effy love.’, Doris peered out of the cottage’s 

grimy sash window and took a quick headcount, ‘Fifteen! We did more than that in

Saint Giles! Remember? We shut em in the crypt!’. Ephraim scratched his nose,

     ‘ I s’ppose.’, he conceded as the Tour Guide, Joanna, enunciated clearly from 
outside what was left of the Delderfields’ front door, 

     ‘This, is Ephraim and Doris’s cottage!’, Joanna flourished her arms.

     ‘ They might not come in Dorr love.’.

     ‘…and now we’ll go in.’. One of the tourists grinned at Joanna, ‘ Excuse me.’, he 
said, ‘ Excuse me, but is that supposed to move on its own - the effects are very good here, aren’t they?’.

     ‘ Sorry?’, she frowned,

     ‘ The front door? The front door just closed by itself I mean.’. Joanna lowered her 
voice,

     ‘Well’, she leant in conspiratorially, ‘ there have been tales of supernatural activity 

linked with this cottage of course.’. She gave him a wink; it always helped to be a bit 

chummy.

    ‘ Oh, of course.’. The tourist laughed, 'Add on an extra fiver for that do you?’.
     Ephraim’s scythe separated the laughing tourist’s head from the rest of him in one 

blow. The tour group cheered, ‘ He’s right.’ said the tourist’s newly widowed wife, 

‘The effects are very good!’. Everyone else nodded their approval – well, except her 

husband. His head was now six feet from his body and rolling towards the back door

as his widow continued, ‘How did you manage to do that? My Fred was in on it I 

suppose he’d have to be. He never let on though! The bugger!’.

 
Doris frowned as Ephraim surveyed his work. ‘ We’re gunna need more barrows Doris.’,

     ‘ You’ve got blood all over my floor! That’ll be there permanent now!’.

     ‘ We should really move on you know love. This’ll be the first place they’ll look

Dorr. ’, but Doris had already begun searching the kitchen shelves, ‘ Dorr?’.

    ‘ Hmm?’,

    ‘ Maybe we could go somewhere we can retire, you know put our hooves up so to 

speak?’. Doris’s hand paused over the handle of an enormous cooking pot.

    ’ Well, I heard Arran was nice Effy. Scotland in miniature they call it don’ they?’.

    ‘ Yeah. Yeah that’s right love’,

    ‘ But, what would we do?,’,

    ‘ Nowt love. That’s the point of retiring, isn’ it?’. Ephraim looked hopeful as Doris 

propped her recipe book open. 

    ‘ Well, get on with it then Effy.’, she said.
Ephraim lit a fire with Kyle’s Laughlin’s matches then set about stripping Kyle’s 

Laughlin’s flesh from Kyle’s Laughlin’s bones. ‘ No, no. The meat’s always tastier on 

the bone love!’ Doris advised, ‘ You just need to strip ‘em, hack ‘em, and chuck ‘em 

in the pot.’.

    ‘ Well, I’ll leave the recipe to you as usual my love.’, Ephraim smiled. Doris smiled

back,

    ‘ Stew for two hours; drain and season to taste, and Bob’s yer uncle!’.

    ‘ Happy days!’, smiled Ephraim,

    ‘ Happy days!’, echoed Doris.

 
Ria toed what was left of the tour group, ‘ No imagination’. She shook her head as

Frank nodded,

    ‘ Yup,’ he said, ‘ they always go back to places they know, Escapees.’
  Ria wiped the toe of her boot with the remnants of the kitchen curtains and tossed the now bloodstained Periwinkle and Sunflower patterned material back on the floor where she’d found it,
    ‘ Alright. Frank, you look upstairs. Olly, we’ll take down hear.’
    ‘ Wait! Why do I have to go upstairs on my own!?’. Holding her officially issued Duty Manager ’s Evil Retrieval Taser in front of her, 

    ‘ Oh for God’s sake Frank! Fine, we’ll all go upstairs!’, Ria led them up the narrow, 

twisting staircase.
     Looks like they’ve had a good feed at least.’, Olly said. ‘They won’ be hungry then eh?’, she explained sounding relieved.
      ‘ Shut the fuck up Olly!’.

      ‘ Don’t you tell me to shut the fuck up Francis! I don’t like this. We don’t hunt the 

buggers!’.
  Ria turned on Olly,
     ‘ No. No Olly, you and Frank, STAY THE FUCK AWAKE..KEEP THE FUCKING GATES OF HELL LOCKED!’. At this point Frank raised an index finger. 
     ‘ Actually, actually we are meant to “ monitor The Gates of Hell” there’s 
nothing in…’. Ria glared at him. With a look reminiscent of The Boss, she opened her mouth and Frank thought better than to finish his sentence. He nodded at a framed picture of a smiling Ephraim and Doris on their wedding day instead, and changed the conversation. 

     Almost entirely covered by foxing, hanging crookedly in a frame more woodworm 
than wood, their wedding picture hung between the bedroom’s sash windows, ‘ How do we know no one else got out? Except these two then?’. Ria held up her Taser towards Frank. Covered in small Red bulbs two of them were flashing,
      ‘ If it was left up to you Rip Van Fucking Twinkle, we wouldn’t! When these bulbs stop flashing,’,

     ‘ Yeah?’, Frank nodded,

     ‘ Then we’ve got the escapees.’. Olly frowned.

     ‘ Head Office’ll have a full list of whose banned from the mortal realm though 
won’t they Ria?’ 

     ‘ I’d shut up if I were you mate.’ whispered Frank. Ria rounded on Olly, 
     Yes Olly. Head Office will have a list. The Boss will have a list. Would you like
 me to tell The Boss why we need it?’

     ‘ Not really. No.’. 

    Frank sat on a three legged, wood worm infested stool beside the bed, ‘Wait! 
You’re not going to tell anyone they’ve absconded!?’. Ria sat on the bed, 

     ‘ I’ve only been Duty Manager for a few weeks! I’ll have to think!’.

     ‘ Ria?’,

     ‘ I’m thinking Olly! I just need to…’,

     ‘ Yeah, I know. It’s just, the lights on your tasey thing? They’ve all lit up and, and 
smoke’s cumin out of it!’,

     ‘ Ooo’ said Frank, ‘ That can’t be good can it?’. Ria raised her face from her 
hands,

     ‘ Olly?’,

     ‘ Yeah?’,

     ‘ You did shut the gates again before we left? I mean, YOU DID SHUT THE

FUCKING GATES OF HELL!?’

 
Ephraim and Doris Delderfield held hands as they watched The Caledonia Isles on 
its last return journey of the day make its approach manoeuvre into Ardrossan Harbour Ferry Terminal. Ephraim peered at his reflection in the Plexiglas queue shelter, ‘Boat’s cumin, look.’, said Doris.Kyle Laughlin’s face peered back at Ephraim, ‘ How many d’you think live on Arran Effy love?’.
     ‘ Dunno.’, he said. ‘They get lots of tourists though. I do know that Doris love.’. Ephraim side-eyed his wife, ‘Hey! Now! We’re retiring. Remember!?’. Joanna looked back at him. She squeezed his hand and smiled,
     ‘ Oh, I dunno Effy luv - life in the old dogs yet, eh?.’.

","September 10, 2023 12:31",[]
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,gv9sey,The Wraiths of Via Riviera,Grace Ahrens,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/gv9sey/,/short-story/gv9sey/,Horror,0,"['Suspense', 'Drama', 'Crime']",5 likes,"
	The Riviera family has many skeletons in their closet, both literally and figuratively. Their abandoned mansion, the Via Riviera, is avoided by everyone in town. Even snakes and black cats avoid crossing its path for fear of bad luck. The only things lurking in the halls are the ghosts trapped inside its rundown walls. 
 
	The night is young. The moon glows blue, but you can hardly see it behind the clouds. A lone girl, 17, maybe, stands on the beaten gravel driveway. Something about the presence of darkness makes the eerie seem much more sinister. Nevertheless, the girl approaches the Via Riviera’s front door. The red color comes from the blood of those who allegedly died here. Tonight is the night for Maisy to find out what secrets are buried in this old house, the night to find out the truth, assuming she doesn’t die. Maisy huffs a breath of courage and opens the far too creaky door. Maisy has always had a taste for the eerie and eccentric, but this may be too far. Well, there’s no turning back now. Or is there? The door was right behind her. No. She has a mission, one passed down by her grandmother and one she didn’t intend to fail.  
	“Release the wraiths. Seal the cracks,” she whispers.
 
	She unslings her backpack and retrieves a flashlight. A pale beam illuminates her path. 
Her grandmother’s instructions mummer in her head,
 Once you enter the door, you must go up the grand staircase to the master bedroom. 
	Maisy takes a deep breath. Before her are the grand staircase, railings wrought in murky gold, and deep blue carpet lightened by decades of dust. She worries her knees will buckle as she begins the climb. Halfway up, she has to sneeze. Her eyes are watering by the time she reaches the top. 
 The master bedroom is at the end of the hall. The bottom drawer on the left bedside table has a false bottom. Inside is the key to the attic. Grab it. 
	Sure enough, the bottom gave way, and a silver key rested beneath the wood. Maisy plucks it out and slips it into her pocket. She releases a breath. Step one is complete. 
 The key opens the door to the attic. That’s where the first ghost is. Her name was Abigail Riviera. She was the oldest daughter of Alexander and Rose. Rose never wanted to be a mother, so she was always cruel to her children. When she heard of Alexander’s affair, she lost her mind and locked Abigail in the attic. She died shortly after. 
	Now Maisy stood before the attic door, the cold metal key no doubt leaving an imprint in her hand. “Release the wraiths. Seal the cracks.” Maisy must hold her hand steady to get the key in the hole. It clicks. Sweat and fear cause her hand to slip. She may love ghost stories, but she’s never actually seen a ghost. What if Abigail attacks her? What if she gets hurt?
 
 “What if I can’t do this?”  The memory floats back to her. She’s sitting on the corner of her grandmother’s deathbed. This was the day Maisy received her family’s mission. Her grandmother’s hand is cold as it wraps around hers. 
 “I had wished to give you more time, my dear, but I’m afraid mine’s running out. You have to do this, Maisy. You’re the only one who can.”
 
	A single tear drips down her cheek. She wipes her hand on her pants and turns the key. 	
	“I can do this. Release the wraiths. Seal the cracks.” 
The attic door creaks open to reveal a tiny room. Everywhere the light hits is covered in scratches. The stench of the room is strong enough to choke Maisy as she searches for Abigail. 
	“Hello?” she calls. “My name’s Maisy. I’m here to let you out.”
At that, Maisy notices a soft blue glow in the corner. It grows bigger, shifting into the shape of a young woman. Abigail. A moth-eaten slip dress hangs from her frail, floating body. Her translucent eyes look at Maisy. Even starved and in desperate need of a shower, Abigail still looks somewhat beautiful, encased in blue light. Her lips start moving. Maisy steps forward to hear a whispered “thank you.” Abigail morphs back into an orb, darting past Maisy to the open door. Maisy smiles. That wasn’t so bad, she thinks. 
 Abigail always was a kind soul. Her grandmother had sounded so wistful when she said that. 
 
 The next ghost was Albert Wilcanshal, a less kind soul. He tripped and broke his neck in one of the secret stairwells used by the servants. The entrance is behind a flower painting. 
Maisy stands in the hallway, staring at three different flower paintings on the same wall. There are another three on the wall behind her. She sighs as she stands in front of the first painting. She pulls hard on the frame with both hands, causing the canvas to clatter at her feet. So, not that one. She moves on to the next, which also attempts to break her toes. Or that one. The third painting, however, does not fall. Instead, it opens up a rectangular hole in the wall. Maisy picks up her flashlight and climbs inside. 
 There’s a broken step where Albert fell. You need to watch out for it so you don’t trip either. Albert’s ghost haunts it, causing others to fall to their deaths. He got your father. You must pry that step off and get it out the door quickly. 
The wood groans beneath Maisy every step of the way. She moves quickly, eyes peeled for the broken step. It’s the seventh. Maisy continues to the bottom. It is best not to stay on a haunted staircase while retrieving something from your bag. Maisy’s hand is wrapping around the handle of a hammer when a gray orb begins forming in a cloud of smoke before her. The wire of wind fills her ears as it propels toward her. She ducks. It vanishes. Maisy runs up the stairs, stopping before the seventh. She drops to her knees, prying the wood with her hammer. She gets the right half loose before Albert reappears. She spares him a glance, frantically prying the left half up. He charges again but vanishes into the air inches from her. Maisy breathes a heavy sigh of relief, closing her eyes. A laugh escapes her, joyous and disbelieving. She’d done it, and without a second to spare. 
 Ahem. Maisy turns her head to the source of the noise. Albert is standing at the top of the stairs, cast in a pale gray glow. He’s wearing a suit, bowtie and all. He gestures to the door at the bottom of the flight. Maisy lets out a sheepish laugh, muttering an apology. They both walk down, and Maisy holds the door for him. Albert adjusts his collar and fixes his sleeves. He gives her a curt nod before crossing the threshold and disappearing into dust. Maisy smiles. Another ghost freed; I’m two for two. Her grandmother's voice returns.
 
 The last ghosts were Dorthy Basque and Victoria Sinclaire. Dorthy was a maid who was just a little too curious. Alexander Riviera had her killed after she found out about his affair with Victoria. Then, he killed Victoria after he got her pregnant. They’re buried together in the basement. Once you free them, all that’s left to do is seal the cracks in the house's foundation. Then, our family's mission will finally be complete. Basements are notoriously the creepiest part of any house. Walking into a haunted basement takes every bit of Maisy’s strength. Her flashlight is a small comfort against the shadows lurking against the walls, waiting to swallow her whole. 
	The bodies are buried under the floorboards. Maisy moves to the corner of the room. She uses her hammer to pull up the carpet. Maisy begins to rip the carpet out once there’s enough to hold on to. It puts up a fight, causing her to topple over. She lands with a thud that doesn’t sound right. It sounded hollow. Maisy set her bag on the spot and kept tugging. The carpet gives way. Maisy grabs her hammer and falls to her knees. She pulls up the first floorboard, sliding it out of the way. There’s a skeleton, part of one. She keeps going until two complete skeletons are revealed. Maisy falls back as two blue orbs shoot up, darting to the stairwell and out of the basement. Maisy doesn’t blame their urgency. “Release the wraiths. Seal the cracks.” 
	The hard part is over. The wraiths are all free because of her. 
 I knew you could do it, my dear. 
 
	All that’s left is to seal the cracks in the foundation. Maisy gets her flashlight and bag. She removes another floorboard, one with no bodies beneath it, and climbs down. Her feet hit the concrete. Her flashlight reveals six large, thin cracks. 
 Each crack symbolizes a death that happened in the Via Riviera. You must seal them, or the wraiths will never be completely free. It takes Maisy close to 45 minutes to add a sufficient amount of sealant to each crack. When she finishes, she looks up to see two more wraiths. These are basked in a white light, soft and warm. They take the form of a man and a woman. A smile spreads across Maisy’s face as she begins to cry. 
	“Mom? Dad?” Maisy’s parents float before her. She runs to them, runs through them.
	“Right,” she utters. 
	“It’s okay, sweetie,” Her mom tells her, voice as gentle as always. Both of her parents are beaming.
	“I knew you could do it, sweetie,” her dad says. His hand hovers above her shoulder as close as possible without passing through. Her mom’s hand does the same.
	“I’m so happy to see you! I’ve missed you so much!” Maisy cries.
	“We’ve missed you too. Your mother and I are so proud of you, Maisy.”
	“Your grandmother would be proud, too. You freed her sister’s spirit. Now they can meet again on the other side.”
	“That’s where you’re going, too, right?” Maisy looks down. 
	“Yes,” her father says. “But we’ll always be with you here.” He points to her heart.
	“And here.” her mother gestures to the house around them. “Thanks to you. You completed our family’s mission, and you took back our home. You’ve restored the Riviera name.”
	“We have to go now,” her father says, his hand hovering over Maisy’s hair. 
	“We love you,” her parents say in unison as they begin to fade.
	“I love you too.”
 
	Maisy Riviera spends the rest of the night exploring the other parts of Via Riviera. Eventually, she wanders to her grandmother’s old room, taking a well-deserved nap. She’s had enough ghost-hunting for now. 
 
 
 
 
","September 15, 2023 03:26","[[{'J. S. Bailey': 'Lovely story. Very wholesome. A gentle spin on the haunted house.', 'time': '12:38 Sep 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,w0gzac,Bloodwind,Michael Novak,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/w0gzac/,/short-story/w0gzac/,Horror,0,"['Fantasy', 'Horror']",4 likes,"
“Hurry up! The sooner we start, the sooner we can make it to the next inn and I can get out of the cold!”
 
The frozen Alpine wind stung the coachman’s face as his breath turned to mist in the freezing January air. He sunk his head as far into his high-collared wool coat as he could, waiting impatiently for the coach to finish loading. Granted, he was being paid handsomely for this job, almost double his usual fare. Even so, transporting passengers over the Alps in January was a hard burden to bear.
Soon after, an elderly, balding man emerged from the inn, straining as he dragged a large traveling trunk behind him. He somehow managed to heave it onto the top of the coach, and quickly climbed inside, just as eager to be out of the cold as the coachman was. He banged on the side of the coach three times, closed the door, and they were off.
 
The icy roads made for slow going; excessive speed would inevitably have resulted in the horses slipping or the coach sliding and overturning. Inside, wrapped in coats and blankets and trying to keep warm, was a party of four.
 
The elderly laggard who had been loading the trunk was Bernardo Rossi, a somewhat frail man of about 60. The trunk belonged to his employer and charge, Lady Bianca di Mantova. She was a stunningly beautiful woman in her early 20s with hair like spun gold, considered by many to be the most eligible bride in all of Italy. They were on their way to Vienna, where Bianca was to meet her future husband and in-laws. Her haste, and wealth, was what kept the coach going through this miserable weather.
 
Sitting opposite from Bianca and Bernardo were two others, also traveling to Vienna, that the coach had picked up in its long midwinter journey from Milan to the capital. The first was Zoltan Palfy, a brusque and bluff man of few words and virtually no neck. His flamboyant black mustache and tight blue and red uniform betrayed his status as a trooper of the Emperor’s hussars. Captured by the French at Marengo 2 years earlier and only recently paroled, he was on his way north to rejoin his regiment.
 
The final passenger was an absolute enigma of a man. A few years younger than Bernardo, all the other travelers knew about him was his name: Josef Mack. He was a serious-looking man who never smiled or joked, or even talked to anyone on the trip. He spent all his time silently perusing one of a number of books, all written in Latin and all in various states of decay, which he carried with him. Was he a priest? A spy? A madman? No one knew for sure.
 
The coach creaked and groaned as it left the village and crossed a narrow stone bridge which arched over a ravine. Below, about 2000 feet below, lay nothing but jagged rocks, the remnants of what had, in the distant past, been a riverbed. Past the bridge lay a fork in the road. Turn right, and you would continue on a winding mountain road that would take you gradually down a series of descending peaks until you reached a valley about 20 miles on. This was their planned destination for the day. Go straight, however, and you would climb up a peak a few hundred feet, before reaching a foreboding and apparently long-abandoned fortress: Schloss Runkelstein.
 
The local people, the traveling party observed, seemed to regard the ancient castle with a great degree of fear and apprehension. Many refused to even speak its proper name, simply referring to it as “the castle”, or merely jerking their head or a thumb in its general direction when referencing it. Dark legends seemed to surround it. Tails of ghosts and specters, missing travelers, horrifying, barely-human screams in the dead of night. Depending on who you asked, it was tied-in with stories of a pure white wolf that stalked the forests and ravines in winter, or a mysterious woman, clad in black is if in mourning, who sometimes roamed the streets of nearby villages at night, attempting to lure children out of their beds and take them back to the castle with her.
 
Bernardo, Bianca, and Zoltan had all brushed off these tales with bemusement and slight unease. Clearly, they were all simply the ramblings of country bumpkins who had had a bit too much mulled wine in the evenings. Only Josef seemed to actually pay attention, silently probing for more details, and occasionally making notes with a pencil in a small book he always carried in his coat pocket.
 
Gradually, the progress of the coach began to slow. A thick mist enveloped the coach, and the driver swore and attempted to bat it away with his free hand so he could see better. A bit odd, perhaps, but mist was not an unusual thing to find in the high mountains in winter.
 
Crack!
 
The coach jolted, with the passengers almost being thrown out of their seats. All was silent for a moment, before the coachman got down from his seat, and, muttering further profanities, began to inspect the damage.
 
“Blast! Damn fog must have made me loose track of the road! We’ve slid into a ditch and broken a wheel!”
 
The way the travelers, now standing outside on the road, looked at the coachman and the broken wheel betrayed their mental states. Zoltan seemed impatient, wondering whether it was time for him to take charge of this situation. Bernardo appeared worried. Bianca impatiently tapped her foot on the dirt road. Josef was, as always, inscrutable.
 
“Alright, don’t worry, I’ve been in situations like this before.”, the coachman addressed the travelers. “I’m going back across the bridge to get a couple of strong men from the village to come help pull the coach out of this ditch. I’ll also bring the carpenter; hopefully he can fix this wheel for us. While I’m gone, all of you stay here with the coach and don’t wander off. This is dangerous country and you can’t pay me if you’re dead or vanished!”
 
With that, the coachman crossed himself and started back down the road to the village, quickly disappearing into the mist.
 
An hour went by, then two. The fog grew thicker and thicker, and the temperature dropped as the sun began to set over the mountains.
 
“Damn coachman!”, thundered Zoltan indignantly. “Ran off and left us her to freeze!”
 
“Now signore, calm down. I’m sure he’ll be back any moment now.”, Bernardo interjected, trying to calm the situation.
 
“Nonsense! Don’t you see you doddering old fool? He’s run off and left us here for dead!”            
 
 “Signore, with respect, that seems unlikely. You heard what he said; if something happens to us, he doesn’t get paid.”
 
“Ach, well, maybe he’s a bandit!”, Zoltan continued. “I’ve seen types like these before. He probably caused the accident on purpose, and as soon as the sun goes down him and some lowlifes from that village back there will come and rob us!”
 
“Gentlemen, if I may.”, Josef said as he raised his hands to signal for calm. The others were shocked as they heard his low, baritone voice for the first time.
 
“Regardless of whether this is a legitimate accident or not, the fact of the matter remains that it is getting dark, it is getting cold, and this mist is so thick that we probably will not be able to make it back to the village before dark. I suggest we walk the short distance back to the fork in the road, then go up to the castle, see if anyone actually lives there, and ask if they can help us, or perhaps give us somewhere to stay while we wait for our coach to be repaired.
 
“But Mister Mack,” Bianca asked, “do you really think that is wise? According the stories we heard in the village…”
 
“Bah, a load of nonsense spread by ignorant peasants! I’m with the old man here! Let’s get inside somewhere warm before my balls fall off from the cold!”, Zoltan interrupted with his customary bluntness.
 
All eyes were now on Bernardo. He sighed wearily, and fetched his mistresses’ trunk down from the top of the coach.
 
After about half an hour of walking, the travelers came to the door of the castle just as the light was beginning to fade. Schloss Runkelstein was a chaotic mishmash of different architectural styles, a mix of Romanesque, Gothic, and Baroque that indicated that it was an old structure with a long history and countless owners over the years. From the outside, it gave off an aura of decay and disrepair. The ornate stained-glass windows in the chapel were partially smashed, the slate roofs of the main buildings and towers were missing shingles, and the great wooden front door looked cracked and warped with age, its brass knockers tarnished and faded. None of this, however, concerned the travelers. They merely wanted to get out of the cold.
 
Josef took hold of one of the brass knockers and banged three times on the door. After about a minute of waiting, they heard the great doors creak and then slowly open just a crack. Visible through the crack in the door was the face of a young woman with long black hair and red lips, her face pale almost to the point of seeming ethereal.
 
“Who are you? What do you want? Why do you disturb us?”, the woman asked testily.
 
“Good afternoon signora.” Bernardo began, drawing on all of his courtesy and decorum. “We are travelers whose coach has broken down a short distance past your home. The sun is going down and it is getting very cold, so we humbly ask if you could shelter us for the night.”
 
The woman was silent for a moment. Then, the door creaked fully open, revealing the way to the courtyard.
 
“Enter.”, the woman said coldly, motioning for the travelers to follow her.
 
They slowly followed her through the snowy courtyard. It was a barren space, with a well that had been blocked up long ago, an old horse drawn wagon with no horse anywhere to be seen, and indentations in the ground that showed the faint outline of a former garden. Josef walked slowly, carefully noting his surroundings.
 
They came to another old, heavy wooden door. The woman opened it, and they stepped into the castle’s great hall. It was a dark and cavernous space, illuminated by only a few small shafts of fading sunlight from small windows cut into the tops of the walls. Its centerpiece was a massive table, with enough chairs to seat 2 dozen guests, and a great stone fireplace at the opposite end of the room. Curiously, there was no fire in the fireplace. All of the guests shivered, while the mysterious woman seemed strangely unaffected.
 
“My name is Maria.”, she addressed her guests, her voice echoing throughout the hall. “Welcome to our home.”
 
“’Our’ home?”, Bianca questioned.
 
“Yes madam. I live here together with my sister Margaretta. It has been our home since our dear father died some 10 years ago. Please,” she gestured to the great table, “sit down and rest. I shall fetch my sister, and then we shall make a fire and find something for you to eat.”
 
The exhausted travelers slumped into chairs at the great table while Maria disappeared down a side passage. She emerged a short time later in the castle’s chapel. It was bitterly cold, the smashed windows having allowed the winter chill inside, and small mounds of snow had actually formed on the floor. The pews had all been overturned and piled in the corners, and all crucifixes and holy images violently smashed and discarded in the same piles. At the other end of the chapel, Margaretta crouched in front of the altar.
 
“Sister!”, Maria shouted.
 
Margaretta rose and turned to greet her sister. Her face, pale like that of her sister, was smeared with blood. Behind her lay the body of the coachman on the altar. It was pale and cold, with his lifeless eyes staring up at the rafters. Half of his neck had been violently ripped out, resembling a roast chicken set upon by a hungry guest at a banquet. The altar was stained red with dried blood, flesh, and viscera.
 
“Sister, your plan worked! We have guests!”, Maria continued excitedly.
 
“Did I not tell you it would work Maria? Turning myself to mist to strand those fools was a perfect plan!”
 
“I must learn to have more faith in you, sister.”, Maria replied.
 
Margaretta wiped her bloody mouth on a handkerchief, which she then carelessly tossed to the floor. She then drew a small leather bag from the front of her bodice. She opened it, took some mint leaves from it, and began to chew them furiously to conceal the rancid stink of blood and rotting flesh on her breath. The room smelled heavily of incense, which the sisters likewise kept burning constantly to conceal the dreadful odor from their future victims.
 
“Sister, how shall we proceed? What shall we do with our new guests?”, Maria asked.
 
“Simple. At dinner, we shall serve them the drugged red wine from the cellar. Later, once they are fast asleep, we shall simply pluck them from their beds like a bird plucks worms from the ground.”, Maria explained with an evil smile as she flashed her fangs.
 
“Wonderful, dear sister, simply wonderful!”, Maria replied gleefully.
 
“Alright, I’ll go introduce myself to the guests and then light a fire. Maria, you go fetch the wine from the cellar. But first, I saved some of the coachman for you. I know you haven’t eaten since we snatched that little boy last week, and I don’t want you gorging yourself later tonight and getting sluggish.”
 
“Why, how considerate of you, sister.”
 
“Is there any particular one of them you’d like for me to set aside for you for later?”, Margaretta asked.
 
“Oh, I’d love the woman with the lovely golden hair. Her dresses look just about my size!”
 
“Just as vain as ever, sister. I think I’ll start with the one with the mustache. He looks nice and burly; I’ll probably be able to feed off of him for days.”
 
With that, Margaretta disappeared down the passage back to the castle, as the sun finally sank down behind the mountains and the wind continued to howl through the shattered windows.
","September 09, 2023 01:34",[]
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,o2u9ol,What Gets Left Behind,David O'Mahony,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/o2u9ol/,/short-story/o2u9ol/,Horror,0,"['Fantasy', 'Horror', 'Sad']",4 likes,"
It was a hard thing, being dead.
Watching the rise and fall of the seasons without the heat of the sun on your face or the chill of a winter storm. Seeing the world change in flashes and cutscenes but with time standing still. Growing attached to the people living in your house (he always thought of them as lodgers) only to find them suddenly grown or gone. 
Most of all, Art just felt so very, very tired. Whenever he manifested, it was with a feeling of immense sadness, and with the basement door at his back. He could go anywhere in the house but not beyond the garden. He never went into the basement.
He didn't think he'd be tired. Weren't you supposed to sleep when you're dead? Instead he found himself roaming at all hours, and after all these years he could still never get used to the sensation of knowing his feet were walking without being able to feel wood or carpet underneath him. 
He'd love to just stub his toe. Or bang his head on a doorway. That would be amazing. Because he was dead, but didn't feel dead. 
If he concentrated hard enough, really put a lot of effort in, he could move things. More than once his frustrations had boiled into a blind rage and he had lost awareness for a few moments only to find he was standing in a room full of thrown furniture, or next to a chandelier that had been pulled from the ceiling. But he could never remember doing this, despite knowing that he had. 
Those days tended to scare the lodgers. Some had walked around burning sage, or brought in priests to sprinkle holy water. That tended to sting for a long time, but he came back eventually, usually with the sense that something was incomplete. It was a very old house, though whether it was old when he was alive he couldn’t say. He could remember nothing from the Time Before.
He didn't mean to scare people, most of the time. He felt he had been a good person when he was alive, and generally let people be themselves, but he could not abide the slightest injustice toward women. 
Once, a very elegant couple and their two children had lived in his house. Avena was tall, with a carefree laugh that reminded him of somebody. She had some business that she ran from home. 
Alexei was shorter, well-built, and worked outside the house. He sounded educated, but often reduced his wife to tears with demeaning vulgarity and cruel insults. 
Then one evening in summer, he crashed a fist into her stomach. Once. Twice. A third time. As she collapsed, gasping for air as he draped himself on the leather couch, Art was overcome with a bitter flash of memory. It laid itself over the scene as if then and now existed at once. The oak and white furniture of now phased into heavier, darker cabinets and hard chairs. A man in a waistcoat, face crimson with rage (father?) standing over a woman (mother?) who was pleading for her life. “Please,” she said over and over again. “He’s yours, I swear it.”
“You’d say anything, though, wouldn’t ya? I married you when ya had nothing, nothing, took ya outta the gutter where I shoulda left you. And all the while ya’d betrayed me with him, a damned foreigner, like I’m not good enough for ya.” 
He punctuated each sentence with a slap of his leather belt and the woman threw her hands up to protect her face. He leaned in close. “I’ll teach ya a lesson, and that little bastard of yours upstairs then.” Faster than Art thought possible, the man wrapped the belt around her throat. She kicked and slashed his face to ribbons but he was fierce and implacable. 
With her last breath she reached out, toward Art, her eyes wider with panic. As she slumped to the floor the man stood up and looked where she had been reaching. “There ya are, ya little bastard. I’ll show you and all.” 
The man, his face twisted with blind rage, thump thump thumped across the floorboards and swept the boy off the floor and held him before the brass mirror in the hallway. “Look at ya, ya little pup,” the man said in a frenzy, as he throttled a boy no more than twelve years old until his eyes bled. The room spun and Art found himself back where he had been, standing in a doorway watching the two newest lodgers. 
He raised his hands in front of where his face should be. He had always fancied that his hands were large, callused and rough, the hands of a man. Now they were slight and bony, the hands of a child with a lot of growing ahead of him. The two visions of himself sat one on top of the other, with the deep sense that had to act, for the sake of the woman who must have been his mother, murdered just a few feet away.
Alexei got up and walked through Art. As Art turned around he saw the man briefly take on the hulking rage of his father before reverting to his normal, well-built shape. That morphing, and seeing his own hands transition from child to man to child again, put the kernel of an idea in Art’s mind, though he wasn’t sure he had the strength to accomplish it.
He crept toward where the woman had pulled herself up by using a side table for support. She could not have been much older than his mother, and though they looked nothing alike Art realised he knew this all along. Drawn by long dormant instinct, he tried to hold his hand out to her, but all that happened was the lamp on the table started to flicker and pulse. The woman saw it, and looked around her. “If somebody is there,” she whispered, “please help me.” She limped off toward the small room he knew she used as an office.
From upstairs came the sound of the shower, and Art’s half-idea blossomed into something fully formed. As he made his way up the stairs, each lightbulb he passed flickering for a moment or two, he wondered how he could feel so much older than a lad of twelve. Had it been the years of watching people come and go? Had he been an old soul even in youth? He knew there was an answer, could feel it rolling around the edges of his consciousness, but it was just out of reach.
No matter. He had a job to do now, and he intended to do it well.
Alexei came out of the shower and wrapped himself in a towel before going to the sink to brush his teeth. He slicked his hair back with his hand, then realised he couldn’t see himself in the steamed mirror, and Art knew his opportunity had arrived. He moved quickly behind Alexei, and as the man wiped the mirror clean Art came  forward. 
Alexei wasn’t looking as he wiped the glass but then screamed in transfixed horror as he saw not his own face, but a dripping decayed mass of a thing, green in places with decay and mottled with neglect. It was a ruined mockery of a human being, mostly bleached white as if it hadn’t seen the sun in a generation. Its eyes were gouged out and its lower lip missing. The creature laughed at him, a rattling hollow laugh that Alexei could feel right down his breastbone. 
“Look upon your sins,” the cadaver said. “Or next time you’ll be joining me in hell.”
Alexei screamed and screamed and screamed and when Avena came up eventually, having enjoyed hearing his terror for over an hour, his hair had gone bone white and he had slashed his eyeballs with his nails. She held him by the jaw, this once supremely confident brute now blinded and hoarse, and laughed. Not a malevolent laugh, but the relieved laugh of one who has had long prayed-for justice. “My guardian angel must have been looking out for me,” she said, mostly to herself as she tapped on her breastbone three times. “Thank you.” 
Art, exhausted by concentrating so much on his apparition, faded out to the sound of her whispering “thank you, thank you, thank you”.
Do you dream when you’re dead, he found himself wondering in the void. Or are you remembering? He was not asleep, he could never truly sleep, but he was being overrun by emotions that felt almost ancient. It was like old muscles awakening after being long out of use. Flashes of faces, of darkness, of hands scratching in the dark and crawling through perpetual night. He felt the march of time, felt it flowing through him, and then past him. He saw new faces, families, felt their growth and traces of their memories. He saw lights turning on and off, heard soft steps on the landing, curtains rustling without wind. 
When he became fully aware of himself, he was again standing with his back to the basement door. Yet things were different this time. It wasn’t just sadness that he felt. It was tempered now with resolve, determination. He was, he realised, ready to go down there - but he didn’t want to go alone.
Avena, he realised, was not in the house. He could sense her absence, but felt also that the place had not been lived in for some time. How much time has passed, he asked himself. And yet, as he drifted through silent rooms and past covered furniture, it had not changed much. He knew without remembering that he had been here many times since that night, but only as a shadow of himself. He also knew that he had been welcomed.
There was a jangle of keys and the front door opened stiffly. Two women came in confidently, as if it was a long familiar place. The bright winter sunlight obscured their faces until they shut the door behind them, and he found, happily, that one of the women was Avena. She was older, the passage of time marked in crows’ feet and silver streaks in her hair, but she was no less herself. She carried herself with the contentment of a life well lived. The other woman was shorter, with sandy rather than auburn hair, but the resemblance was remarkable. Her daughter, no doubt, and eventually he remembered her name had been Rebecca. No, Becky. She hated Rebecca. 
The two took a few steps in and Avena held her hand up to stop Becky. “There,” she whispered, with the hint of a smile. “He’s here.”
“Are you sure you want to do this mom? I mean, it’s his house. It wouldn’t be fair to hurt him.”
“He did something incredible for me, once. He gave me my life back. I want to return the favour Becky. I’ve been waiting years, it’s why I’ve kept this place for so long and why I keep coming back. You know, you thought I was mad when I told you, but   then you felt him yourself, that time when your brother had a seizure in the bathtub.”
The daughter nodded. “I remember,” she said gently. “He said he went under and then something pulled him out of the water and just held him up.” 
“So now we owe our guardian angel two favours. You know something has trapped him here. That’s what all the books say, isn’t it? Unfinished business? He deserves as much peace as anybody.”
“But we can’t force him out.”
“We won’t. We’ll just give him a way, if he wants it.”
Without thinking, Art made the crystals on a dusty Tiffany lamp jingle. “There!” said Avena. “He’s listening.”
“Can you tap something,” said Becky. “Once for no, twice for yes?”
With amusement, Art tapped twice on the sideboard. 
“Do you want us to do something?” Two taps. He knew what he wanted, but how to tell them? They were looking at each other, trying to answer the same question. He moved down the hallway toward the kitchene, then tapped twice on the solid wood doorframe. 
“Let’s follow him,” Avena whispered. 
“I’m nervous,” said Becky. “What if…?”
“Don’t worry. If we were supposed to be scared of him we would have known that years ago.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about,” said Becky as they walked toward the back of the house. “I’m worried about scaring him.”
Art was confused, as if he should know what they were talking about but couldn’t call it to mind. Having brought them this far, he drifted to the basement door. But it was hard. Part of him absolutely did not want to go down there. The rest of him knew it was time. He tapped twice on the door. Avena and Becky exchanged another look, and Avena unlocked it.  
The door swung out into pitch darkness, and Art was overcome with fear. There was pain in the darkness. 
“Do you want to go on?” asked Becky. One tap… then a hesitant second. “Do you want us to come?” Two taps.
Avena flicked a switch but the ancient yellow bulb barely threw back the blackness. “I think I only came down here two or three times,” she told Becky. “I never liked it.”
Art had already begun down the stairs, almost cringingly slow as he fought a rising panic and despair. It was pressing on him from the air itself. 
“You’re not alone,” said Avena, and he knew she was talking to him. “But it’s the only way we can find out how to help you be at peace.”
The light grew gently brighter, then changed colour, and Art felt himself abruptly shift between then and now. There was a thumping, raging charge down the stairs, right through him and the others. Though they couldn’t see anything, both shivered. The cruelly contorted man was dragging a barely conscious child down the stairs, not caring if his legs clattered and stumbled. 
“You’re scum and you’ll stay here,” he roared at the child, before returning back up the stairs and turning the light out, locking the door behind him. 
Art felt the sensations of scrabbling around on a dirt floor, inching one direction and then the other in the hope of finding something, anything. His legs weren’t working. It felt like it was going on for hours, before the door was flung open briefly and a heavy thing wrapped in carpet crashed down the steps, knocking the child over. The light lasted just long enough for him to see his mother’s dead face.
Snapshots and sensations washed over him. Lights flicking on and off to taunt him with his mother’s putrifying face while he ate scraps; the sound, not the sight but the sound of rats eating at her eyes and lips in the abyss despite his efforts to fight them off; the hands of a child growing steadily to be the hands of a man, worn and callused from attempts to climb the stairs and pry the door open until his strength grew almost to nothing. And every day, the corpse of his mother kept watch over him. 
Sometimes his father, spoke to him; other times, out of guilt or boredom perhaps, he left the light on and threw Art books. But mostly there was just the dark, and silence, and starvation.
The flight through memories slowed, then stopped. His father was sitting by the end of the staircase. He had set a bright flashlight on the step next to him, the intense white casting shadows over every crag of his own decaying face. His great strength had turned to flab, and his breathing was loud and ragged. He had something wrapped in a thick tarpaulin at his feet. Art, having spent half a lifetime in the dark, could barely look in the man’s direction. 
“There comes a time,” his father wheezed, “when all accounts … are settled.”
He was staring at the floor as Art lay a few feet away, weak and feverish. His legs had never truly recovered. 
“I don’t have much time … left. Maybe your mother … cursed me. Maybe … I am your father … isn’t life a blast? But no more of that.”
“What do you mean?” Art was struggling to think, and was increasingly ill on the floor in the cold. 
“I mean … no more of that.” And with a rush of speed belying his decrepit state, from the tarpaulin he dragged a hefty pickaxe, and crashed it down on Art’s stunned face.
Floating outside of themselves, now-Art sharing the space and feelings of then-Art, newly freed from his mortal shell. His father was digging a pit, pausing frequently to rest, and when it was deep enough he used the pickaxe to shove Art’s broken body into it, along with the carpet and what remained of Art’s mother. Art watched the man begin to fill it in and drifted up and out of himself, losing contact with the world and disappearing into the void … before appearing for the first time outside the basement door, ignorant of everything that had come before.
Now-Art walked down the steps, tapping as he went so Avena and Becky would follow. In the centre of the room was a rough, discoloured patch, wide and irregular. He slammed his foot down on it three times, they looked at one another, and then dug at the packed earth with their hands in a flurry.
It was nearly an hour before they found the first shreds of carpet, and another fifteen minutes before they uncovered the skull of a young man. Both of them heard a gasp of pure relief and a whispered “thank you”. And then, for the first time in the longest time, Art slept.
 
","September 13, 2023 16:33",[]
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,clpwat,MISDIRECTION IN A HAUNTED HOTEL,Andrew Hixson,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/clpwat/,/short-story/clpwat/,Horror,0,['Horror'],4 likes,"
I don’t know why I stayed at this hotel. On the first night, I was the only guest. But when I retired to my room, I felt a presence. Despite the humid temperature, I felt cold and snuggled under the duvet to keep myself warm.
	I heard creaking sounds and footsteps outside my door. I tried to ignore it, thinking it was just the old building settling. But the feeling of being watched never left me.
	Unable to sleep, I explored the hotel. I walked down the corridor and came across a slightly ajar door. Curiosity got the better of me, and I pushed it open. What I saw inside made my blood run cold.
	An icy shiver ran down my spine as I stepped into the room. It was devoid of any life, yet it was not completely silent. It was as if the air was thick and oppressive, trying to suffocate me. The smell of stale air and dust filled my nostrils, making breathing hard. The only sound I could hear was the soft creaking of the floorboards beneath my feet. It was as if the room held its breath, waiting for something to happen. I could feel a sense of foreboding as if something terrible had occurred within those walls. It was a feeling I couldn’t quite shake off.
	No matter how hard I tried to distract myself, the feeling remained like an unwelcome guest. It was a mix of unease and restlessness as if something were off-kilter in my world. I couldn’t pinpoint the source of this feeling, which only made it more frustrating. Was it a nagging sense of anxiety or a suspicion of something terrible about to happen? I couldn’t be sure. All I knew was that I couldn’t shake it off, no matter how much I tried to ignore it. It was as if this feeling had taken root, and I refused to let go. 
	As I walked through the dimly lit hotel, the shadows appeared to be stalking me with every step. My footsteps echoed off the walls, adding to the eerie atmosphere. The air was thick with the scent of musty carpets and old furniture, making breathing difficult. The feeling of being watched sent shivers down my spine, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that something sinister was lurking in the darkness.
	Despite my efforts to convince myself that it was only my imagination, the uneasiness in my gut persisted. I constantly looked over my shoulder. I felt like I was being hunted, like prey stalked by a predator.
	I took a deep breath to calm myself down and reminded myself that my paranoia was taking over. But deep down, I knew that something was watching me with an intent that I couldn’t fathom. As I turned the corner, I saw a silhouette in the distance. It was too dark to make out any details, but I could feel the intensity of its gaze. 
	My heart was pounding, and my palms were clammy with sweat. It felt like being hunted like prey, stalked by a predator.
	I ran, not daring to look back until I was safely inside my room.
	Once inside, I locked the doors and windows and shut the curtains. I felt like a prisoner in my room, trapped by the fear of what was outside. The feeling of being watched never left me, even as I tried to convince myself that it was all in my head.
	There came a knock on the door. Not a quiet tap but a heavy thud with a clenched fist. The sound startled me. I cautiously approached the door and peered through the peephole to see who was knocking. Darkness surrounded my room, except for the dimly lit hallway. I hesitated momentarily before slowly unlocking the door and opening it just a crack.
	“Who is it?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
	No one answered. Instead, the knocking grew louder and more insistent, as if the person on the other side was getting frustrated. I could hear heavy breathing and the sound of someone shifting their weight from foot to foot.
	“Hello?” I said again, feeling a growing sense of unease. “Who’s there?”
	There was a pause, and then a deep, gruff voice spoke. “Open the door,” it said. “I need to talk to you.”
	I hesitated again, my heart pounding in my chest. Something about the voice didn’t sit right with me, and I didn’t want to open the door to a stranger in the middle of the night. But the knocking continued, louder and more urgent than before.
	Finally, I took a deep breath and opened the door a little wider. As soon as I did, a prominent, shadowy figure pushed inside, knocking me off balance and sprawling onto the floor.
	When he closed the door, he revealed himself with a candlestick, holding three burning candles.
	“You!” I said, breathlessly.
	The flickering candles cast a warm glow across the dimly lit room. Yellowed teeth were visible in the intruder’s wrinkled face, which had a wide, toothy grin. The atmosphere became more unsettling because of the creaking floorboards beneath his feet. The air was thick with the scent of musty old books and burning wax. As he stepped closer, his heavy breathing echoed in the silence, making the hairs on my neck stand up.
	“I have followed your trail across Eastern Europe,” the voice sounded like sandpaper. “And now I have found you.”
	I held up a hand in supplication.
	“But I am not he,” I pleaded.
	His skeletal hand disappeared into the folds of his sweeping, dark cape. When it reemerged, it held an aspergillum, a liturgical tool used to sprinkle holy water. With a flick of his wrist, the mace-like ball on the end of the aspergillum sprayed the liquid at me. The sacred water sizzled as it hit my skin, sending up wisps of smoke that curled and twisted like tendrils of fire. The acrid smell of burning cloth filled my nose, and I could feel the heat of the liquid searing into my clothes.
	Before I could respond, the door flew open with a loud bang, startling me. In the doorway stood the proprietor, her sheer white nightdress clinging to her curves, illuminated by the bright light pouring in from the hallway. The scent of lavender wafted in from the open window, mixing with the overwhelming smell of incense. She held a massive gold crucifix in her right hand, glinting in the light.
	“Begone Demon!” She shouted, her voice echoing through the room. I felt a shiver run down my spine as she repeated the command, her eyes fixed on the presence in the room.
	With a guttural hiss, the man dropped the aspergillum and raised his arm so he couldn’t look straight at the crucifix.
	“Begone!”
	With a swift motion, the older man turned and ran towards the window. He met glass and curtains full-on and flew out into the chilly night air with a loud, crashing crescendo of sound.
	The woman ran to the window and looked out.
	“He’s gone!” She announced.
	I raised myself gingerly to my feet. My clothes were still smoking.
	“What did he use in the aspergillum?” 
	“Acid,” she explained. “He was trying to make out that you were the vampire terrorising the village.”
	“Be careful with that,” the woman said. “That might still contain some acid.”
	“Oh, I don’t think so,” I said, flicking the mace-like ball in her direction.
	“What are you doing?” the woman shouted, leaning back to protect herself.
	“This contains holy water,” I said, smiling, revealing my two extra-long eye teeth in my mouth. “You chased away the wrong vampire.”
	The woman’s mouth hung open as she tried to scream, but no sound escaped.
","September 10, 2023 06:54",[]
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,15z5mc,Burying Ghosts.,Lara Deppe,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/15z5mc/,/short-story/15z5mc/,Horror,0,"['Fiction', 'Christian', 'Inspirational']",4 likes,"
Kanna drew an impossibly deep breath as she drove down the winding drive through the overgrown brush and trees that were scratching their names in her airport rent-a-car. She could already hear the neglected engine of her father’s rotting chevy choking its way down the long-abandoned road in her memory. She exhaled a painful breath as she approached her destination. The driveway before her was cracked and beveled like an abandoned eggshell. She pulled closer to the garage door. The paint that was peeling from aged wood was piling like leaves in the fall at the base of the door that was so weather worn that it no longer sat solidly on the concrete but left large gaps as tiny doors for the mice to enter their undisturbed kingdom. 
She pulled the large manila envelope from her backpack on the passenger seat. Her name was written in deep black ink on the front with the logo in the upper left-hand corner from the Benson Harrison Haddock & Wilson law firm. She pulled a smaller envelope from inside and shook the key inside it into her hand.  The post mark was from two years ago. The paperwork inside included the will, the deed and receipt for the last two years’ worth of back taxes on the property. She kept asking herself why she had come. She didn’t feel like she could sell the property until she had seen it once again. There was no other way to leave it behind her. Or she would always wonder. So, she had flown from two thousand miles away to face her fears.  
She pushed open the driver’s side door with some force in a moment of determination. She walked quickly toward the front door, but her steps became slower as she approached it. Her hands shook as she placed the key in the lock and turned it. The scream that the aged hinges made as it swung into the hallway echoed in her mind and triggered a memory and sped up her breathing. The door opened before her.  Even from this place on the stoop, she could see the sunlight streaming into the tiny hallway from the kitchen window. Just step inside, she told herself. 
Her steps were slow on the color faded tile. Kanna dragged her finger through the dust resting undisturbed on the table in the hallway that held a solitary lamp. She didn’t bother to turn on any lights. She could’ve made her way through this home blindfolded. Nothing had changed in twenty-two years since she had been taken from here by Officer Lepetree. The sun was starting to rise outside and was sneaking noiselessly through the slats in the blinds that hung on the rain-stained windows and was leaving ladders of light on the weight-pressed carpet.
She was only a few feet in but was doubting her ability to move forward. The memories were thick around her like the cobwebs that lined the walls. She didn’t know why her mom had kept this home after all these years or why she had left it to her when she knew how much Kanna had hated it. She put the back of her right hand to her mouth. She felt like she was going to be sick. She could still hear the sound his hand had made when he slapped her.  God, give me courage, she prayed. 
She turned left into the kitchen. The oversized fork still hung on the wall next to the stove. The fridge had been emptied and unplugged and the door was open showing the yellowing shelves like unbrushed teeth. She pulled open the cupboard beneath the sink. She knelt in front of it to see if it was still there. She reached a single finger and touched it on the back wall in the upper left-hand corner– the flower she had carved in the soft wood of the cupboard while she was hiding from him. She had stayed hidden in there for hours until he had stumbled out of the front door finally drunk and disinterested in being home. Kanna didn’t know if he had even tried to find her that night or if he was relieved, she was quiet.
She went through the kitchen and into the library. Most of the shelves were empty with a few exceptions. It was still here. Her favorite book from when she was small: The Poky Little Puppy. Her grandmother had given it to her, and it still had her name written on the front of it in her best five-year-old cursive.  Her mother must have left it here for her. What other treasures had she left?
Kanna almost ran up the rickety steps that groaned under her weight. She stepped over the threshold into her parents’ old room. It looked different barren of Mom’s old-fashioned bed frame and hand-me-down dresser. The window was slightly open as she always kept it for the evening breeze. The wood beneath it was twisted with the weather that had seeped in and warped the floorboards. If she remembered right, there was a place. She went to the side of the room that used to be beside the dresser. She tapped her foot on several of the boards until she found the place. One of the boards gave way beneath her tennis shoe and popped up at the opposite end.   Mom’s secret hiding place that she had once shown Kanna. She pulled up the board. And there it was. Wrapped in a towel and enclosed in a sealed container that popped a little as she opened the lid. She pulled it to her chest and wept. She touched the surface of the worn family bible. She could picture it in her mother’s hands. The pages were soft with age and inside the front cover was her grandmother’s handwriting and after she had passed it on, her mother’s handwriting. A piece of ribbon was tucked into Revelations. Chapter 21. Verse 4 was always her favorite: And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain; for the former things are passed away. 
This was her inheritance. Even with all that had happened to her, Kanna’s mom had given her a belief in God. An understanding that hope is always a beautiful thing. Faith that people are good deep down. She never gave up on anyone. And she knew that one day God would stand with her and wipe away all the hard things and only good would remain. 
Kanna could bury her ghosts now. And move on. She would leave this haunted house behind her now with all its bad dreams. Someone could tear it down and make a happy family in the magic of the trees.   
","September 15, 2023 04:14","[[{'Timothy Rennels': 'Your descriptions set your story above a lot of others. An example that impressed me.. ""The sun was starting to rise outside and was sneaking noiselessly through the slats in the blinds that hung on the rain-stained windows and was leaving ladders of light on the weight-pressed carpet."" Nice work!', 'time': '13:04 Sep 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Z. E. Manley': 'Very descriptive and poignant. I always like your unique take on the prompts!', 'time': '04:03 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Lara Deppe': ""I've always had a hard time following the rules. 😉 thanks for reading my story. 👍"", 'time': '04:16 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Lara Deppe': ""I've always had a hard time following the rules. 😉 thanks for reading my story. 👍"", 'time': '04:16 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,f88jt9,Below The Surface,Peter Stone,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/f88jt9/,/short-story/f88jt9/,Horror,0,"['Fiction', 'Crime', 'Thriller']",4 likes,"
By Peter Stone
 
""Jennifer, why exactly did we move here again,"" asked Dennis who for the third time that morning had to close the basement door. The Hobbs were a young couple that just wanted a change from the hustle and bustle of the life they experienced in New York. They both had tried to have children with the past partners but we’re never successful. The thought of going through life without a child was turning Jennifer into a nightmare for Dennis. There wasn’t a day go by that she didn’t look up fertility clinics on the internet.
“Jenn, we are trying everything the doctors have asked us to do. I have been tested and my semen analysis test results showed a high count of active sperm. Your tests came back and it showed your hormone levels and ovarian reserve were perfect. We will have a baby and he or she will be perfect just like their mom,” as he hugged the love of his life in his arms. 
“You’ve told me the same thing for the past two weeks. Instead of talking all the time take me to bed and create this perfect baby,” the two threw themselves onto the king size bed upstairs of the old Brady Mansion. They made love for over an hour attempting to get Jennifer pregnant.   
“That damn door just opened again,” said Dennis as he was going to the shower.
“Why don’t you ask Karl to come over and have a look at it. He’s a great handyman and loves to make a couple of extra dollars,” 
Karl was more than just a great handyman. He was actually the person that sold the house to Hobbs. He hadn’t lived more than a year in the house before he acknowledged strange things were happening within the walls of the Brady Mansion. Lights that had never worked would come on during thunderstorms or the forty-year-old wallpaper would change colors just so slightly during super. His father had told him of the town’s folks’ stories of the Brady Mansion being haunted but he wasn’t a believer. That was until one weekend while his wife was visiting her family in New York, the basement door slammed shut while he was checking out a noise in the cold room. He ran up the basement stairs with the hair standing up on his neck and his heart pounding to it’s limits. Pushed as he might to open the door, he couldn’t budge it. There were no locks on the door and it opened just fine when he went into the basement. 
“Who is there, let go of this door!”
Just then the old piston pump in the surface well started. Every old house had its own well in the basement but this old well was different. Karl, exhausted and frightened turned to go down stairs but as he did, he felt a hand restraining his leg from moving. Looking down he saw a large ghost of a man with a pitch fork shoved through his skull grabbing his leg. Force as he might he just couldn’t move. Then the pump in the well stopped and the image of the ghost disappeared. The next morning, he woke up laying in a pool of his own blood from the gash he had on his neck. He struggled to his feet and felt absolutely lost to where he was or what had happened just seven hours prior. Grasping the hand rail, he climbed the basement stairs and pushed on the door that just last night he couldn’t physically open. This time it opened with the slightest of resistance. Everything seemed like a dream until he looked in the mirror at what he thought was a gash on his neck and saw three puncture holes. Similar holes the same pitchfork in the basement would have made on the ghost that grabbed him by the leg. The holes were still oozing blood from his neck as he sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee shaking in his hands. Clasp as he might he couldn’t stop the cup from shaking. For the remainder of his stay in the house he never once went back into the basement. He told his wife of over 40 years that he had found asbestos in the basement and he didn’t want her to ever go back down to the cold-room. Six weeks later the house sold to Dennis and Jennifer Hobbs who fell in love with its architecture and its back yard apple orchard. It was spring and all the apple trees were in full bloom. What wasn’t there to love about the house where they were going to start their family.
“Karl, would you please come over to have a look at the basement door,” asked Dennis. There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. 
“No, my knees are killing me and I just don’t have time,” replied Karl in a very nervous and agitated voice.
“Not a problem my friend, do you know of someone else that could have a look at it for us,” 
“Yes, there an old fellow just next door to your house that use to help me with similar jobs. He lives at 666 Memory Lane and his name is Ralph,”
Hanging up the phone with Karl, Dennis felt a cold breeze coming from the basement. He went to close the door and it slammed shut closing his right hand into the casing. He pulled on the handle with all his might but it was if someone was holding the door shut on his hand. He called to Jennifer for help just as she came from the upstairs the door opened.
“My god Dennis I think you’re losing your mind. We can’t keep this door from opening and now you’re telling me it closed on your hand,” as she laughed going to the sink for a cold glass of water.
“I’m not kidding you, that blasted door closed by itself onto my hand. I couldn't open it!”
“Well, I guess it must have been a ghost,” laughed Jennifer.
“We never go to the basement anyway. Why spend money on getting someone to fix it. I’ll just put a door stop against it and save us 100 dollars,”
The two left Monday morning as usual to the local coffee shop to have breakfast before they started their day working from home. During their meal they joked about Dennis’s hand getting stuck in a door that wouldn’t stay closed. Then they dreamed of having children and raising them in the house of their dreams. 
“I’d like to know how many families there have been raised in our love nest,” said Jennifer. 
“We’ll take care of ours and let the past take care of it’s self,”
One of the regulars in the coffee shop was listening attentively to the new owners of the Bradly Mansion. He was about to say something when the curator of the museum put his hand on the gentleman’s shoulder.
“Leave them be Hank, they’ll soon learn who’s who in the Bradly Mansion,”
Jennifer and Dennis returned home and started their daily routine of one going to the master bedroom and the other to the downstairs den to work. Jennifer worked as an advertising consultant and Dennis an investment consultant. They always made time for breakfast together and for the next eight hours they might meet in the kitchen for a five-minute chat and then back to work they’d go.
Dennis was getting just a little annoyed with the piston pump noise starting and stopping relentlessly. He knew absolutely nothing about the antagonizing machine but he knew he could Google anything to find the solution. He was about to finalize a huge investment portfolio with a new client so he put a sticky note on the basement door as a reminder.
“Fix the dam water pump before going to bed”
Jennifer hadn’t heard the pump’s annoying noise because she worked with headphones and had her master bedroom door closed. She came down to the kitchen and found the sticky note on the floor upside down and put it in the recycle bin. She prepared a wonder confit de canard with brown rice that was Dennis’s favorite. 
“Baby you must want sex again tonight. Confit de canard from Brome Lake Quebec is so dam good. Thank you, a million times, it pays off to land a 500-thousand-dollar contract I guess,”
“Wow! That’s a 50-thousand-dollar bonus. We can have someone come in to fix that crazy water pump,”
“Did you see my sticky note,”
“Oh, I found a note but just thought it was garbage,”
Jennifer had been annoyed by the water pressure going up and down while she prepared their supper and for some unknown reason, she mentioned it off the top of her head. After saying to have it repaired or changed, she shook her head wondering what she had just said.
“Jenn, are you feeling alright?”
“Yes, so let’s eat before this duck gets cold,”
Down in the basement while the Hobbs were enjoying their confit de canard the first owners of the Badly Mansion were planning their evening. Mr. Bradley was murdered by his son that was staying with him and his wife after serving in the War of 1812. He suffered what was known as today as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder but in 1815 was called shell shock. Men would come home from the battle field not able to tell time or know their loved ones. Elmer Bradly was a man that stood six feet six inches tall and weighed over 200 pounds. He cut and split all the firewood for his parents and hayed the pasture next to the small apple orchard to feed the ten head of Jersey cows and one Herford steer they raised for beef. 
One extremely hot July day while bringing in a load of hay with the family’s team of horses Elmer’s father stood in the basement door opening with a pitch fork in his hands. He noticed his mother laying next to him bleeding from the chest. Elmer ran towards his father crying,
“What have you done, why did you kill mom?”
His mind went into battle field mode and grabbed the pitch fork from his elderly father. He drove the pitch fork through his father’s head and picked up his mom from the ground. It wasn’t actually his mom but just a bag of beets his dad had just dug from the garden. Elmer’s mind had once again played killer images to him that caused him to kill his own dad. His mom came running down the basement stairs just in time to witness Elmer shoving the pitchfork through his own throat and dropped to the ground dead beside his dad.
Mrs. Bradly couldn’t believe her own eyes. The two men that she loved so much laid dead at her feet. She dragged her husband of over 35 years and her son to the well that they drew water from with a pail and pushed them down some sixty-feet. She then went up stair and nailed the basement door shut. She used the secondary well in the barn for her water supply until she passed away some ten-years later. 
It wasn’t until the second owners of the Badly Mansion purchased the property that the stories of ghosts spread throughout the village. One owner experienced the same leg grabbing experience as Karl the past owner and fell to his death on the cement floor. Other owners installed motion detectors that would go off and sound alarms during the night. These events were never told to the Hobbs before they purchased the property. They spend thousands of dollars trying to get Jennifer pregnant. She was losing sleep worrying that she’s never be a mother. Waking up in the middle of the night thinking she was having cravings for dill pickles. 
It was on one of these nights of cravings she went to the kitchen. At the bottom of the large circular staircase, she saw Elmer and his dad standing with a pitch fork in their heads. Mrs. Bradly had the fridge door open with a jar of dill pickles in her hand. Jennifer fell to the floor and suffered a massive heart attack and died instantly. 
Dennis couldn’t sell the Bradly Mansion after losing his wife and eventually hung himself over the well in the basement with a picture of Jennifer in his hand.
","September 10, 2023 18:55",[]
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,7p8mek,House of Mirrors,Mark Gagnon,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/7p8mek/,/short-story/7p8mek/,Horror,0,"['Horror', 'Drama', 'Fantasy']",4 likes,"
House of Mirrors
The mirror showed a reflection that wasn’t my own. That didn’t surprise me because I maintain this Fun House. They designed the mirrors in here to distort people’s images and create confusion as the patrons moved along a dimly lit path. People laughed at their elongated or squatty reflections. They tease their friends about how big or small they look in a particular mirror. It’s all done for a laugh, at least that is what I thought.
The Fun House is one of multiple exhibits featured in a traveling carnival that arrived in town early this week. The community anxiously awaited opening day. As soon as the show arrived, help-wanted signs went up. They needed someone to maintain the exhibits, and I got the job. When I asked what happened to the last maintenance man, my new boss said he was tired of traveling and stayed behind. 
Most of the booths were easy to maintain. Normally all I need to do is repair a counter, replace a flag pole, replace a lightbulb, all the usual handyman duties. It’s what I am good at doing. The booths are portable, so they have to be leveled every time we move them. Once in position, they remained stable until it was time to move to the next town. The Fun House is my only problem child. It is always in need of constant readjusting. At first, I thought it kept moving because of everyone jumping and running inside. Every day, the house listed from one side to the other. When I asked the owner about it, he said it always did that. It wasn’t anything I needed to be concerned with.
The carnival played in town for two weeks, attracting record crowds. The Merry-Go-Round, Ferris Wheel, and games of skill were all very popular, but the biggest attraction was the Fun House. Moms and dads brought their children, young couples slipped in to steal a kiss, and old people were curious to see if the mirrors made them look younger or slimmer. All had a good time—until the last night.
The carnival should have closed at midnight except that a child had gone missing. The nine-year-old’s mother frantically approached the ticket booth just as it was about to shut down.
“I can’t find my daughter! She was by my side one minute, and then she disappeared. Please, you must help me find her.” Pleaded the woman as tears streamed down her cheeks.
I was standing next to the booth, so the boss asked me to help. Nodding an acknowledgment, I walked over to the distraught mother.
“I’m going to help you find your daughter. Can you tell me where you were standing the last time you saw her?”
“Yes, we were in front of the Fun House. I’m sure of it!”
“Great! That’s where we’ll start looking. What was she wearing?”
“She had on jeans and a blue and white top. Please, we must hurry. She never goes off like this. I’m afraid something awful has happened.”
We hustled back to the Fun House and searched the surrounding area unsuccessfully. The next logical place was inside the attraction.
“I don’t know why she would be in here. I told her never to go inside any of these places without me,” exclaimed the nervous mother.
“Kids will be kids,” I replied in an attempt to ease the mother’s stressed-out nerves. “She probably got disoriented and couldn’t find the exit. I’ve seen adults become confused by those mirrors and need help to find their way out.”
We entered the attraction, stopping for a second to get our bearings. I quickly scanned the first room, hoping to spot the child.
“Amanda! Amanda, it’s mommy. Are you in here?”
The sound of a child softly whimpering off in the distance broke the eerie quiet. We rushed toward the sound, my heart pounding with anticipation as we drew closer. The mirrors acted as reflective barriers, distorting our path. We were now standing alongside the sound, but the girl was not visible.
“Amanda, honey, where are you?”
“I’m here, mommy.” The whimpering changed to pleading. “You sound so close! Please, Mommy, I’m right here!”
The girl’s mother stood, unable to move, frozen by terror. Once again, I scanned the mirrors. This time, barely visible in the bottom corner of the right-hand pane, I spotted a distorted image of Amanda. I spun on my heels and rushed to the opposite side of the room where I found the young girl tucked in the space between two mirrors.
“She’s over here. I have her.” 
I helped Amanda to her feet and into the loving arms of her mother. Tears of joy flowed while I directed mother and daughter to the exit. Just before I left the Fun House, I turned around to make sure nothing was out of place. That’s when the door slammed shut and I heard the lock click into place. Fear immediately replaced my joy over having reunited mother and daughter. The mirror on the opposite wall showed a reflection that wasn’t mine. 
The unrecognizable figure spread from mirror to mirror, quickly encircling me. A menacing voice directed its fury toward me.
“You have stolen our prize. Now you must pay.”
I instinctively reached for my tool belt, withdrew my hammer, and began smashing mirrors as I bolted for the door. Shrieks of agony filled the room as I shattered mirror after mirror while making my escape. The shards of glass still showed the creature’s, image but in a diminished form. I pounded the lock with my hammer, forcing the door open, and burst through it to freedom—never to return.
Several years have passed, and I still avoid all mirrors. My fear that the creature is still stalking me, hoping for revenge, persists. I know it’s not just my imagination that is haunting me. Occasionally, I’ll walk past a store window and catch a glimpse of my reflection. The creature lurks just behind my image, waiting patiently with claws and fangs at the ready.
 
","September 11, 2023 15:03",[]
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,0rnrzi,Haunted ,John K Adams,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/0rnrzi/,/short-story/0rnrzi/,Horror,0,"['Funny', 'Horror', 'High School']",4 likes,"
They had her kneel on the bare floor. Allie pulled the hood off her head and looked around. Three shadowy figures stood before her in the dimly lit room.Jason said, “Boo!”“Of course, Jason. I knew you had to be part of it. Where’s your goalie mask?”Diego pointed at him. “He forgot!”The three boys standing over her burst into laughter.Allie said, “Not wearing it doesn’t help you. Don’t leave home without it.”She and Jason dated briefly in their junior year. But his insecurity and immaturity formed a toxic gumbo.When they first led her in she heard keys rattle. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she spotted them lying on a side table by the door.Walter asked, “Did we scare you?”“Yeah, teenage boys always give me the shivers. Is there a point to this?”They laughed again. Offering his hand, Diego helped her to her feet. She brushed herself off.“Thanks… C’mon, guys. What’s this about? Where are we?”“Morfey…”They looked at each other with wide grins.“What, the old Morfey place? The ‘haunted farmhouse’?”“You got it…” They laughed again.She couldn’t believe it. “This is a haunted house?”“The ultimate haunted house, Allie.”She scanned the room. Once home to the Morfey family, only spiders had lived there for decades. Things went south and took the whole family in a single night. No perps were ever caught. Police sealed the records. Superstitions filled the gap and over fifty years, the stories multiplied. No one knew the truth.Allie didn’t believe in ‘haints,’ as kids called them. “I guess, if dust scares you...”Walter pointed to a wooden chair. “Have a seat.”She brushed off one of the four, straight backed chairs set in a circle and sat. “I hope you don’t think this will make me like you geeks. Kidnapping is a crime, you know.”The others sat too. The lantern, in their midst, lit their faces from below. Shadows loomed eerily against the ceiling and walls. They looked around at the sound of wind buffeting the house.Walter said, “Bear with us for a few, Allie. We have a challenge for you.”“How fast I can dial 911?”“No… This is the season for exploring the dark side of things. And you being the biggest skeptic we know, we wanted to scare you.”“Cut to the chase and ask me to marry you. That’d give me the willies.”Jason said, “We wanted the right atmosphere for our challenge. No point trying to scare you in the comfort of home. Why not someplace classic?”“An abandoned house? Charming…”Walter said, “Everyone agrees it’s haunted.”“Right. Everyone but me. So, it must be true.”Jason said, “Exactly!”Walter leaned in. “We’re going to give it a try.”“Gee, whiz. And here I planned to polish my nails tonight.”Walter unfolded a list. “Let’s get started.”Jason said, “We want you to feel like you have some choice, Allie. Which do you want first? The locked attic door? Or the rats?”Allie clapped her hands. “Oooh, I love to choose… Is that the Jane Eyre attic door? With the crazy lady?”“That very one.”Diego shook his head. “Amazing… So literate…”“How about I pick none? Rats don’t scare me, too cute. But I won’t let animals get mistreated for entertainment’s sake. And I don’t believe you locked someone in the attic. That would require organizational skills I’ve seen from exactly none of you.”Walter said, “We’ll warm you up with a quiz.”Diego said, “I’m sorry, Allie. Are you thirsty? Can I get you something?”“With poison or not?”“We have bottled water and Diet Coke.”“Coke. Unopened, please.” He pulled a can from the cooler and handed it to Allie. “Thanks.”She popped it open, tipped it back and gulped thirstily.Walter said, “So, which is scarier, Linda Blair in the Exorcist? Or a severed head?”“Yeah, that was kind of a career defining moment for ol’ Linda. She never reached her full potential after that. But scary? Not so much. Kind of laughable, I’m sorry to say.”“So, severed heads then?”“If they weren’t so over-used and unimaginative! The French Revolution went way over the line. But now you can’t watch the news without seeing some attention starved douche-bag getting his fifteen minutes.”The boys looked at each other.“Okay, next. Chainsaws? Or razor blades?”“Depends on the application. For shaving my legs, I prefer…”Jason said, “She’s not taking this seriously.”Walter held his hand up for silence. “We’re warming up. Give her time.”Diego offered, “Torture devices… The rack, or the Iron Maiden?”Allie couldn’t resist. “If you’re into metal music…”Jason blurted out, “Number of the Beast!”Diego did a fist pump and cheered.Walter shook his head. “Focus guys. We’re trying to wear her down. Scaring her, remember?”They settled and looked at the floor. Allie yawned.Walter continued. “Which would frighten you more… if the house was built on an Indian burial ground, or on a toxic waste dump?”“Don’t feed me tomatoes from the garden either way. But scared? I worry more if my make-up gets discontinued.”Diego offered, “Evil clown? Or evil doll?”“Guys, don’t you follow the news? Clowns are in fashion. I don’t get it, but not scary. And not sorry.” She cocked her head. “Evil dolls…? I never met one, but the best way to defeat them…? Don’t take them out of the box. Easy peasy… Though I’ll admit Barbie is formidable. That girl has style…”Jason grew impatient. “Allie, you must agree, Frankenstein’s monster is scary.”She paused. “Not as cute as King Kong. The classic monsters were either sympathetic, or boring. The Mummy? What a snooze fest. Face it. Mummies, zombies, vampires… all those ‘undead’ types are seriously not scary. What’s scary is how many clichés you guys love.”“Come on, Allie. Birds? Or sharks?”“Since you don’t even have running water here… Do you…?” They shook their heads. “…I doubt sharks are a threat. As for birds… too flighty. Don’t scare me.”Walter said, “How about psychokinesis?”“You mean like with Carrie?” Walter nodded. “Now, Carrie had it going. She taught those soshes a lesson they’ll not soon forget. You want envy? Sign me up. I’d love to rain vengeance down on some people.” She gave them a look. “But scared? Not really.”Jason said, “Hey guys, come here. Let’s talk for a minute.”He stepped into the gloom of the ancient kitchen. The others followed.Diego turned to Allie, “Don’t go away. We’re strategizing.”She called out. “Hey, guys?” They looked at her. “All that talk about sharks and running water… Is there anything like a bathroom around?”The guys looked at each other and shrugged.Walter pointed. “Around to the left. Past the front door.”“Great… I’ll find it.”Allie moved to the front door and waited until she heard talking. She grabbed the car keys from the table and ran out the door, into the storm.The rain hit her cold and hard. She ran blindly, as fast as possible, in complete darkness, until she slammed into the car. Groaning, she groped her way to the driver’s side door.‘Unlocked!’ Allie slammed the door behind her and locked the other doors. “Whew!” She hit the wheel. “Yeah!”She jammed the key into the ignition and pumped the gas pedal. The engine spun, but didn’t catch. ‘Did I flood it?’ Continued tries only drained the battery. Stuck. Surprised they hadn’t pursued her, she pondered her next action.The rain varied between hard and harder. Allie was wet and cold. But at least she was out of that house. ‘Better alone than surrounded by those creeps.’ She felt the back seat for a blanket or jacket. She could sleep in the car until sunrise. The back seat was empty. And chilly.‘Why didn’t I grab a jacket?’She looked toward the house, unseen in the darkness.The sound of rain on the roof made her shiver in her wet clothes. Not afraid, she was more annoyed than anything. She knew her way home, but walking in the storm was out of the question. There wouldn’t be street lights for miles. In this rain, she might drown standing up.‘How stupid can people be?’Allie pounded the steering wheel and screamed in frustration. Her shivering had become constant. Her teeth chattered. She didn’t want pneumonia.At least it was dry inside. They weren’t threatening her. Just stupid pranking.‘What does it take for people to grow up?’ She thought, ‘What’s the point, guys? Why spend precious energy pursuing darkness and fear? Wouldn’t life be better working toward something better? Beauty? Or truth…? Free yourselves…’“I’m telling them.”Throwing the car door open, Allie sprinted through the torrent back to the house. Drenched, she shoved the door open and called out to the boys. No answer. The house was silent.‘Trying to scare me again…’The storm raged. A loose shutter banged against the side of the house.The dim, but warm glow from the living room, drew her in.Allie called out. “I know you guys are in here. Cut the crap. Let’s go get some dinner.”She stopped in the doorway and stared in shock. Sounds gurgled from her throat. She gasped and leaned against the door frame. Feeling a warm wetness she looked at her hand.Allie knew the truth.She couldn’t stop screaming.
","September 15, 2023 15:29","[[{'Delbert Griffith': ""Nice! A horror story that turned out to be real - at the end. I'm wondering how much therapy Allie will need after this. And I'm guessing she won't be a fan of haunted houses or Halloween after this. Nicely done, John. The smash ending was stellar.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '16:45 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'John K Adams': 'Thanks, as always. \nI wanted to see if I could tell one that was at least a bit unnerving. Admittedly not my genre. \nThanks for the good review.', 'time': '18:30 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'John K Adams': 'Thanks, as always. \nI wanted to see if I could tell one that was at least a bit unnerving. Admittedly not my genre. \nThanks for the good review.', 'time': '18:30 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Okay, a little scary!🥵', 'time': '22:27 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'John K Adams': 'Thanks, Mary.', 'time': '23:08 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'John K Adams': 'Thanks, Mary.', 'time': '23:08 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,doq3ww,The Klemens House.,Zach Goff,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/doq3ww/,/short-story/doq3ww/,Horror,0,"['Fiction', 'Horror', 'LGBTQ+']",4 likes,"
Trigger warning for the content ahead includes mental health, physical violence, gore, sexual violence, and abuse.Mr. Kenneth K. Klemens first built the house after marrying his wife, Rebecca. He got the land dirt cheap off of a farmer of the land. Nothing ever grew there. Farmer Rick had no use for it, and luckily Mr. Klemens had no plans of starting a farm. Kenneth and Rick of them grew to be fast friends afterward.They soon found that part of the barren land problem belongs to boars trampling through the acres. Though Kenneth didn't plan to farm, he hated the filthy animals ruining the soil on his land. He shot them, using every part of the animals, the parts he didn't he sold. He kept the largest boar's head hung on the wall, then gun he used to shoot it retired beneath.Rebecca soon after had her first child and named her Honeydew after her favorite flowers. Mr. Klemens smoked more and drank to cope with the lack of sleep. The tobacco helped him ground himself in moments of exhaustion. The alcohol made him, as he described it, more 'passionate' and 'in touch with his emotions'. By the time Honeydew could crawl, Rebecca was pregnant with her second child.By the time K. K. Jr. was born, Mr. Klemens knew he would have to make more money to support them. He experiments and found that bringing new soil onto the land and having them in pots allowed a plant to grow, but only cotton plants and Honeydews. Rebecca planted a garden in front of the house.After Rebecca died giving birth to Bernard Klemens, Mr. Klemens had little hope for him. Scrawny from premature birth, Mr. Klemens refused to feed him through his first winter, taking upon all the other duties her mother did. She cooked and cleaned, and in the spring, she went grocery shopping and tended to the garden; the melons seemed to shrivel without a true mother’s touch.Once the boys were old enough to walk, Mr. Klemens put them to work in the cotton fields, plucking row after row of the plant, getting cut more often than not.“Jr. picks up the pace!”Mr. Klemens shouted at K.K. who picked up the pace, digging his fingernails into his palms. The alternative was worse than his muscles aching a little more than they already did.Honeydew knew the perfect times to put out dinner, getting everything on the table just before sunset. She would stand on the porch where her mother stood, watching the winter sunset, and just as it dipped below the treeline she would ring the bell hanging by the door. Signaling the end of work for the day and time for dinner.Mr. Klemens—never Father—would remind Jr. of their eternal connection through name and blood during their copious fights at the dinner table. Most nights these fights lead to him storming out of the house. Only to resume when he eventually returned. On a rare occasion, K.K. would run into the forest skipping dinner entirely to meet Austen in secret.During those spans of time, when K.K. wasn’t within shouting range, Mr. Klemens tried to toughen Bernard up. Beating him and wrestling with him, leading to multiple bruises and broken bones.Once K.K. came home, sometimes earlier, Honeydew would put Bernard to bed and ready herself. She opened her window, feeling the cooler winter air. She left it open every night, despite the winter winds growing stronger. She hoped to give K.K. a discrete entrance to the house.Tonight he didn’t come back before Mr. Klemens came to tuck her in. Honeydew wore many of the responsibilities of Klemens house, all her mother’s duties included. Though she dreaded his visits the most. Kenneth K. Klemens Jr. climbed through the open window just as Mr. Klemens finished his husbandly privileges, howling as he did so until he saw the look of shock on Jr.'s face.Mr. Klemens grabbed K.K. by the ear, pulling up the pants from around his ankles, unloosing his belt as he leered at Jr.Mr. Klemens beat Jr. till his ass was rough, raw, and bloodied. Honeydew watched in horror, flinching at every thwack. K.K. refused to tell Pops where he went. Mr. Klemens broke two of Jr's ribs as he kicked his side, leaving the boy wheezing for air, tears streaming from his face.This was not the first time Mr. Klemens had caught K.K. crawling through Honeydew’s window, only the first where K.K. caught Mr. Klemens.Most nights it didn’t happen right in front of her. She sometimes could fall asleep before Mr. Klemens stopped. Even rarer than that, Mr. Klemens may let her sleep. Most nights he woke her up with angry unprovoked and under-lubricated thrusts.After all his children were in bed, he would go down to the basement, locking the door behind him. He never returns until sunrise.The next night, K.K. ran into the forest before dinner. Mr. Klemens—Never Pops—followed him with the baseball bat leaning against the front porch.Bernard and Honeydew pack bags as fast as they can. Bernard took the extra measure of grabbing Mr. Klemens’ gun from the mantle below his prize deer's head.He did in fact, but only after he saw Rick's kid on all fours face contorted in pleasure while Jr. knelt behind Austen, thrusting with a grin on his face.Mr. Klemens tore the two away from each other. He focused his furry into Austen, forcing Jr. to hear the cracks of the boy's bones underneath the swing of the bat. See the bones protruding in unnatural angles. Forcing Jr. to answer Austen’s pleas as to ‘Why are you doing this?’“Because we're faggots.” K.K. would answer through sobs. Austen asked so many times. He pleaded with Mr. Klemens for mercy and explanation, but he is a ruthless man. The beating continued until Austen finally stopped asking and then stopped breathing.Mr. Klemens then swung once at Jr. knocking him unconscious, dragging his body the three miles back to the house. He took the unconscious Kenneth Klemens down the stairs while Bernard hid under the kitchen table. Honeydew dug up her mother's garden to get her mother’s wedding band.Mr. Klemens bound Jr. a table. Red blood pooled from his temple from a baseball bat dent. His dizzying vision slowly came together. Next to him lay an embalmed body, dressed in a wedding gown.The woman's skin was a strange green color. Kenneth kissed Rebecca's body, her skin flaking off at his touch. He moaned as he broke the embrace of her lips, leaving them wet with his saliva before ascending the stairs. Each step creaked under his weight.Bernard stood on the other side of the door, gun aimed and cocked. The door swung open.“Well, look who finally grew some ba—”“This is for Honeydew!”BANG!A gunshot to his crotch.He fell back, tumbling down the stairs.Bernard, now on the stairs, sees his mother and brother lying on the tables.“And this is for K.K.!”BANG!The basement walls were painted with the splattered remains of Mr. Klemens, his blood a sick shade of grey.Honeydew grabbed Bernard, shoving him up the creeky basement steps.Bernard dropped the gun at the top of the stairs while Honeydew bolted the door. Together they moved as much furniture as they could to barricade the door.They sprinted outside to fresh white powder culminating on the ground, the first snow of the season. Snowflakes fell like white flower petals gently flowing to the ground.They passed a mangled, half-naked corpse. The less-than-fresh blood stained the snow red. Bernard knew the caved-in skull belonged to his lover and he cried as they marched on, unsure of where to call home.
","September 08, 2023 17:08",[]
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,cf61f9,The Manor of Hell,Christyn G.,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/cf61f9/,/short-story/cf61f9/,Horror,0,"['Fiction', 'Horror', 'Thriller']",4 likes,"
The night was engulfed in a brewing storm, as the daunting house shrouded in darkness. A whirlwind of flickering blue and red lights cast eerie silhouettes within, dancing through the wide-open front door. In the distance, thunder rumbled, and the footsteps ascending the porch steps caught the attention of a man with a buzz cut. He was dressed in a sharp black suit, and he stood by the door, swiftly turning his head at the sound of his name.“Detective Saar, you need to see this,” a middle-aged police officer urgently informed him. Detective Saar spun around, the eerie glow casting shadows across his tense face as he locked eyes with the officer's frightened gaze. The officer extended a trembling hand, holding out a camera, his breath unsteady. A camera that was found deep in the foreboding woods harboring an ominous secret. Detective Saar approached, exuding authority as he donned a pair of black gloves and retrieved the camera.“This belongs to one of the crew members,” Detective Saar said with a hushed tone, handling the camera delicately as if it were made of glass. He examined it meticulously, noting a speck of dried blood and a layer of dust on the lens. With a practiced hand, he promptly wiped the lens clean, revealing its cracked surface. Upon closer inspection, the camera's base bore a few dents, hinting at the ordeal it had been through.""We found it near the old cabin after we'd retrieved the body. It was buried under some leaves as if someone was trying to hide it.""Detective Saar's jaw tightened, and he nodded, his expression growing even more somber. ""Anything else?""""Nothing else that we could find,"" the officer replied quietly.Detective Saar acknowledged the officer's response with a nod, who stared at him wide-eyed like a frightened child. The officer understood he was dismissed and joined the others and the forensics team bustling around the house.Detective Saar fumbled with the buttons, eventually finding the power button. A violet-blue screen flickered to life, displaying black and white text. With another press of a button, he accessed a video recording that spanned an hour. He cast a quick glance outside the premises, a brief moment of hesitation crossing his mind before he pressed play.As the video began to play, Detective Saar watched in chilling silence. It revealed the now-deceased men approaching the porch steps, sending a shiver down his spine. Their lifeless bodies had just been discovered on the infamous plantation grounds, and this recording held a promising revelation, poised to unveil the sinister truth hidden within the accursed walls. Detective Saar’s gaze appeared to penetrate through the camera as if he were right there with them, immersed in the unsettling mystery.***Twenty-three hours earlierThe moon hung low in the cloudy night sky, casting an eerie glow over the ancient plantation house. Its windows were shattered, and ivy had crept up the decaying walls. The once-grand estate had long been abandoned, yet its haunting memory endured. The tales of the serial killings that had occurred here were only spoken of in hushed whispers among the townspeople, who lived in constant fear. This family, who had resided here for generations, had rumors of their mysterious disappearance circulated. Some believed they had vanished without a trace, while others caught wind of a witness who claimed to have seen a mysterious group conducting a ritual inside the manor, attempting to summon the departed. However, nothing had been confirmed as the truth, given that anyone who dared enter this house never returned. All that remained was their haunting legacy—the Wellington Plantation.In the foreboding darkness, three figures cautiously made their way toward the mansion. They were seasoned paranormal investigators, armed with cameras, EVP recorders, and various ghost-hunting equipment. Charlie, the lead investigator, was a tall, rugged man with a braided beard and a skeptical demeanor. He often boasted of having seen it all— or so he claims. David, the tech expert, was an eccentric, bald man with a nervous disposition. And then there was Tommy, the cameraman, renowned for his nerves of steel and unwavering commitment to capturing every chilling moment on film, regardless of the consequences.Their mission was clear: to uncover the hidden truth and gather evidence regarding the fate of the missing family members and their vanished victims. Armed with their equipment and their own courage, Charlie took the lead as they ascended up the steps of the doorway, the oppressive gloom playing tricks on their nerves, causing the hairs on their necks to stand on end. “Stay close,” he cautioned, his voice quivering slightly, setting their nerves on edge as they delved deeper into the haunting dwelling. The investigators stepped through the creaking front door, their footsteps echoing in the empty foyer. The silence hung heavy with an unsettling stillness, broken only by the distant howling of the wind. They embarked further into a dark hall, and the feeling of the impending doom loomed. The air grew hefty with a musky odor, and the walls seemed to absorb the sounds of their every movement. A depth of dullness was almost shuttering to live through as the night was justifying its horror. No bleak light except Tommy’s camera and their flashlights.“Ah, hell, this place is already giving me the creeps,” David muttered as they turned down another dark, desolate hallway.“Nah, we’ve seen worse and dealt with much worse,” Charlie replied casually, following Tommy’s camera light beaming ahead.“Tommy, come closer. I can’t see a damn thing with this flashlight,” Charlie grumbled in annoyance.“Well, we should explore the grounds first and then we work our way up,” Tommy suggested as Charlie paused and turned to face them, a contemplative expression on his face.“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” Charlie agreed.“Hey, remember that story about the basement?” Charlie added.“Yeah,” David replied.“Dante mentioned it might be some sort of portal for them down there,” Charlie recalled, thinking back to Dante’s words, who was the historian of the Wellington Estate and had guided them through the floor plan back at the lodge they were staying at. Dante was very adamant about hearing a phone call when they would finish their investigation. They found it odd that he refused to enter the premises himself, claiming he wasn’t as foolish as the others. Somehow, that cryptic remark had gone over their heads.“Hell no, man. I’d rather tour the house on my own than go down there,” David said in a solemn tone, prompting a chuckle from Charlie and Tommy.""Remember the last time we dealt with that sort of stuff? It took us months to find an exorcist,"" David's voice took on a smaller, almost embarrassed tone.""Ha, but we did manage to get that demon out, didn't we?"" Charlie quipped humorously.""Yeah, whatever,"" David added lastly.“Suit yourself,” Charlie conceded. David muttered a bitter remark as they continued exploring the main floor.They began their investigation, posing questions to the void air and documenting any potential signs of paranormal activity. “Now remember what Dante had warned us about, – stay vigilant for any drafts we might encounter. There’s a malevolent spirit dwelling in this house,” Charlie emphasized to the camera. “David, please activate your recorder,” Charlie instructed.As they ventured deeper into the house, they stumbled upon old photographs—frozen moments capturing their once-normal lives. Among them, a family portrait stood out, featuring a mother, a father, a young boy, and a small girl. The photo appeared aged, likely taken many years ago before their inhuman history. Their thoughts now gravitated toward the young girl and her older brother; the very ones who had been entangled in the gruesome series of killings. Despite the smiles frozen in time, these once-innocent expressions now seemed hauntingly sinister.Charlie’s voice stayed steady as he spoke into the recorder, while Tommy filmed his every move. “We are now in the living room, attempting to make contact with any lingering spirits. If there’s anyone here, we kindly ask that you give us a sign.”Silence hung heavy in the air until David whispered, “Did you hear that?”The faintest sound of footsteps echoed down the hallway, but when they turned to investigate, there was nothing amiss. Charlie exchanged a skeptical glance with Tommy, who kept his camera rolling, capturing every moment.“Let’s head down over here.” Charlie guided as he maneuvered down a doorway.“We need to split up,” Charlie decided. “David, you take the rest of the floor. Tommy, follow me to the basement. Let’s see if we can find any clues down there.”David hesitated but eventually nodded, disappearing inside a room. Tommy and Charlie, with their lights casting eerie shadows on the stone walls, made their way to the entrance of the basement.As they descended the creaking stairs, the temperature seemed to plummet, and the atmosphere grew increasingly unsettling. Tommy’s camera projected a beam of light, revealing a foreboding dark tunnel on the wall.""Woah,"" Charlie whispered in astonishment.""What the..."" Tommy's mouth hung open in surprise.Charlie emitted a hoarse, almost shocked laugh as he slowly advanced towards the tunnel. Tommy, still in place, continued to record Charlie's exploration in the tunnel and turned to face him.""Come on,"" Charlie urged impatiently.""Charlie, we don't know what's in there. Dante never mentioned this,"" Tommy protested.""Dante has never set foot inside. We are the ones discovering this place. Not him,"" Charlie responded firmly.Tommy hesitated, his gaze shifting between Charlie and the ominous entrance to the tunnel.""Tommy?"" Charlie said with a serious tone.""O-okay,"" Tommy reluctantly agreed, creeping slowly behind him.Charlie led the way, but as they ventured deeper into the basement, the tunnel seemed to twist and turn, disorienting them. Panic began to creep into Tommy’s voice as he muttered, “Charlie, should we even be going this way?”""Come on, you're feeling uneasy already?"" Charlie teased as he turned to walk backward, facing Tommy.""Yeah, I am, because there was nothing mentioned about this otherworldly dark tunnel being down here, in the freaking basement.""""Yeah, but remember, no one's ever made it out alive to tell their stories,"" Charlie emphasized, gesturing his arms in the air as if it was some coveted prize.“We should have not left David,” Tommy paused in distress, feeling a surge of his fight-or-flight response gripping him as if his gut was telling him to turn back.Tommy pointed the camera behind Charlie’s head, revealing a doomy presence looming there. “No, seriously, man, we should head back. We shouldn’t be here,” Tommy pleaded in a serious tone.Charlie’s confident facade wavered, and confusion washed over him. “Damn, Tommy, you’re never scared,” he began to say something, but before he could respond, they heard the sound of David’s voice echoing from behind them, calling them back into the basement. Tommy turned, his camera capturing the dark tunnel behind them.“What the hell?” Charlie protested confusingly.“See, we should leave,” Tommy insisted. Charlie’s facade grew increasingly concerned as he reluctantly agreed and followed David's voice. Suddenly, a flurry of footsteps sprinted from behind them, causing them to instinctively turn around.Both of them listened intently, their faces etched with confusion, when suddenly, a terrifying gust of wind, carrying an ominous premonition, surged between them, violently slamming them against the wall.Tommy who was crouched down to the ground gasped with a shivering breath.""Charlie?"" Tommy grabbed his camera, pushing himself upright as he hurried to the other side of the wall, but Charlie was nowhere in sight.“Charlie where are you?” he shouted, his own voice echoing back at him. Panic filled his eyes as he started retracing their steps.He continued stalking forward down the tunnel until he stumbled upon something chilling. Charlie’s shoes lay discarded on the cold, damp ground. Tommy’s heart raced as he realized that Charlie was still nowhere to be found. “Charlie?” he called out once more.Suddenly, a blood-curdling scream, unmistakably David’s, pierced the air from the other side of the tunnel. Panic surged through Tommy, and he hesitated only momentarily before sprinting through the tunnel. He charged further until he reached the end, where he saw a dark wooden door ahead.In the room beyond, Tommy’s breath caught in his throat, and a cold wave of dread washed over him as he took in the gruesome sight. Charlie’s lifeless body hung from the ceiling, and the room seemed to close in on Tommy. His hand, still clutching the camera, dropped to the floor as confusion consumed his mind. His breath quivered against his teeth, leaving him unable to speak. Shock held his muscles in an icy grip, and desperate to escape the horrifying scene, he turned to flee.Trembling, Tommy picked up his camera and numbly continued to record, desperately seeking any evidence to make sense of this surreal nightmare. He darted through the tunnel, eventually finding himself in a dark abyss. He paused to catch his breath and cried out in anguish. As Tommy’s camera panned upward, it captured a chilling sight—a dark shadow lurking just behind him. It was a shapeless, malevolent presence that seemed to feed on his fear. Heavy, labored breathing filled his ears, coming from all directions, closing in on him.Tommy forced his shaking legs to sprint forward. The narrow tunnel seemed to stretch on endlessly, a never-ending nightmare he was trying to escape. Finally, he emerged into what appeared to be the headquarters of the basement, illuminated by a sinister red light emanating from the stairs leading up.Calling out for David, Tommy cautiously climbed the stairs, each creak echoing ominously in the silent dark. Suddenly, a chair was violently hurled down the hall, crashing into a wall just inches from Tommy. He froze for a moment, his heart pounding, before summoning the courage to continue.The house seemed to have transformed during their investigation, almost as if a time-lapse played tricks on their perception. Cobwebs stretched from wall to wall, and the once-grand halls were now shrouded in darkness. Tommy followed the eerie red light, his breath visible in the frigid air.In the living room, he saw a shadowy figure. It appeared to be David; his silhouette turned away from Tommy as he stared at the wall. Tommy called out to him frantically, “David! David, what’s going on? Are you okay?”Slowly, David turned to face Tommy, but something was terribly wrong. There were no eyes in those hollow sockets, just endless darkness. Tommy’s body felt weightless as he took a step back, his camera trembling in his hands.He stumbled and fell onto his backside in sheer terror, unable to tear his gaze away from David's eyeless stare. In a split second, he watched as David's neck snapped, and his lifeless body crumpled to the ground. Tommy's eyes snapped back into reality as if his instinctual flight response had taken over. In a trance-like state, Tommy got up and sprinted out of the house, his mind struggling to comprehend the horrifying scene he had just witnessed.The malevolent shadow continued to pursue him, drawing nearer with relentless aggression.Tommy sprinted through the overgrown yard and plunged into the dense woods beyond, his heart pounding with desperation as he tried to escape its grasp.His breath came in ragged gasps as he finally stopped in the middle of the woods, his heart pounding in his chest. He scanned his surroundings, desperately searching for a way out. That’s when he spotted it—an abandoned cabin up ahead.With no other options, Tommy climbed the porch steps and shined his flashlight on the decrepit structure. It was as if the cabin had been forgotten by time itself, with windows boarded up and a porch sagging under the weight of neglect.Tommy hesitated but knew he had to seek refuge inside. He slowly crept around to find an entrance, constantly checking over his shoulder for the malevolent shadow that had pursued him. As he approached the back of the cabin, he suddenly noticed it—a haunting, dark presence lurking in the corner of his vision.A chill ran down Tommy’s spine as he turned to face the evil facade, his camera in his trembling hands. The darkness seemed to come alive, swirling and coalescing into a grotesque form. Tommy could feel himself being drawn towards it as if some unseen force compelled him to follow it.Tears streamed down Tommy’s face as he fought against the malevolent pull, but he was powerless to resist. The sinister presence had vanished when he reluctantly stepped down from the porch, and a sudden gust of air brushed over his head. He looked up and was horrified to see the malevolent entity transformed into a grotesque, scarred face—a nightmarish creature, its eerie grin fixed on him with a piercing stare.Tommy’s cries of fear and despair were swallowed by the night as he was violently thrust into the air, crashing down to the ground with a sickening thud, the sound of bones cracking filling the air. The forest became deathly silent as the evil malevolent spirit swayed away.Back at the haunted estate, the legends of the missing family and the sinister spirits continued to grow. The paranormal investigators had become another chapter in the house’s dark history, their fates sealed within its decaying walls. The mansion would remain abandoned, a place where the living soul dared not tread, and where the dead held their eternal, malevolent sway.As the first light of dawn broke over the forest, the old plantation estate stood in eerie silence. It seemed to absorb the secrets of the night, guarding them with a malevolent vigilance that would persist for years to come. The investigators had ventured into the forbidden abyss, and the house had claimed them as its own, forever entwining their fates with its dark and haunted history.
","September 12, 2023 03:37",[]
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,cg6kgs,Old Growth,Dana Murray,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/cg6kgs/,/short-story/cg6kgs/,Horror,0,['Horror'],4 likes,"
	Content warning: Self-harm, gore, death and rot imagery	
 
	The house at 1218 Riverside had never felt like home.
	Even in its prime it had unnerved me, feeling malevolent in spite of the fresh paint. Now, it looked like something from a horror movie. As the taxi pulled in the house came into sharper relief, the dusk casting the sagging and discolored wood in grays and blacks.
	Mom had willed it to me. I was the only person left who would take her sporadic calls, especially at the end. The thought of her now made me feel a stew of emotions, long simmered and full of contradictions.
	I had known she was doing badly, of course, but it had always been too much to tackle, something to acknowledge on the periphery, make a half-hearted resolution about, and then let slip back off the to-do list quietly.
	Now she was gone, and I had lost the chance to help her. I was here now, and all I could do was try to hopefully make enough money from selling the house to cover her funeral expenses.
	The sunset intensified the house’s jagged silhouette, the shadows under its eaves deep and dark. I paid the taxi driver and emerged, bags in hand.
	There was a superstitious part of me that whispered about ghosts. It was easy to ignore that, though, in the face of the much more mundane horror awaiting me.
	The last vestiges of Mom’s life. Her quiet desperation, spelled out for me in moldy dishes, unclean sheets, maybe a diary full of regrets.
	The door swung wide, revealing a house full to the brim with junk. Haphazard piles stood tall like sentinels, barring my entry. I sighed, let my eyes glance off the refuse, and steeled myself.
	The house was thick with dust, the smell of mildew heavy on the air. There was a thin winding walkway between the piles, barely wide enough for me and all my bags.
	The stairs were clear until the landing, at least, at which point me and my bags started our struggle anew. To my dismay, I noticed spots of mold high on the walls and ceiling.
	I was shocked to find the master bedroom was clean. The contrast was jarring. I had been expecting more piled garbage, bracing myself for it. And then, nothing.
	I looked around the room incredulously. It was nice, in an extremely kitschy sort of way, but compared to the rest of the house it was like stepping into another world. There was a nautical theme to the room, with anchors embroidered on pillows and a lamp resembling a miniature lighthouse on the bedside table.
	Looking over the space my gaze caught on the wall above the bed. Written in black marker, barely legible, were two words.
	‘I’m Sorry.’
	I stared at the message. Somehow, her acknowledgment of just how bad things were here made me feel worse. 
	I closed the bedroom door behind me. With the rest of the house gone from sight I could almost feel at ease, despite the message on the wall. I opted to just stay here for the rest of the night, unable to even contemplate facing the mess.
	The bed was soft, but the heavy blankets were thick with the smell of my late mother. I tossed and turned all through the night, haunted by a blend of bitter feelings within.
	She had cursed me - with this house, with her sickness - and yet some part of me still missed her. 
 
	I woke up still exhausted. It felt impossible to start cleaning, but it had to be done. I opted to start with the kitchen, a decision made for me when I went foraging for breakfast and found the fridge disconnected and full of rotted food.
	I couldn’t even think about eating after that, so I put off breakfast and got to work.
	First, I cleared the counters, taking everything I could find out to the roadside. The long walk back to the house was nice, the fresh air a reprieve from the smell of rotting garbage.
	I fell into a comfortable routine, just me and some music as the kitchen was slowly revealed by my work.
	And then I found the cellar.
	It was suddenly just there, a cramped stairway leading down into darkness. I must have uncovered it when I had removed the latest stack of moldy newspapers, then moved on to the next pile of trash without seeing it.	
	I stared down at the stairs apprehensively, fearing what I’d find down there.
	And then I resumed my work. I had time enough later for whatever lay below. For now, I just needed to be able to use the stove without burning the entire wretched house down.
 
	The next few days were a blur of cleaning. Slowly but surely the piles of trash grew smaller, the house filling with sunlight for the first time in years.
	I was afraid to check the basement. I could only imagine whatever mess was waiting for me down there in the dark.
	And then one day I finally found the strength in me to descend.
	I found mold on every surface, in black and blue and gray and white, fuzzy and soft. Fungus everywhere, buckets full of mushrooms coating the barely visible bones within. Everywhere there were dishes and bowls and cups full of standing water, now full-to-bursting with life.
	My hands shook, the flashlight rendering everything in a twitchy strobe. Each wobbly sweep of the beam revealed some new horror.
	It was entrancing. It was terrible. The smell was like spoiled meat, the air thick with spores and flies. I coughed, covered my mouth, and ventured deeper.
	There, against the wall, a single shape, something that must have once been human. Its dress soiled and overgrown, body now thick with decay.
	Mushrooms burst from her eye sockets. Mold on her cheeks, insects everywhere, buzzing and crawling. Clutched in what had once been a hand, a note.
	I took the note and started reading, the paper itself partially colonized by the ever-present mold.
	“I have been working on this room for quite some time. I wanted to foster life. I still do.
	People like neat sterile homes devoid of an ecosystem, but not me. I always wanted to grow things.
	I started with cups and dishes, just a little water, a little food. It was a great joy to me, the way that these first petri dishes sprang to life with so little prodding. Next, I added more dishes, more containers, to help sustain my little flock.
	Mice died, as they always do, and I thought: ‘What a waste, to throw them away instead of letting them be food.’
	They bloomed beautifully.
	In time, I realized how much food I could provide, if only I were willing. I would be a living planter for them, a perfect home.
	I made cuts in my own body and beckoned them within. They festered, until finally I bore a bounty. I let them grow within me, let them use all my body was wasting. 
	I am an ecosystem. I give them warmth, water, food. I let them flourish in me. Now the once-ugly cuts in my flesh are beautiful, colorful, thick with tendrils.
	Only, my children are so hungry. I loved to see them grow, but it has become…harder. Harder to move. Harder to breathe, to feed myself and my passengers. I cannot even climb the stairs to my bedroom any more.
	I feel their roots within me. I feel them making good use of me.
	I write this now, hand shaking, unable to feel anything but the tender bites of my loving children. My body is so full of places where they have taken root.
	Soon I will die, and feed them yet more. I am their vessel. I will live on, in stem and cap and spore. Do not mourn me. 
	Feed my children, please. Let them live on. They are my life’s work, and my death’s. Please.”
	The note ended abruptly, the weak script trailing off. I dropped it to the floor.
	I was so full of terror that I could not think. The horror of the note, of her body, was thick on the air like spores. 
	When I could finally move, I fled. Back up the stairs, then to the bedroom. The house was now a mundane terror, the basement something darker.
	I’d known she wasn’t right in the head, but this was beyond anything I had ever heard of.
	I had to get out of here. Still, the thought of her dead down there, feeding the fungus, was too much to bear.
	I considered reporting her body How had she been declared dead, if she was still down there? I had never been called to the morgue. I should have asked more questions.
	Would I be blamed? The thought filled me with panic. I wasn’t going to go to prison for my insane mother. They might seize the house.
	The more I thought about it, the less I wanted any official inspectors involved. I could handle the mold, by myself, with bleach, and nobody would need to get involved.
	I couldn’t afford to get tied up in the bureaucracy. Already, the time I had taken off work was weighing on me.
	I needed to sell the house, and to do that I first had to move the body.
	Down in the basement once more, I stood over her. I had brought a candle down, set on a bare inch of uncovered table to leave my hands free.
	In the flickering light I tentatively reached out to the body. She was stuck, anchored by the fungus to the floor and the wall. The body seemed to twitch in my hands as I pulled, a thick cloud of spores coming with it. 
	I coughed and fell backwards. I landed in a bowl, spattering myself with a bluish-white concoction of water and lichen.
	I hacked, sneezed, retched. The smell was overwhelming. I could taste it.
	And then I saw the candle, knocked over.
	As soon as I laid eyes on it the flame was already moving. It raced across the paper-strewn surface, catching moldy rags and a thick carpet of fungus.
	I fled, scrambling up the stairs like an animal.
	The fire was right behind me, chasing me from the house. All that paper, that cloth, everything gathered as food for the fungus was able to feed the flame just as well. I barely made it out, coughing and hacking.
	The thought of the fungus within me made it hard to breathe. I had taken in so many spores already. I knew it would find purchase in me, just as it had in my mother.
	I knew that same sickness that she had had was within me, too. I didn’t know how to keep it at bay.
	Whatever had been wrong with her, gestating for a long time within, had finally bloomed under that house. It had been so terrible to see.
	I felt the shadow of it over me, thinking of the mess in my own home. Thinking about the people no longer in my life, the isolation I lived with. The conditions perfect, alone in the dark, for the rot to spring up within me.
	I could almost feel the spores I’d breathed, the lichen under my fingernails.
	I knew the roots would anchor to me. It was only a matter of time before they dragged me down.
	The cold night air rushed past me as I fled. The world beyond the house was beautiful, peaceful even.
	So many stars in the sky, shining in spite of the raging inferno. In a sick moment I saw the stars as so many spores, floating out there.
	I breathed, despite the smoke. Tried to anchor myself to the earth, to myself. I could not find relief.
	I turned away from the burning house and wept.
 
","September 08, 2023 19:58","[[{'Delbert Griffith': ""Well, this is a terrific tale. You did dark and oppressive very well, and I'd love to see more of your work on this site. \n\nIt sounds strange, given the subject matter, to describe this work as fresh and clean, but it really has those qualities. A clever take on the prompt, the mother-daughter relationship, the imagery of spores and mold and decay that mirror that relationship. This is a tale that causes one's soul to shudder just a little. Nicely done, Dana. Nicely done indeed.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '08:56 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Dana Murray': 'Thank you! Very much appreciated :)', 'time': '15:02 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Dana Murray': 'Thank you! Very much appreciated :)', 'time': '15:02 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,bk5xxo,The Haunted Ride,Christine Van Zandt,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/bk5xxo/,/short-story/bk5xxo/,Horror,0,"['Horror', 'Historical Fiction', 'Middle School']",4 likes,"
September 12, 2023
Historical Fiction
Horror
Middle School
 
The Haunted Ride
By Christine Van Zandt
1,262 words
 
1976
Benjamin Clyde Miller did not believe in ghosts. And he wasn’t sure how he felt about California, but, for the first time that Ben could remember, he had a room of his own, in a home that wasn’t rolling down the highway. He’d crisscrossed the US with his dad who worked at one carnival or another, until finding this job operating the legendary Laff in the Dark.
	“Are you ready to meet our ghost tomorrow?” Dad asked, sprawled across their new thrift-store couch.
	“Why would a ghost haunt a haunted house?” Ben laughed. “Who would even notice?”
	“The rumor’s scared people off. No one wanted this job,” Dad said. “It’s about time we settled down and got you into a real school.”
	Ben groaned. “Scoot over, our favorite show’s about to start.” It was great having an apartment and a color TV of their own. Before today, they’d lived in their van, with a weekly motel night to take showers and watch The Six Million Dollar Man. Since Ben and his dad were good with machines, they liked this show about a man rebuilt with mechanical parts.
* * *
Until middle school began, Ben would go to work with his dad. At amusement parks and carnivals, no one cared when workers brought their kids. It wasn’t legal, but keeping in the shadows would be easy at a haunted-house ride.
	Stretching along a beach and onto a pier over the ocean, the Pike Amusement Park looked like something you’d see on a postcard,. Ben was used to carnies and fortune tellers, but the Pike had sailors, surfers, and tourists taking side trips from nearby Disneyland or Hollywood.
	To learn the Laff, they met up with the Pike’s manager, Marty.
	Running the Laff sounded so much easier than traveling with carnivals reassembling rides at every stop. Here, as long as the passengers were told to “keep their hands inside the cars” and the Laff remained in good working condition, Dad could be employed year-round and they’d finally have a home.
	They walked through the Laff with Marty to see the ghouls and hear their sounds. Around the first bend, darkness descended along and the familiar smell of old grease drifted up from the tracks. Spotlights revealed colorful, life-size clowns laughing madly and jack-in-the-boxes popping open.
	In the second room, witches on brooms cackled, wands ready to cast spells. Cats screeched.
	Marty paused before entering the last room. “This one’s haunted.”
	“Really?” Ben asked.
	“Sure, kid,” Marty replied, giving Ben’s dad a wink. “Every kid who comes to the Pike wants to ride the Laff. Ghosts are good for business.”
	Ben’s dad got the drift. “I’ll tell people to beware! Let’s see what the fuss is about.”
	In the third room, neon-painted ghouls glowed under special lights. A tattered blue vampire rose from his coffin, greenish gargoyles crouched menacingly above, and, in the corner, a skinny, faded-orange mummy hung from a rope around its neck.
	“Sure has seen better days,” Marty said and hurried out the exit.
* * *
When Ben wasn’t wandering the Pike or walking on the beach, he hung out in the Laff. To prove he wasn’t afraid of the third room, he hid behind the coffin, adding his own moans to the room’s prerecorded sound effects or clicking his flashlight on and off. Sometimes he sat across from the gargoyles in the rafters, waiting for someone to glance his way. But people were too busy having fun.
	After the Laff closed, Ben investigated the mummy’s corner—the only place he couldn’t conceal himself while the ride ran. As soon as he neared, he realized he’d made a mistake. It felt as if he’d walked into an icy swamp. Backing away, Ben accidentally bumped the mummy. The mummy creaked loudly then began swinging with ever-increasing force.
	“Ben, come quick!” Dad called from another room.
	Ben turned and ran, believing Dad knew what was going on. Instead, Dad said, “They’re filming an episode of The Six Million Dollar Man at the Pike next week and one scene will be in the Laff!”
	Ben should have been thrilled, but the strange experience lingered. Dad would say there was a logical explanation. The mummy must be automated and a busted vent probably allows cold air in. That had to be it.
	Dad high-fived Ben. “Let’s make this place shine!”
* * *
Cleaning began. Dad detailed each car and the building front; Ben tackled the first two rooms. Maybe he could skip the third—but, it was in the worst shape and they had to make a good impression.
 Ghosts aren’t real, he told himself and boldly entered the third room. But when his flashlight dimmed, Ben began to sweat.
	Though the ghouls were turned off, the mummy once again swung creakily from side to side, and what seemed to be a smile stretched the bandages on its shrunken face.
	When a thick chill surrounded him, Ben decided this room could stay dusty and dirty. The TV people would never notice.
* * *
The TV people noticed. When their crew went in with a vacuum and dust rags, Dad paced nervously.
	The cleaning was cast aside as soon as someone shouted something about a dead body and called 911. The crowd that had formed to watch Hollywood in action pushed in closer. Ben was shoved around and lost track of Dad.
	Word spread from person to person. “The mummy’s real!”
 What?! How could that be?
	Apparently a crew member had moved the mummy and its arm fell off revealing a human bone covered by leathery skin!
	It was the paramedics who carefully carried the mummy out, yelling for the crowd to make way, but, instead, people pressed forward to get a look.
	When the withered old body neared, Ben dropped to the floor and scrambled between people’s legs to get away.
* * *
The police determined the mummy was Elmer McCurdy, a train robber who was killed in a gunfight so long ago that, when he was sold to the Pike, no one remembered he was real. Elmer had been on the road even longer than Ben and was finally going home to Oklahoma to be buried.
	The Laff became even more popular. Marty left the noose up so riders could see where the dead body had been. With the mummy gone, Ben began to doubt all the strangeness. Dad would have noticed. However, one night after closing when Ben was picking up trash, Elmer’s empty rope began swaying. Beneath, lay a shriveled finger, pointing right at Ben.
 It must have broken off during all that craziness. Why hadn’t anyone seen it sooner? Ben wondered if he should say something, but then this would never end. Ben knew exactly what to do. With a quick flick, he swept the finger into his dustpan, bagged it with the day’s trash, and tossed it in a faraway dumpster. Out of all the strange places he’d grown up in, California was the weirdest. But, it was over. All of Elmer was gone from the Laff, Ben felt sure of it.
* * *
That night, as Ben contentedly drifted off to sleep, a slight sound caught his attention. Scritch . . . scritch. Kind of like a slow-moving rat. Scritch . . . scritch. The sound scratched and rested, scratched and rested, across the wood floor toward Ben’s bed.
	Ben hid under the covers. He would not scream. He would not call for Dad.
	Benjamin Clyde Miller did not believe in ghosts. But, apparently, ghosts didn’t care.
 
THE END
 
AUTHOR’S NOTE: I was born and raised in California and have always loved amusement parks. I first learned about the Laff at another beachfront amusement park, the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk. When I met my husband (who’s from LA), I asked him about the Pike. He’d gone there on family outings and the haunted Laff was a big draw. In 1976, McCurdy’s body was discovered. Once removed, the haunted occurrences stopped. In 1979, the amusement park was demolished but the story of the Laff’s legendary past remains.
 
REFERENCES
“Elmer McCurdy: Traveling Corpse.” Library of Congress. Heather Thomas. July 24, 2018. https://blogs.loc.gov/headlinesandheroes/2018/07/elmer-mccurdy-traveling-corpse/
“The Sideshow Corpse Hidden in a Fun House,” Ripley’s Believe It or Not! March 24, 2020. https://www.ripleys.com/weird-news/elmer-mccurdy/
“How a Real Corpse Ended Up in a California Fun Park Spookhouse.” Atlas Obscura. Ella Morton,. April 11, 2014. http://www.slate.com/blogs/atlas_obscura/2014/04/11/the_corpse_of_elmer_mccurdy_and_how_it_ended_up_in_a_long_beach_fun_park.html
","September 13, 2023 03:28","[[{'Patricia Casey': 'Hi Christine,\n\nYour story is entertaining and well-paced. Excellent Descriptives made for an enjoyable read. \n\nI especially like your descriptions of the third room: ""In the third room, neon-painted ghouls glowed under special lights. A tattered blue vampire rose from his coffin, greenish gargoyles crouched menacingly above, and, in the corner, a skinny, faded-orange mummy hung from a rope around its neck."" \n\nYou could add the smells, especially since the mummy contains a dead body.\n\nIt is a well-researched and executed (no pun intended) sto...', 'time': '20:27 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,mqvf81,Like and Subscribe,Kyle Meyer,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/mqvf81/,/short-story/mqvf81/,Horror,0,['Horror'],3 likes,"
     The bolt cutters snipped through the chain like it was made of paper clips; the wrought iron gate opened slowly, ominously.
    James and Mac, two men both in their mid twenties, slipped through the open gate.
     Friends since college the two had always hoped for quick money and easy fame. A YouTube channel seemed the logical move; so they started posting videos of their a ‘urban adventures’, breaking into various abandoned buildings.                                                  Their channel had a sizeable following, but they were hoping for something that would go viral; only then would the sponsorship money start rolling in.
   “Hello! Jimmy and Mac, your urban adventurers, are here at Blackwoode house!” James said, running a hand through his thick black hair while looking into the camera.
     Blackwoode house had been abandoned and derelict for a long time; so long in fact that no one in town knew exactly when it was built or who even owned it now.  The rumour was that Josiah Blackwoode, an English priest who was one of the first to immigrate to the colonies, built the house in the late eighteenth century. The last occupant to supposedly live there though was Phillip Dee, a physician who had served England in the Boer War.
     Dee arrived in the early twentieth century and opened a medical practice; stories swirled however about his odd fascnation with dead languages and arcane rituals. It was only after he was accused of stealing goats from a local farmer that he left town. Dee wasn’t heard from again, many believe he fled back to England.
     An iron fence surrounding the two story, Tudor style house barely does justice to its curious origins. The moon shone brightly, illuminating everything before the two men, while the drone of crickets cut through the oppressive night air; the humidity had made this summers heat wave the worst in years
    “Jesus, it looks even creepier from this side of the fence” Mac said
    “Yeah, imagine the inside” James said “our subscribers will love it. The likes are gonna roll in.”
    Mac downed a bottle of water.
       Through weeds and grass almost knee high, they made their way across the yard.
    James looked up at the house; looming over them with a power that they both felt, a power that drew them in; making them feel an insignificance, a powerlessness as infinite as the universe.
     Mac shuddered at the door.
    “Fuck.” He whispered.
    “What?”
     Mac bent over, steadying himself on the house as a sudden wave of despair washed over him. He felt nothing but anguish for a brief, but horrifying instant.
     “Sorry” he said “I don’t know what that was. The camera on?”
James nodded and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand as sweat streamed into his eyes.
   The pair made their way up the decayed front steps. Mildew and mold had slowly created holesin the wood that would’ve easily swallowed a foot.
 “So here we are at the front door. Sure does look like a mess. ” he said into the camera.
    James approached the old wooden door, warped with time, and grabbed the brass knob. Fully expecting it not to budge, to be wedged in its frame, he was caught off guard when the door swung open with ease,  as if pulling him in.
    Thumpf!
  James hit the floor.
  The cavernous interior echoed with his groans.
  Mac turned on his flashlight, penetrating the darkness.
  “You OK?” he said, helping James up.
  “Yeah, just a stumble.”
    James checked the camera. That little accident would add some excitement to the video, hopefully the camera was still on. The little power light gave off a steady red glow.
  A large foyer now surrounded them. Ahead, a large staircase lead up to a second floor; past that was a long hall that stretched into darkenss. To their left, a pair of scratched up french doors were coated in a thick layer of dust.
   Scrrrtch Scrrrtch Scrrrrrtch
  James snatched up the camera and scanned around them.
  “What was that?!” Mac said.
   “A rat”
   “That’s a big fucking rat!”
   James craned his neck and squinted, trying to peer through the dust coating the french doors.
  “A Raccoon then. Lets go in here first.” He said, tilting his head toward the doorway.
   Mac looked at the door they had just entered, now closed. Did he close it? did James? He couldn’t remember. He supposed one of them must have.
   Turning back he followed James into the study. A wall of cold air washed over him.
  “Oooo. Its icy in here.”
  Mac rubbed his arms. Even though it was early August and sweltering weather he was now regretting wearing a T-shirt.
  “Yeah. Its cold as fuck.”
 James held the camera up to the large bookshelves.
 “Looks like Blackwoode’s former owner was quite a reader” he said.
  The shelves were lined with thick, leatherbound tomes. James had to wipe away the dust on the spines to read the titles.
   De Nigromancia
  Grimoire Armadel
  Clavae Scientiae
“What kinds of fucking books are these? They’re old as shit.” James said.
 “I-I don’t know.” Mac said, from the corner of the room.
 Staring at the floor, tears streamed down his face.
 “Mac, what is it?”
 “It’s hopeless. I’m gonna die. We all will.” Mac said, his voice hoarse and raspy.
  “I think this shit hole is just spooking you. We can leave if you want, but remember what this video could do for our channel.”
   James put a hand on Mac’s shoulder.
  “No. No we should keep going. This’ll get us a lot of likes” Mac said while wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.
   The two started walking back to the main foyer when James’ foot caught on something laying on the floor, nearly making him trip.
   Bending over he picked it up. A thick book with covers made of burgundy leather, its outer edges charred black. He turned the book over, the gold leaf title glinting in the beam of his flashlight:
HOLY BIBLE
  “Who burns a bible?” James said, gliding his fingers across the cover.
  “What the fuck were these people into?”
  James held the camera out in front of him, looking into the lens.
 “We just found some weird ass shit here in the library,” he turned the camera down to the bible.
  “I dunno what the fuck was done in this house, but i-“
  THWUMP THWUMP THWUMP!
  He was interrupted by a loud noise from upstairs, a noise that sounded distinctely like loud footsteps.
   “What the fuck!” said Mac, “Whats that?”
   “A fuckin’crackhead. Who else would be here?”
    Straining their ears for the slightest sound that might lead themto the identity of what was above there heads.
    Suddenly Mac jumped, spinning around with a look of anger on his face.
    “Why the fuck would you say that!?”
    “What?” James said, startled out of his contemplation.
    “That’s not fucking funny!”
    “I didn’t say anything,” James said, holding his hands up in surrender; a look of confusion spreading on his face
     “I swear, what did you hear?”
    “I heard you whisper that was gonna die?”
    “No I swear to you I didn’t say anything.”
    THWUMP THWUMP
  The two looked at each other.
   James approached the doors to the library and peered out into the foyer, sweeping the darkness with his flashlight. Nothing. Swirling dust.
   He pulled his head back into the library.
   “It must be upstairs,” he said. “ I promise Mac, I didn’t say anything like that to you. Now there’s something up there. Do you wanna check it out, or wait here and I’ll go?”
   “ I dunno James, I dunno whats up with me,” Mac said resting his head in his hands “It must be this place playing with my head, putting my imagination into overdrive. We don’t know what that is? It could be some wild animal, or  lunatic crackhead… but whatever it is it’ll be great to get online.” He smirked at James.
  James nodded and the two made their way to the foyer.
 “So there’s been some weird shit going on. Alot of loud noises coming from upstairs. Were gonna go see what it is,” James said to the camera, now through chattering teeth.
   He wasn’t sure if it was the cold ot his nerves starting to get to him but he continued on, Mac close behind.
   They came to the base of the stair case; a large flight of steps ascending into black.
 
 
   At the top of the stairs was a dark hallway running left to right; on the wall before them were deep gouges in the wood panneling of the wall; three scratches, running parrallel to each other.
   James approached the wall, running his fingers through the deep scratches.
   A draft blew down from the far end of the hallway; followed by what only could be described as a long growl. James refused to believe what he heard.
   “Must be the rotting floorboards,” he said.
  James moved toward the end of the hall; slowly toward the source of the draft, and the unearthly sound.
  “James, that’s enough man. This place is too fucked. Lets get outta here,” Mac said in a hushed yell.
  “Yeah, lets go. I think we have enough,” James said.
  He gave the hall a final sweep of his flashlight. The beam landed on a section of wall. The light catching on a bright red patch, contrasted with the dark wood of the wall.
   “Just wait a minute. Whats this?” James said.
    James approached the wall. In the glare of his flashlight he had to squint to make out the shapes.
   At first he had trouble discerning the images; then, slowly, they came into focus.
   They looked like the outlines of people, but people if painted by a child; nothing more then fleshed out stick figures.Images that looked more at home on the wall of a cave than that of a house. Though these ‘people’ had odd and grotesque additions.
    Some had wings drawn on their backs, and others had what appeared to be sticks on their heads.
     As James squinted he realized they weren’t meant to be sticks, but horns and antlers.
     Sweeping his flashlight across the wall the beam stumbled onto strange writing, words scrawled around the images. James moved closer to try and read it.
    LEGONIUM  IANUA  PORTAINFERNO
  Beneath that were strange symbols carved into the wood. Symbols of a strange design; letters almost but drawn of straight lines and sharp angles.
 “Is this Latin?” James said, not taking his eyes off the wall.
  “Mac, is this La-“
  James spun around and what he saw curdled his blood
  Nothing.
  Mac wasn’t there. He had been right behind James, but now he was nowhere to be seen Gone without even a sound.
   “Mac?”
  James waved his flashlight back and forth, trying to pierce the darkness for a sign of his friend.
   “Mac?” he tried once more.
   James starts making his way to the opposite end of the hall, walking past the staircase he looked into the camera.
 “Um, ok, so um I- I’m alone now. I don’t know where Mac is. He-uh- just vanished from behind me, not a sound. I don’t know how he did it, these old floorboards are creaky as all hell. Oh, I think theres a door down here, he might be there.”
  James cautiously stepped down the hall. He was still hoping, although part of him new it was in vain, that Mac was playing a cruel joke on him; getting revenge on James for still believing he fucked with him in the study.
  Approaching the door James slowly reached for the handle; letting his hand lay on it.
  “Mac! Look I swear I didn’t do anything downstairs! Just please stop now, you’re freakin’ me out! OK?!”
   After a brief moment waiting, hoping, for a reply James opened the door; finding himself in a small room he swept the flashlight around, his eyes following in unison.
    This room was empty, simply a floor and four bare walls. Walls that were covered in more deep gauges, floor to ceiling.
   Looking behind the door James saw deep scratches running down the back.
    Grrrrrrrrrrgh
  James wasn’t sure what he heard at first; a deep raspy gurgle or growl. He thought it may have been an animal.
 MINE!
 The deep raspy voice came suddenly; next 
to James’ ear yet he saw no one. His breath came quick and short now. His heart pounding in his chest. If this was Mac he was getting James good.
   A suddenly a sharp pain raced down James back; a pain like someone dragging a red-hot rake down it.
  “Ahhh!” He yelped
   The wet warmth began spreading down his back; reaching behind himself his hand came back smeared with bright crimson.
  James took of at almost a full sprint, only slowing down the slightest at the stairs, which he still flew down. Skipping multiple steps on the way his left foot went through the last stair.
 CRACK!
 “Ooomf”
  James tumbled onto the floor. Rolling to his side he wrenched his foot free.
  James stumbled forward his hand was on the front door, he didn’t know what was happening in this house but he would be out of this god forsaken place any second.
  “AAAAAAARRGH! Please noooo!”
  Mac’s voice echoed through the walls.
  The anguished scream came from somehwere down the front hall.
  James turned around and looked forward into the darkness.
   What the fuck, he thought.
   That sounded like Mac.
   Every neuron in James brain was screaming at him to leave, get help, don’t go down that hall alone.
   “Please God help me!” he heard Mac scream.
   Mac might not be alive when he gets back.
   James had to force his feet to move forward, the light now bouncing all over as the flashlight shook in his left hand; his right was held in front of him in preperation for whatever terror existed in here.
   James was halfway down the hall when he paused at a large oak door.
  He heard the noise of a scuffle from behind it. Then;
  “James!”
  James froze. He reached a sweaty hand out to the door handle. It felt like ice. The door moaned as he pushed it open.
  He stood there, staring down into the darkness. It was an impenetrable, inky darkness which his flashlight didn’t change; more a physical barrier, a curtain, than a mere lack of light. James had to urge every cell of his being onward. His friend, the friend who was here because of him, was in trouble.
   James descended into the dark maw of the basement. Each step groaning under his weight. He reached the bottom and thought he could here a raspy, throaty chuckle.
  Heh Heh Heh….
 He spun around, nothing.
 Directing his flashlight at the wall he could see it was made of stone. Farther along he could see symbols. Lines and lines of symbols, like the ones he saw on the wall in the upstairs hall, carved into the stone.
  Running his fingers over the lines he could feel the ice cold stone. James’ breath misted as he follwed the wall further into the basement, stumbling over what felt like a collection of blocks he redirected his flashlight to the floor.        
   What he saw rattled him with sheer terror; collected in a pile on the floor were bones, mostly white and browned with time but burnt black at the ends.
  James found himself staring into the cavernous eyes of an animal skull, charred and burnt black. It’s horns broken and cracked.
  James didn’t even realize he had started sprinting for the stairs but just as he grabbed the railing he heard Mac.
 “James? James where are you? Its so dark, I’m so scared.”
 James turned back.
 “Mac. I’m here.”
 James shuffled forward. Sweeping the basement with his light.
  That’s when he saw Mac, laying on the floor in the far corner, curled up.
 James ran to him.
 “Mac!”
 Grabbing onto Mac James rolled him over- something was wrong. Macs shirt felt… wet.
  As James pulled his hand back he saw the blood. Mac was covered in blood. James’ knees gave out and he sunk to the floor.
   Deep scratches covered Mac’s body. Macs breathless, lifeless body.
    With tears streaming down his face James’ eyes began to focus on the empty, cavernous sockets where Mac’s eyes had once been.
     James pushed himself back, wanting to be far from this mutilated abomination that was once his friend but his legs still wouldn’t listen to his brain.
     It was then that the deep, raspy, inhuman voice boomed out of the darkness.
    Mine! You are mine….!
  A deep laughter emanated from all around James. He fumbled the flashlight in his hands.
    Critch Critch Critch
    The scratching moved closer.
    His eyes, now blurry with tears, could just make out the shape appearing to materialize from the darkness itself.
   “Oh please, please God. Please help me.”
   His flashlight went out and he was plaunged into darkness.
 
 
   The moonlight shone through the windows, illuminating the dust dancing through the air as James’ agonized screams echoed through the old home’s halls.
","September 13, 2023 15:07",[]
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,u37spz,A Beautiful Venue,Lauren Oertel,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/u37spz/,/short-story/u37spz/,Horror,0,"['Horror', 'Fiction']",3 likes,"
 
	The Wedding Planner checked her Rouge Allure lipstick and pearly smile in the rearview mirror before answering the call. “Hello dear, I am just down the road and will see you in a few minutes.”  
	“Okay, I’m just kind of freaking out over here,” The Bride said. “Have you seen the article? It mentions this plantation specifically. I just can’t believe the timing; this is all such a mess.” 
	The Wedding Planner jumped in, her smooth voice not missing a beat, “Darling, I have seen it, and everything will be just fine. It’s not like there’s going to be a protest or anything. It’s just a little challenge that I will take care of.” She smiled in the mirror again, ensuring she looked confident in what she said. “I have coordinated dozens of beautifully perfect weddings at this venue. Yours will be no different.” 
	“Okay, but that article made me feel like a terrible person.” The Bride sniffled. “It’s just so overwhelming. Please tell me there’s a way to make it better. What should I do?”
	“Honey, this is nothing for you to worry about the day before the big event. Today is about celebrating with the ladies. Have you spoken with them?” The Wedding Planner noticed a small chip in her nail polish and grimaced. 
	“Yes, one of The Bridesmaids has already dropped out because of the negative press. It just breaks my heart.” The Bride’s voice caught on the word ‘heart.’
	“Never mind her then, that’s fine. You still have four other women with you, correct?”
	“Yes, the others are already here, getting settled into their rooms and exploring the grounds.”
	“Okay then. You just focus on relaxing, and I’ll see you in a few minutes.” The Wedding Planner pressed the hang-up button on her steering wheel. Her eyes widened to take in the image that appeared before her. She squinted at a glimmer in the shape of a child in the middle of the road leading to the plantation. 
	With a gasp, she swerved, slamming her silver Mercedes into the trunk of a sprawling Southern live oak. The top half of her body flew forward, cracking her collarbone and snapping her neck. 
	Smoke rose between the car’s smashed front end and the tree. The sun began to set over the horizon, glinting through the Spanish moss draping down from the thick branches.
***
	“Where is she?” The Bride said to The Maid of Honor, 20 minutes later. She called The Wedding Planner for the third time, but it just kept ringing. “She said she was right down the road; I don’t get it.”
	“Maybe she had to make a quick stop or got an emergency call? I’m sure she’ll be here soon,” The Maid of Honor handed The Bride a chilled bottle of Champagne Avenue Foch. 
	The Bride poured it into five tall flutes and carried the tray of fruit arranged in the shape of flowers, cheese, and chocolates into the parlor. “Will you gather the ladies? I want to make sure everyone is okay and that we can move on with the festivities as planned.” 
	The Maid of Honor rose, passed the grand ballroom, and made her way up the stairs. 
	Meanwhile, the First Bridesmaid exited the house, closing the main entrance door with its ornate silver handle behind her. She marveled at the towering portico pillars and curved structures of the Greek-Revival style of the building. With light steps, she descended the imported marble-covered stairs and walked around the side of the house toward the sugar processing barn. 
	A few small structures stood next to the barn, and she wondered if those were the slave cabins and overseer’s house that she had read about in the article. She had been to the plantation before but hadn’t explored these parts of it. There was so much to see in the main house that these details were overlooked on her previous tour. 
	The First Bridesmaid agreed with the article’s author that places like this should have memorial plaques and markers to address the tragedy of slavery. But, she wasn’t sure if it meant people should no longer host weddings and other events there. Wouldn’t that be a way to bring more attention to the history and prompt more thoughtful dialogue about it?
	Back in the main house, The Maid of Honor grasped the intricately carved wooden stairrail with her manicured hand and followed the stairs to the second floor. She admired the silver fleur de lis pattern that marked each step along the wall. The scent of tea olive mixed with dust lingered in the air. The staircase groaned with each step she took. 
	Through the first guest room doorway, she found The Second Bridesmaid seated at the vanity table, touching up her makeup in the mirror. She dabbed concealer under her reddened and puffy eyes. 
	“Everything okay?” The Maid of Honor asked with a light knock on the doorframe. 
	“Oh yes, sorry. I was a little worked up, but I think I’m fine now. It really is a beautiful place, and I don’t want to ruin this special occasion.” The Second Bridesmaid lifted her chin.
	The Maid of Honor agreed, reassured The Second Bridesmaid it would be fine, and encouraged her to join them in the parlor to get started on the hors d’oeuvres and champagne.
	As they descended the stairs, the setting sun shone through the giant arched windows, reflecting off the long golden waves and diamond earrings of The Maid of Honor.  The Second Bridesmaid followed with hesitant steps behind her, hoping The Bride wouldn’t notice the evidence of her tears. 
	“One down, two more to go.” The Maid of Honor told the Bride with a wink. “I’ll let y’all dig into those treats while I collect the other two.” She glanced at the bottle of champagne. “Oh! I see we’re already running low on our libations. I’ll get another bottle from the wine cellar.”
	The Maid of Honor strolled down the hallway, passing the grand dining room and ballroom, glancing into each one to take in their elaborately decorated magnificence. Each room combined vastness with delicacy, and she pictured the crowd of guests in expensive dresses and suits that would fill them for the wedding the next day. She reached the door to the basement that had been turned into a wine cellar and turned the silver handle. 
	Darkness saturated the stairway. The Maid of Honor’s hand sweeping over the wall found no light switch. Lowering her hand to the top of the rail leading to the depths of the house, she discovered a candle and a set of matches. How quaint, she thought. With a flick of her wrist, she struck a match and held it to the wick. The candle provided just enough light to see a step or two in front of her, and she managed them carefully in her Louboutin stilettos. 
	A metal scraping noise at the back of the basement jolted her, causing her heel to miss the next step. The candle tumbled down the stairs and was extinguished by the time it reached the bottom. 
	The Maid of Honor’s right leg extended ahead of her in an attempt to reach a step too far below. Her torso slammed back onto the stairs with her left leg bent at an awkward angle behind her. The back of her head landed with a thud on the corner of the top step, cracking her skull. Her eyes remained open as the pool of crimson began to seep into her golden hair fanned out around her head. 
	***
	“How are you feeling about all of this, the article?” The Bride asked The Second Bridesmaid with a pained look. 
	“Honestly, it was a bit of a shock for me, and I’m not sure what my feelings mean.” She looked down at her plate of hors d’oeuvres. “I want to support you, and I know it’s too late to change venues, so we can just make the best of it.” Her eyes flicked toward the window, where she saw The First Bridesmaid outside, then back down as she twisted her wedding ring around her finger. 
	“Yes, it is terrible timing, and I appreciate your honesty.” The Bride shared how difficult the situation was for her. She admitted that maybe deep down, she knew there was a dark history behind the beauty of the place. But of all the times she had been there with The Groom’s family, it never came up. It was best to leave some mystery regarding topics like his family history and their money. She sighed, then took a delicate sip of champagne.
	“Well, you still have four of us here with you. Did you bring the games?”
	“The Wedding Planner was in charge of all of that, and she should definitely be here by now. I’m not sure what the holdup is.” She finished the last sip of champagne and looked around for The Maid of Honor with that new bottle. 
	Upstairs, The Third Bridesmaid approached the low balcony wall outside her third-floor bedroom. She breathed in the fresh air while gazing at the sunset behind the cypress and oak trees that filled the distance. The First Bridesmaid, out on the other side of the property, caught her eye as she entered a small structure next to the barn. 
	This was, of course, a beautiful venue for her friend’s wedding, but it also came with a strange haunted feeling when she thought about what went on there all those years before. The Third Bridesmaid leaned over the balcony and, with a deep breath, took in the floral scents from the arrangement of irises, violets, and Southern azaleas in the garden below her. 
	When she turned around, she thought she saw a face in the bedroom mirror. She stumbled backward, throwing her arms above her head. It all happened too quickly for her to release a scream. The momentum of her arms flung her body over the balcony wall, and she fell through the air. She landed with a thump, crushing the flowers below her that failed to prevent the shattering of her spine. 
***
	The First Bridesmaid entered the small house, which was more of a shack, especially compared to the main house. Her steps echoed in the emptiness. She scanned the space and imagined where the sleeping pallets had been, and the small fire pit cooking area in one corner emanated a mix of oil and burned wood. Nauseated by the smells and humid air, she shuffled out of the suffocating space and headed to the barn. 
	She found the warn-wood structure to be darker than expected inside. Just a few strips of sunlight pierced through to show a shimmer of dust particles in the air. Scanning the large vats and machinery, she assumed they had been used for sugar cane processing. The article had mentioned that plantations like this made a lot of money from sugar, this property especially. 
	Who benefitted from that money now? Who had worked for it? The whole idea created a stronger sour feeling in her stomach. The First Bridesmaid wondered if she had made the right choice in coming here and supporting the wedding at this historic venue.  
	Rusted machetes hung on the back wall that were once used to cut down the thick cane stocks. Back-breaking work, she assumed. Ready to wrap up her unofficial tour, she turned toward the exit but then looked up at the loft that stored large equipment above her.
	The sounds of groaning and splitting wood froze her in place. Before she could understand what was happening, the boiling tank broke through the wood slats of the loft and came down on her, crushing her body under its weight. The tank’s size meant only her foot stuck out from under it, the last trace of her being a black Italian leather slingback. 
***
	“Well, have you explored the house?” The Bride asked The Second Bridesmaid. 
	“Not yet. Only what I saw on my way to the bedroom I’m staying in on the second floor.” She looked around the room to take in the large paintings framed in heavy gold.
	“You must see the rest of this place. It truly is inspiring, concerning history aside. Go ahead and look around. I’ll wait here for that next bottle of champagne on its way up.”
	The Second Bridesmaid picked up her small plate with dark chocolate, brie, and green neptune grapes. Heading toward the hallway, she admired the embellishments that touched each wall and even the floor. She entered the grand dining room and ran her finger across the first table's solid wood.  Each one had eight place settings with gold utensils, gold-rimmed glassware, and magnolia-patterned plates. 
	As The Second Bridesmaid popped a grape into her mouth, she felt her silky auburn hair being brushed off her neck from behind and gasped. The quick air intake lodged the grape into her trachea, causing it to close around the fruit. Panicked, she grabbed at her throat as it started to swell. Her face flushed as she struggled for breath. It wouldn’t come. 
	The Second Bridesmaid collapsed to the floor as her red face turned white, and her lips took on a shade of blue under her shimmer lip gloss.
***
	By 11 p.m., The Bride was all alone. A quick walk around the property revealed one horrific sight after another. The image of her best friend lying dead on the basement stairs with the blood from her tiny body dripping onto the floor from each step broke her remaining resolve. 
	She never found The Wedding Planner, but she had no hope anyone could save her from the unimaginable nightmare. There would be no wedding, no happily ever after for her. The Bride couldn’t understand why all of it happened to her, but she had no strength to fight her new reality.
	The Bride trudged into the dark honeymoon suite with trembling steps and pulled open the armoire with her beautiful gown. Her tear-stained fuschia Dior dress fell to the floor. After removing the silky cream-colored material from the satin hanger, she brought it to her face to breathe in the smell of the hopes she previously had for the big day. Stepping into the gown, she zipped the back and refused to look in the full-length mirror beside her. She yanked down the long veil her fiancé’s mother had passed down to her and let it drag along the floor as she staggered down the staircase. 
	Once she entered the ballroom and turned on the lights, The Bride threw one end of her veil over a sparkling crystal chandelier. She caught it and tugged both ends. The weight didn’t seem to affect the chandelier’s attachment to the beam above her. 
	She tied a loop with a large knot into the bottom of the veil and then pulled over a chair with an intricate floral pattern of gold and pearl-white thread woven into the silk fabric. With a flick of each ankle, her red Pradas flew off. She stepped onto the chair. After securing the loop in the veil around her neck, she kicked the chair out from under herself. 
	The Bride dangled from the chandelier in the middle of the opulent ballroom where she was supposed to be wed the following day. A single final tear slid down her powdered cheek.
 
","September 14, 2023 00:31","[[{'Rabab Zaidi': 'How terrible! Truly HORRIFIC!', 'time': '08:41 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,ryyzcg,Dear Diary . . . Help,Barbara Nosek,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ryyzcg/,/short-story/ryyzcg/,Horror,0,"['American', 'Contemporary', 'Fiction']",3 likes,"
Day 1 – Sooooo, excited. We’re now settled in at the haunted house, more of mansion really, an anniversary present from my brother Joe and his wife Tricia. And thanks to its fully stocked fridge and pantry we just finished a nice lunch of tomato soup and grilled cheese and bacon sandwiches with chips and beer. Beer! But what the heck, we’re on vacation. And now Tony and I are ready to explore the entire house A little scared. Back soon, Diary – I hope!Made it back safe and sound, nothing scary yet. Actually this place is quite elegant. Are haunted mansions supposed to be elegant? Beautiful decor everywhere, restored Victorian furniture, tapestry draperies, gleaming wooden floors, highly detailed curio cabinets and wardrobes, Persian area rugs. And oh my gosh a canopied four-poster bed. Lots of covers, wonder if I’ll be under all of them when we see what the night brings. In contrast to all the old world finery there’s also a media room with a giant screen and and state of the art entertainment center with a tv, sound system, tons of CDs, DVDs, and a Roku.Day 2 – OK, so the night brought nothing. Well, we did have a wonderful sleep in that beautiful bed, there’s that. Today we’re going to explore the grounds.We’d already seen the flower lined circular drive out front, so we’d headed around the side yard, a soft carpet of deepest green grass under towering trees, to the back yard which was really more of a park. Same lovely grass and trees, but in a great expanse that also had fountains, sculptures, benches and even a grill. Sort of unexpected, really.Day 3 – Again nothing overnight. Maybe the ghost union is on strike. This is definitely not what I envisioned as a haunted house experience. I’m looking at the gift certificate and brochure, and read again, “Be Prepared To Be Scared. Is it real or fake? Stay five days and decide for yourself. You can let us know – that is, IF you survive.”So, we did have a nice dinner, baked mostaccioli, garlic bread, Caesar salad, tiramisu, wine. But we also talked about our disappointment, not one chain rattling, not one light flickering, not one bit of wailing, not even a shaking bed.But then Tony said, Sal, thinking about it, while it certainly isn’t what we expected, we can still regard it as a nice vacation. It’s pretty and peaceful here. And there is a lot to enjoy, great food and wine, strolls in our private park, time to read, top movies to watch, good music to enjoy.Most of me thinks Tony has a good point. But a small part is still in watch mode, kind of hoping for at least some theatrics.Day 4 – Same. Doing my best to just relish the peace and quiet, the amenities, the chance to have a relaxing getaway.Day 5 – Same, will be leaving at noon. Haunt-less. Also sorry Joe advised us to take an extra day off, to recover he said. Recover from this? I hope he can get his money back.Wouldn’t you know it, miles from everywhere and our car won’t start. So not only no hauntings, but we’re probably going to be charged for staying past the one pm checkout. We’ve come back in the house now to get help.Well, now there’s no cell service. And the phones in the house have either gone dead or were only decorative anyway. Tony’s going out to see if there’s any way he can get the car to work.Tony’s back real fast. He couldn’t get out. The door wouldn’t open.Now we’re sitting in the parlor, not really able to appreciate its beauty at the moment, because we’ve just gone through the entire house and every door and window is locked, or maybe stuck. We’re catching our breath and Tony has told me not to worry, he’ll find something to pry a door or break a window.Why is this happening? If this is their haunting it’s a little late, a little lame. And not funny.Tony came back from searching every inch of this huge place, found nothing that could break us out. He then opened an early bottle of wine saying it’s for medicinal purposes, yeah for sure, a panic antidote. In a little while we'll have dinner, watch a movie, and see what the morning brings, maybe the door and window lock system malfunctioned and will be fine. I know it’s a feeble hope but I have to embrace it to keep from going completely hysterical.OK, so much for dinner, so much for entertainment. There’s no gas, no electricity. Tony tried to keep us calm with a little lightness, asking if our fine wine pairs well with peanut butter sandwiches.After our “gourmet” dinner we go back into the parlor, on the couch, reading by candlelight, when a thought struck me. Tony, I’d said, do you think this is all a joke set up by my prankster brother? He’d grinned and said he wouldn’t put it past him. Now I think both of us are clinging to that thought for all we’re worth.And dearest diary, I’m so glad I brought you with, you’re like a familiar friend here, listening to my alternating fears and hopes. It’s now totally dark outside so I’m thankful the candles let me continue “talking” to you. Wish there was some way you could help, though.Well I may just have gotten my theatrics. We both jumped when it felt like something touched us even though there was enough light to see no one was there. Next came an ear-splitting boom that felt like it shook the house off its foundation. The flames faltered but held.And now there’s silence, as deep and profound as the dark beyond the reach of the soft glow. Not sure which is scarier. Now we’re just sitting . . . and waiting.Chills rack my spine and my fingers have turned to ice. The wall opposite us lit up so bright I don’t even need the candles to write this. The whiteness is forming into figures, and they seem to be three-dimensional. And just like 3-D they come close to us – so close we’re hit with the stench of decay - and then recede.We look down because our feet are no longer in contact with the floor, and then realize the couch is rising in the air. It’s now starting to slowly spin so we can see that these hideous creatures are all around us, and their moves are becoming more and more menacing, reaching for us, thrusting ruined faces at us while emitting unearthly laughter. I doubt anyone can read this because my hands are shaking so bad but I want to document as much as possible. Just in case . . .The couch is starting to slow and now stops, with us facing down the hall which we know has rooms off to both sides The apparitions are gone and their light with them, but that hallway is now glaringly lit and illuminates both of us too. Dark shadowy figures flit back and forth across from one room to another to another, some seeming to float above the floor. Suddenly they all gather at the far end, stand stock still facing us as the couch descends to the floor and a strong, frigid wind makes it hard to breathe. They start slowly creeping forward. Oh God . . .* * *Everything’s dark now, so no more writing anything down. Just going to try to mentally chronicle as much as possible, hopefully to eventually add to the diary or actually report to someone details of this house of horrors and potential death trap. Is that too optimistic?* * *Because now the dark figures are circling us at a rapid pace, chanting in some demonic language, their musty, flowing robes hitting us in the head and body. Then the bright white monstrous apparitions reappear, racing along the walls in an opposite circle. My terror is palpable, like a living entity. Tony and I are holding hands, squeezing hard, really hard.Now sounds again rock the foundation but this time it’s music, zillion decibel music, clearly from a pipe organ we didn’t recall seeing. Lights are next, flooding the room, blinding blue, followed by neon green, then the red of hell. Then all three colors at once, in the form of giant spotlights, flashing around the walls, the furnishings, all over us, merging, separating, vibrating in time with the music. Then the couch starts sharply rocking in sync with both. Every sense is under assault. I think I may be screaming, but can’t hear it.Now the music stops, everything goes black, even the candles are out. We hear a great whooshing sound, hopefully all the otherworldly ones leaving. Tony whispers to me in a shaky voice, still think this is your brother’s doing.? I whisper back, equally shaky, I don’t think even he would do this.Still on the floor the couch rotates back to its original position. A small red dot appears on the facing wall, and begins expanding, taking shape, until it’s a fully formed devil, exactly as he’s always pictured. He says nothing but stares at us for minutes on end. Then he and the wall move toward us, and then the other walls close in until the three of us are in this cube. I can’t breathe.His arms lift and he points a bony finger at each us, shattering the silence with a loud, guttural incantation that sounds like a curse. It feels as if those pointed fingers have us pinned to the couch, as his stare returns, his eyes blaze crimson, and slowly he says each of our names. Then the walls retreat, his arms cross, then fling wide, and he disappears in an mighty flash of fire.Great booms like the one we first heard return and with each one the fire crackles louder and explodes further until it completely surround us. We feel a hot wind washing over us, smoke attacks our nostrils. At one point an errant flame flares right on the rug in front of us.Axes and pitchforks and barbed chains are now dancing in the air all around us, and then we feel cold hands and cold metal trail across the backs of our necks, and immediately afterward bloody knives join the other air-borne weapons. I can feel something dripping down my back, and think I smell blood.Then there's everything at once. The still raging fire, loud booms, white apparitions, dark demons, blaring music, manic lights, rocking couch, sharp tools, and as well images of the devil flashing everywhere. Can we please just die and end this nightmare.But then just as suddenly, everything stops, everything. Oddly, the candles come back on, but there are more of them, all over the room, the flames large and blood red.* * *Dear diary, I'm back, writing in the eerie glow of red candlelight. All is quiet and I'm wondering, is it possibly over? Oh, just now maybe the scariest thing of all. Outside, a motor is shutting off, a car door opening and closing. Tony just whispered, Salvation? And we looked at each other and shook our heads. There’s just too much evil here.And then the distinctive sound of a key in the front door lock. Visions of those sharp floating objects, and the possibility we’ve already been wounded, do nothing to offset our fears. Are we about to face the real grand finale.* * *“You miserable son of a . . . “ and now in bright light I’m pounding on my brother’s chest, and he’s grinning from ear to ear. Tricia is looking a little chagrined, saying “Joe, told you we shouldn’t send them off on something like this.” And Tony, Tony, says, “Ahh I knew it was fake all along.” Uh-huh.Joe meanwhile defends himself by saying “But they did have a nice vacation for those five days.” To which Tricia replies, “Oh yeah, lull them into thinking nothing is going to happen, let them get totally relaxed, and then Whammy!!!” Joe says “Ahh, they’re OK, all in fun, right guys?”When the reply is a double glare he says, “OK let me try to make up for it,” goes back outside and returns with a cooler plus a couple of guys in tow. “This is Chef Emile,” he says, “and his assistant Jacques, who are going to grill up some steaks and lobsters. We’ve been assured there’s plenty here for them to make some great side dishes too. We know there’s wine, but maybe something stronger, huh, I have a jug of already mixed top shelf martinis and a jar of bleu cheese olives.”Tricia weighs in with, “And don’t forget the designer cake we brought. Oh, by the way, Happy Anniversary!”During our fabulous dinner Joe tells us they’re all staying the night, Emile and Jacques will cook a nice big gourmet breakfast, and then the warped minds that created this place are going to come by and show us how all the effects work. Might have a few choice words for them too.* * *Dear Diary, We’re on our way home now, finally acknowledging all in all, heart attacks aside, it was pretty much fun, and maybe tomorrow I will add in as much as I remember after the lights went out. Just one more thing for today though, an important reminder. Never again underestimate brother.-- end --
","September 10, 2023 01:21","[[{'Delbert Griffith': ""LOLOL Never underestimate a brother. I love it, and I think I'll send my sister this little tale of yours.\n\nThis was a cute story, told well. I liked the effects; I could see and feel them. Nicely done, Barbara. A clever take on the prompt.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '09:48 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Barbara Nosek': 'And again many thanks!', 'time': '18:05 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Barbara Nosek': 'And again many thanks!', 'time': '18:05 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,g7eg7c,Hushed,O'Brien O'Brien,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/g7eg7c/,/short-story/g7eg7c/,Horror,0,"['Fiction', 'Horror', 'Thriller']",3 likes,"
“A haunted house, Hell yeah!” But when I first saw the building, I was not impressed. Its modern commercial design was reminiscent of a bank. The only other vehicles in the lot were a couple of vans parked near the side of the brick structure. Baily and I strolled up to a tall, Lurch-from-the-Adams-Family-looking man standing under the portico. He explained the task that lay ahead of us.
 
“One jack-in-the-box toy can be found in each of the five rooms throughout the house,” he said. “The puppet inside each box has two yellow, fabric stars attached to the tips of its forked hat. The challenge is to collect all ten stars from all five boxes.”
 
The man then handed me a belt bag to tuck the stars into as we accumulated them. I passed the pouch to Baily, and she snapped it around her waist. Lurch turned and pressed the handicap push button on a post behind him and a high-pitched creaking sound squealed as the doors slowly opened. Baily and I crossed the threshold into the vestibule before the doors shut with an echoing bang. Instantly, we were transported to an eerie infirmary as we detected a faint odor of disinfectant in the gloomy atmosphere. 
 
We were contemplating our first move when a panel slid into the wall to our left, like a pocket door. We peeked around the corner into the beckoning space. Two bald men, dressed in brown, monk robes, slumped in rocking chairs in the far corners of the room. The men lifted their heads, their eyes were glossy, and their gaze appeared to be unfocused. Their lips were sewn as if they were participating in a vow of silence. A spotlight shown down from the ceiling highlighting a colorful box on the floor between them, it was the first jack-in-the-box. 
 
Baily shoved me from behind and I stumbled through the doorway. I staggered forward then slowly reached out, wary of the men even though they seemed to be unaware of me. I grabbed the box, spun on my heels, and hustled back into the hallway. The panel slid shut. 
 
I passed the box to Baily; she hugged it close to her body with one arm while winding the lever with the other. The tinkling music sounded creepy in that atmosphere, and when the jester popped out, I jolted upright. Two plush stars were attached to the tips of the doll’s cockscomb hat with Velcro, so I tore them off and shoved them into the pack around Baily’s waist.
 
Baily stepped a few more paces ahead and a second pocket door slid into the wall to our right. I snuck up behind her and we stared into the empty void before us. The area was no bigger than a closet and I could see a child-like sketch of a sprung jack-in-the-box on the far wall. I stepped around Baily and entered the cramped space. Baily shuffled close, hugging my waist. An arrow under the doodle pointed to a tight passage to our right. At the end of that short hallway, another arrow steered us into another passageway to our left. 
 
After rounding the fourth bend, I saw the second jack-in-the-box. I lunged forward, breaking free from Baily’s clutch and grabbed our prize from atop a pedestal. When I whirled around, Baily had caught up to me, she was right there, I almost knocked her over. We could hear moaning and the sound of fingernails scratching from behind the walls. With my urging, Baily about faced and picked up the pace. We made our way back to the open doorway and leapt out into the foyer. I released the jester from the box and collected two more stars.
 
Overhead fluorescents powered on in a domino effect down a lengthy corridor. Human limbs hung like grotesque, hunting trophies on the vintage, Toile wallpapered walls. At the end of the corridor was another jack-in-the-box atop another Corinthian column pedestal. 
 
As we ambled along the corridor, the limbs came alive, floundering aimlessly. Three locked doors lined the walls on either side. A hand gripped one of the steel levers and with each futile tug, a click rang out like a ticking clock.
One arm stretched outward, and its hand grabbed Baily’s hair. I used a self-defense move, gripping the wrist and bending it, causing the hand to loosen its grip. We huddled together, inching our way down the center of the hallway, careful to remain out of scope of the flailing arms and kicking legs. 
 
Finally, we could relax; we arrived at our reward. I turned the crank on the box as it sat upon the waist high column and out sprung the jester. Two more stars. Baily ripped them off and added them to our booty. Three missions complete, two to go.
 
To the right of the pedestal was a wide archway. Several yards ahead, a spotlight shown on the fourth jack-in-the-box. The entire room beyond the dividing arch was outlined with glowing orange cords. Colorful orbs of light danced on the parquet floor around the box, it was so disorienting, especially after being in the well-lit corridor. We crept slowly forward, the brightness behind us diminishing with every step we took.
 
I leaned against the wall for balance and strip lights lit up, outlining four framed portraits of different men. The faces protruded from the canvases in a three-dimensional way. Their eyes were closed, and silky ascots covered their necks. While I studied the fascinating artwork before me, captivated by its realistic features, the closed eyelids fluttered as if something moved underneath them. I recoiled and fell hard on my ass. At that point, Baily and I decided to crawl the rest of the way to the jack-in-the-box.
 
I reached out and pulled the box toward me. As I churned the lever, the gliding orbs seemed to move in time with Pop Goes the Weasel, and when the jester burst forth, we collected the seventh and eighth stars and tucked them away. 
 
The click of a lock unlatching, followed by the creaking of a door opening, signaled us to our next destination. I tried ignoring the creepy portrait to the right of the door frame and I thrust the door open wider. 
 
As I entered the room, the sweet, woodsy smell of patchouli oil immediately assaulted my nose. The room was decorated like a child’s room and a small lamp rotated on the bedside table, projecting images of cartoon ghosts on the walls. The mattress on the twin bed was sunken in the middle, as if by the weight of a body, and an indentation in the pillow created the illusion that it was supporting a head. I again pensively studied the grand illusion, and when the indentation in the mattress rippled as if the invisible body was repositioning itself, I again fell backward on my ass.
 
Situated at the foot of the bed was an overstuffed toy chest, its hinged lid resting on the pile of toys inside. While Baily stood in the doorway, I knelt and tossed one stuffed plaything after another onto the floor, then I saw the fifth jack-in-the-box. It was wedged between two teddy bears. I plucked it from its cozy nest and nudged the lid closed with my elbow. Baily looked down at me while I sat, legs splayed with my back against the hand-carved trunk. I turned the crank. All around the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the weasel, all around the mulberry bush, pop, and the jester burst from the box. Stars nine and ten. 
 
“Goes the weasel,” I finished, and I plucked the stars from the cockscomb hat. 
 
A man behind Baily cleared his throat and Baily startled, lunging at me and almost head butting me. 
 
“Follow me,” the man commanded.
 
We composed ourselves and followed him out of the bedroom, through the room of strobe lights, and to the exit door. Mission complete. 
#
Soon after I got home, Baily called. She asked me to flip on the news. It took me a few seconds while I fumbled with the remote. 
 
The television screen showed a pile of splintered boards, and as the camera shot widened, I realized it was the maze room Baily and I had been in only a few hours prior. The formation now fallen like a house of cards. The walls of the corridor were heavily damaged, huge holes remained where the trophies once hung. The video jostled as the camera followed the police officer around the corner at the end of the hallway. The room that was lit by strobe lights and strip lights, was also riddled with holes in the plaster where portraits once hung. 
 
At the time, I did not know what had happened to cause so much destruction, but I was breathing sighs of relief that Baily and I were safe. When the police showed up at my house, I was sure I was going to be accused of vandalism. Instead, I was made aware of what had happened.
 
The building was previously an emergency medical clinic owned by an anesthesiologist. The doctor, along with four other armed men, stormed a dinner party, abducted the five women and six men attending, and herded them to the reconstructed facility. 
 
The two men that were passed off as monks, were given muscle relaxers and their mouths sewn shut. Their heads were shaved, and they were shackled to rocking chairs with wrist and ankle restraints. One woman’s tongue was severed, and she was sealed inside the walls of the maze. Four of the women were injected with a drug that paralyzed their vocal cords. Their legs or arms had been threaded through the holes along the walls of the corridor and anchored with cement. The men from the portraits were victims of paralytic shellfish poisoning, also injected. These men were tethered to stools with their faces jammed tightly into holes in the walls, much like photo board cut-outs.
#
After comprehending what horrors, I had not only witnessed, but also participated in, I was beyond traumatized. I ran from the sounds of a frantic woman. I literally slapped the hand of someone that pleaded for my attention. I looked into the face of a powerless man and neglected to help him. Doctors say I’ve suffered an extreme psychological trauma, that the tremendous guilt I feel for not recognizing the horrors those people were suffering, has rendered me mute. I am confident that I will speak again, but Baily and I will forever be haunted by that house of horrors.
","September 10, 2023 17:57",[]
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,f444ud,Vanator ,Debbie Archibald,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/f444ud/,/short-story/f444ud/,Horror,0,"['Urban Fantasy', 'Horror']",3 likes,"
The deluge of icy water soaked Sorina. Thunder exploded; lightning blazed. In-between, all was pitch. It wasn't the rainstorm terrifying her. It was the black figure appearing and disappearing throughout Forest Park, each time whispering in her ear, “She is mine. She is mine.”
 
Two Romanian vampyrs had once battled for the love of Sorina’s mother, Marian Bane. The vampyr who lived, returned twenty years later to stake claim on her mother. Now she was gone – against her will.  
 
A crash of thunder, so powerful the ground shook. The lightning that followed illuminated the vampyr at the entrance of the park. Then woosh! He was gone. 
 
Sorina’s stomach pitched. She knew her mother was in Pittock Mansion, after hours. Could she break in? Was it too late?
 
Earlier Halloween morning.
In Portland Oregon, Vanator was open for business. Sorina Ardelean created Vanator-a vampyr hunting agency-when there was an upswing of people disappearing or left bloodless and dead.
 
Her mother, Marian Bane, was her assistant…or rather posed as her assistant. People handle grief differently. The loss of her beloved father left Sorina loathing vampyrs. 
 
Remembering the love between Cezer Ardelean and she, left her mother adoring them. 
 
Vanator, Romanian for Hunter, had been successful at moving vampyrs out of Portland, but had never caught any. 
 
Sorina often wondered if that was her vampyr-loving mother’s doing.
Marian Bane was Sorina’s backup when needed. The remainder of the time she was Vanator’s secretary. And, as was typical, her mother strolled in late. 
 
Sorina gave her “the eye,” the one mothers reserved for their children. Dressed in full orange and black Boho regalia, Marian swirled into the office, orange frizzy hair and black tinted lips in full smile. “Good morning, my dear!”
 
“Good morning, Mother. You realize you’re again.
 
“Darling, it’s Halloween!” Then pulling a small distinctive pink box from behind her she added, “Halloween wouldn’t be complete without Voodoo Doughnuts!”
 
Sorina groaned in delight. “Did you bring me an Old Dirty Bastard?” Chocolate frosting, crushed Oreos and peanut butter. She could have an orgasm just thinking about it.
 
“Two.” Her mother’s green eyes sparkled. As she set out napkins and doughnuts, she added, “The world is alive with little ghosts, goblins, witches and warlocks!”
 
“Oh! You were at the Multnomah Library for storytime.” Sorina had a soft spot for children. “What did you read this year?”
“Skeleton Hiccups by Margery Cuyler!”
 
Sorina giggled. “I love that story.” Then she was serious again, despite her mouth savoring her doughnut. “Speaking of Halloween, as you know, this is the worst time to track vampyrs since everyone in the city will be acting uh, supernatural. Especially those partaking in the “Boos and Booze Haunted Pub escapades.”
 
“Your father and I used to go there every year,” Marian sighed. “Then we’d go home and make passionate…”
 
“La, la, la.” Sorina covered her ears, closed her eyes and sang so she couldn’t hear her mother’s graphic details of sex with a vampyr.
 
“Sorina, don’t be so stuffy,” her mother laughed. “Your father and I had a healthy sex life.”
 
“Exactly what is a healthy sex life when you’re…. you’re doing ‘it’ with a vampyr?” Sorina quickly put up her hand to fend her mother off. “No, never mind. I don’t need to know this.” 
 
Sorina looked at her mother who continued to smile, but her eyes were teary. “How many years?”
 
“Today would have been our thirtieth anniversary. I miss hearing him whisper Romanian love words in my ear. Did I ever tell you Ardelean means ‘from Transylvania?’ I did? Well, anyhow, when we, we fell madly in love.”
 
“I have a few memories.” Those memories were bittersweet.
 
Marian smiled sadly again. “You were so young. He was a good man. I remember telling you he was dead. It broke my already damaged heart. I didn’t want to give you details but you were curious.”
 
“I was able to piece together jealousy and fire.”
 
“Vampyrs are territorial when it comes to their mates. Varujan Barbu was in love with me, but I only had eyes for your father. He tried to steal me twice. Once by charming me. Second by kidnapping me. When Cezer finally found me, the two men went to battle. I pled for them to stop, but Varujan managed to exterminate him right before my eyes. I felt nothing contempt and horror toward Varujan. Not only had he destroyed my husband but also my daughter’s father. Varujan realized I would never love him so he left us, never to be seen again.” 
 
They were quiet for awhile until Sorina got a phone call. “That was a patron of the Pittock Mansion. She claims she saw a vampyr while touring. Let’s take a look.” 
 
Sorina was searching her drawers for her vampyr killing equipment. Her pure silver handcuffs were hanging from her beltloop. “Wooden Cross with sharpened tip, Holy Water, garlic…garlic…where’s my garlic?” She looked up from her desk. Her mother was sporting a confectioner’s sugar moustache and trying to look busy. “Mother, where is my garlic bulb?”
 
“I didn’t have time to go to market last night. I was going to replace it,” Marian Bane assured Sorina.
 
“You used my bulb of garlic in your pasta sauce?” Sorina was flabbergasted. “Mother, that’s blessed! You made spaghetti with blessed garlic?”
 
Marian’s eyes were large, “And it was delicious! You even said so. The holy water must make it taste even better!”
 
“Oh.My.God. Mother you can’t just use…oh never mind. Now I must stop by the market, then St. Agatha’s for holy water. I swear, you are the bane of my existence.” 
 
That made Marian laugh, the play on words, but Sorina was serious. As much as she loved her mother, she also drove her to distraction.
**********
 By the time they reached Pittock Mansion it was late afternoon, almost closing. She didn’t need the light of the full moon to see that someone, or something, lurked in the shadows. She could feel it. The sky had grown dark, heavy storm clouds floating toward the building. Her mother was still in her Halloween attire but Sorina was understated in all black-pullover, jeans, peacoat, rainboots. Her black ponytail was drawn through the back of her Oregon Ducks ballcap. She wore no makeup and her dark eyes stood out against her pale face. Her looks came from her father.
 
Pittock Mansion had a great view of the city and surrounding mountains. It also provided a chance for a run-in with the paranormal. Members of the Pittock family were haunting their beloved mansion. They have been responsible for disembodied voices, ghost sightings and Henry Pittock’s traveling haunted painting. This haunting didn’t frighten Sorina. It was what she felt in the air. When they entered the building, that feeling increased a hundredfold. Sorina doubted a vampyr would lurk on the main floor or upstairs so she veered toward the basement steps. 
 
As she neared them, she could smell old books. The library was on the first floor and oddly, the scent was growing stronger as she walked down the steps, away from the library. “Sorina, that smells like Varujan,” whispered her mother, panic in her voice.
“Varujan smells like old books?”
“Not exactly old books. It’s more like an old body. Varujan would be about 300 years.”
 
They were finally in the basement. It wasn’t dingy as she had expected. Along with a bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen, it had two card nooks and a billiards room. They watched ‘the break,’ the clack of the cue ball hitting the number balls to start the game. They watched the chalk cube being rubbed against the tip of the cue stick. They watched the cue ball hit number 3 and fall easily into the pocket. They watched all of this, never once seeing a being, playing the game.
 
“Varujan loved playing russky bilyard,” Marian whispered. Sorina looked at her mother blankly. “Russian Billiards. It’s the eastern European version of pool.”  
 
“I’m touched that you remember, my dear.” A soft, husky voice was now attached to a form beside her mother. Her mother took a step closer to Sorina and reached for her hand in utter fear. 
 
The vampyr was unnaturally tall, handsome, dressed in black with a Saint Laurent Tuxedo Cape costing thousands of dollars.  
 
“Why are you back?” Marian whispered, fear thick in her voice.
 
“It has been twenty years since that unfortunate accident. I thought we could begin again.”
 
“Accident! You call murdering my father an accident?”
 
Marian gasped. “Please Sorina!”
 
“That’s right, little girl. You don’t want to upset the big scary vampyr.” Varujan chuckled evilly.
 
Sorina choked back her words. He was right. Although she had her tools of the trade in her bag, the vampyr was too close to her mother. She was not safe. Sorina needed to use the power of her words to get the vampyr to leave. But before she could say another word, the vampyr swirled his cape around himself and her mother and the two of them disappeared.
 
Sorina cried, “No….” and raced up the stairs and out the door as if she could catch them. She heard the door close and lock behind her. She stood in the rain, black all around. 
 
Tears pricked her eyes, and Sorina Ardelean wondered how she could get in the Pittock Mansion to save her mother. 
 
","September 10, 2023 18:44",[]
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,77cvw4,A Wail in the Night,Jeydie Woloszczuk,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/77cvw4/,/short-story/77cvw4/,Horror,0,"['Fiction', 'Horror', 'Suspense']",3 likes,"
Laura placed the mug inside the cupboard and straightened it so that the handle was facing her. She took another cup out of the cardboard box and did the same. She found the repetitive movements comforting. Laura glanced out the kitchen window after placing the last mug. The grass was a vibrant green, accentuated with palm trees and short, rounded bushes; the midday sun struck the land. Ice streaks appeared on the windowpane’s edges, spreading slowly towards the middle. Laura hadn’t noticed as her mind wandered to an image of her and her unborn son playing in a baby pool in the yard. She smiled to herself.
“Honey, I got another box here of utensils. I’ll place it next to the first one.” 
Laura turned to face her husband, Oscar, and then glanced back at the window. The ice had receded to barely anything. 
“What’s wrong? Something out there?” Oscar said and stared out. He thought he saw something clinging to the window pane.
“No, no. I thought I saw something.” Laura said as she hugged him around the waist. 
Oscar turned and wrapped his arms around Laura. 
“This is going to be great. We’ll start over. And… we’ll leave the past behind.” Oscar said; he pulled her chin up with his finger, their faces close.
Laura’s smile almost faltered, yet she managed to hold fast to it. “Yes, I believe it too.” She said, knowing that it was what he wanted to hear.
“Great! I’m almost done. I’ll get in the last remaining boxes. How about we grab some burgers from the place we passed by on our way here after going to Home Depot?” Oscar said as he headed back, stopping at the kitchen door frame.
“Sounds good to me,” Laura said.
 
Laura and Oscar entered the massive Home Depot and were greeted with the smell of sawdust and the hum of machinery. Oscar led the way to the aisle where they kept the nails; he was looking for a kit for hanging frames. Laura stood by, waiting, glancing at her phone with disinterest. Her mother had texted asking if everything was alright. I wish she would stop worrying so much. 
Laura almost missed it as she darted a look towards the end of the aisle. The tail end of a dark blue jacket and brown shoes could be seen, followed by a child’s giggle. She glanced back at Oscar; he didn’t give any indication that he had noticed. Laura peered back, waiting for the child to return. She heard a giggle in the distance. 
Slowly, making her way up the aisle towards the sound, Laura looked back briefly at Oscar. He was studying two items he had in hand. She left the aisle behind and walked past the proceeding ones, peering down each one. The giggle came to her again. Laura followed it to an area that was cordoned off to customers. She peered into the gloom of the space under construction. A shadow hopped. It must be the boy!
Ducking under the yellow tape, Laura fanned her face with her hand as dust swirled around. It was an area filled with construction debris, tarp, and dim lighting. A toolbox lay on a table nearby, its lid open. Cables dangled from the ceiling, Laura pushed past them and found herself in a corner. A chill hung in the air, and she rubbed her hands together.
In the shadowy corner, Laura found a crouching small figure. It hummed The Itsy Bitsy Spider in a child’s voice as it rocked gently on its heels. She approached him slowly, careful not to make a sound in case the child was easily frightened. The humming stopped as she reached him. Laura’s heart accelerated; she felt the sawdust clinging to the back of her throat. I shouldn’t be here. 
“Hello,” the boy said, still facing the corner.
“Hi,” Laura’s voice sounded distant and strained.
“Do you want to see something?” 
“Sure, then we can go look for your parents.” 
The boy giggled. Gradually, he stood up. He couldn’t have been more than seven years old. He turned around, with his hands lifted towards Laura. She stumbled back and fell on her side. The boy had the biggest tarantula she had ever seen cradled in both of his palms. Its front hairy legs were raised, and the mandibles twitched. Laura got to her feet and ran, leaving the boy behind.
Stumbling out of the area, she bumped into a worker, who admonished her. Laura sprinted by him, searching for Oscar. People peered at her as she coughed violently. Having found the public water fountain, she gulped down the cool liquid, letting it dribble down her chin. 
“Laura?” It was Oscar.
“Oscar,” Laura said as she wiped her chin.
“Where have you been? One minute, you were standing there next to me, and the next, you were gone.” Oscar said.
“I-I-I was looking for something. I was thinking of putting wallpaper in the kitchen.” Laura said, steadying her voice.
“Wallpaper? That’s this way. I can show you.” 
“No! No, that’s ok. I’m really hungry. Let’s just go. I’ll check some other day.” Laura said, pushing her dark brown hair behind her ears.
“Alright. Are you ok?” Oscar said as he placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Yes, just hungry. You know how I get. I get quiet and moody when I need food.”
“Well, in that case, let’s get you a big, fat burger before you get hangry,” Oscar said, laughing.
Laura pushed a laugh out, which sounded louder than it should have. She glanced back at the far corner of the store before following Oscar to the cash registers. 
 
 
Surrounded by half-empty cardboard boxes and scattered pieces of furniture, Oscar and Laura had their fill of smash burgers and fries on their wobbly dining table. One of the table legs had gotten damaged by the move.
“Don’t let me forget to call the movers tomorrow about this table,” Oscar said as he shoved a fry into his mouth.
“Ok. They should be able to compensate us for this. This was shoddy work; they should have been careful. They only had one job.” Laura said she felt herself boiling over.
Oscar placed a hand on her shoulder. “It’s alright, Laura. I will handle it. You should relax. The doctor said you need to be stress-free.”
Laura nodded, a pinched smile crossing her face, as she took some deep breaths. She eyed the last fry escaping out of the paper container.
“I call dibs on the last fry,” Laura said, grabbing it.
“Go for it. You deserve it.” Oscar said, rubbing her shoulder.
Oscar watched her.
“Is everything alright? You seem a bit thoughtful since leaving Home Depot.” He said.
Laura had an image of the tarantula flash into her mind. She kept herself from shuddering at the memory. Oscar eyed her, waiting for a reply. 
“When I was looking for the wallpaper, I came across an aisle that had lamps. There was a child’s lamp; it had a sky blue base, and the shade had images of baseballs and baseballs mitts.” She said, and she stared at the vacant burger box.
“Laura….” Oscar said.
“That would be a nice addition to a nursery, right? 
“Yes, it would. If we were -“ Oscar stopped short.
Laura stared at him. She waited for him to finish what he was going to say. Instead, Oscar smiled and rubbed her shoulder. 
“I have to go take my pill. Hopefully, I can find it in this mess. I need to shower, too. Do you need help clearing this out?” Laura said.
“No, no. I can take care of it. Go ahead and take a shower. I’ll probably take one after you.” Oscar said as he gathered the empty boxes of take-out.
 
The steam covered the bathroom mirror, and Laura used her palm to wipe it away. Naked, she examined her body. Everything seemed normal until her hand landed on her belly. It bulged a little. Laura caressed it affectionately. She began to hum a tune that her father sang to her as a child. Goosebumps broke out all over her body as an image came to her of her unborn son cradled in her arms; she was sitting in the nursery room. Oscar was standing over them and affectionately gazing at the child. It was a warm feeling that possessed her, and for a moment, she had forgotten that she was in the bathroom. There was a knock on the bathroom door.
“Laura? Was there hot water?” It was Oscar.
“Yes, Oscar.” She said, and she slapped her hand on the sink.
She stared in the mirror and shook her head. Maybe I should call Dr. Lantana tomorrow, Laura thought. These visions are coming back again. It’s this house; I can’t help imagining living here with our… son. I should go back to taking those pills. No, I don’t like them; they always make me feel not myself. Everyone thinks I’ve been taking them. I’ll call the doctor. It’ll be ok. Oscar says to stop worrying and relax. Laura smiled and got dressed. 
 
 
Laura was startled awake and blinked the sleep out of her eyes. She glanced at Oscar, his back to her, his body gently rocking with his deep breathing. Laura pushed the blankets off of her, and she sat on the edge of the bed. She heard a sound coming from beyond the open bedroom door. Staring at the opening, she waited for the sound again. When it came, she got up and stood at the doorway. Laura couldn’t make out what it was, yet she believed it was human. She tiptoed down the second-floor hallway towards the guest room. They hadn’t decided what to turn the space into – a guest room, an office, or maybe a nursery, something that Laura had imagined for it. For now, it stood empty, except for the sound that came from within. Laura stood in front of the door, her hand barely grazing the doorknob; the sound drifted to her. It was a wail, a baby’s wail. She gasped and grabbed the doorknob. Before her was a colorful room decorated with a rainbow mural, baby furniture, and an oval woven rug. The room had a chillness in the air that caused her rapid breathing to fog. A crib was tucked into the corner next to the changing basin. Laura slowly walked to it and peered down. A baby boy was squirming in a blue onesie, his face pinched with stress. She clucked her tongue and gently lifted the baby into her arms. She swayed and rocked with the baby; It cooed with delight. Laura hummed a tune and was filled with that same warmth again. 
Standing at the door was Oscar, who stared at his wife as she paced, arms posed as if she was cradling something in the empty room. He shook his head, bracing himself from the frigid air. A sob threatened to escape his lips. 
She had not gotten better, and the realization struck him like a blow to his face. No amount of hours with the therapist had succeeded. No amount of pills had blotted out the supposed hallucinations she was having of their miscarried child. Even his mother’s intervention with a priest did nothing. The ghost of their son, Manuel, was going to stay.
","September 10, 2023 18:50",[]
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,32132e,Haunted Memories,Logan Hessek,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/32132e/,/short-story/32132e/,Horror,0,"['Horror', 'Fiction', 'Thriller']",3 likes,"
The one thing I can’t stand more than anything else in this world is the smell of rotting corpses, and that foulest of stenches consumes every part of my nose. This is supposed to be a haunted house, not a graveyard. Or did they simply up the scare factor by making things all too real?
 
I can’t see anything. I tiptoe through what feels like an endless underground tunnel, each step inviting a new level of uncertainty. Sometimes I imagine I’m on a railroad track because a hard metal digs into the soles of my feet. Other times it’s a squishy mess. I can’t even imagine what my shoes look like. I bet they’re covered in blood from stepping through an ocean of decomposing parts. Or maybe someone just made the world’s biggest serving of mashed potatoes and spread it out across the ground. Yes, let’s go with that. But mashed potatoes don’t give off such a rancid odor. Mashed potatoes don’t make stomach acid lurch up my esophagus.
 
A white flash like that of a camera and nothing more. The after image sticks to my vision long after it is gone. A low, guttural howling sends goose flesh sprinting across my body. There’s the flash again. I stop. What am I doing here? Nobody told me to come here or what I am supposed to do once I got here. I just saw the neon sign at the front: “Haunted House.” Was it really though? Or was it some cruel game that I was falling victim to because I willingly decided to fly right into the spider’s web? Maybe I should turn around. Stop being a coward, I hear my mother say. Why can’t you just follow through with something for once? That’s something my father would say, but he’s dead. Perhaps she was trying to fill both roles but was doing a terrible job at it. Fine, mom. I’ll keep going. Just still love me, okay?
 
“I see you,” says someone in a low whisper. “Your eyeballs look so juicy… and delicious.” The person, if I can even call it that, hangs on that last word as if unable to contain his salivation.
I ignore it. Maybe it’s just all part of the display. Some college kid actor trying to pay the bills and going a little too overboard. He’s probably staring at me right now with night vision goggles. Just then, my feet start hitting hard rounded objects not attached to the ground. I start to stumble as they begin rolling beneath my feet.
“All those dead ones made the perfect stew,” the voice said. “You look very sweet. Luckily I made room for dessert.”
 
I’ve had enough. “Hey, I’ve got something for you to eat! Just check the toilet after I’ve been sitting on it for half an hour.”
A fully lit bed of red spikes flashes before me in an instant. I teeter over the edge and then scramble backwards. “But first,” the voice continues. “Let us have a bit of fun. I have always been one to play with my food before eating it. I know. Guilty habit.”
 
There’s no way this is real. If I just dive head first right now into those spikes, they would all just bend over like rubbery grass. Then all the corny actors would come out and escort me to the exit. But I wasn’t going to give them that satisfaction. Now to find a way across. Everything behind me is black. Hunks of what look like flesh hang from my shoes. I can’t tell if the thick liquid coating them is blood. Real or not, I will show these people that they’re never going to get me to just lie down and beg.
 
You won’t know if you won’t like football until you’ve tried it, mom had said.
 
But I don’t want to.
 
Your father was a star quarterback and a state champion. The least you can do is go to tryouts!
 
Okay, mom. Jeez! I will. I thought something else that I often did after that but never ever said out loud: Just don’t hate me.
 
Follow through. Follow through. Follow through.
 
I brush off my shoes and then leap toward the side wall, using it as a spring board to propel me all the way to the other side. I make it easily, the perfect parkour move that I’ve been training every week for over a year to master. “Is that the best you got?” I say, arms raised in the air.
 
Then I feel arms grabbing me from all directions. Well, either the show is over, or my life. I’m sorry I didn’t do more to impress you, mom. I tried to make up for all my years of disappointing you in these final moments, but I guess it was too little too late. She has no idea where I am right now anyway. I haven’t spoken to her in years. I’m alone. I close my eyes and flop my arms down at my sides, ready to resign myself to whatever fate awaits me.
 
I am being dragged along more metal tracks. Nothing to see in the pitch black. My captors’ hands are icy cold to the touch. Each of their bony fingers digs into me like nails. Finally, I’m tossed to the ground in a dimly lit corridor. There are two doors. One to my left and one to my right.
 
“Bravo on getting past the spikes,” the voice says from nowhere in particular. “Now here is your final test.”
“I think we’re at the part where I throw you down into that bed of spikes.”
 
The voice ignores this. “You will open one of these two doors. Once you choose, you will be unable to turn back. One of them leads you to freedom and the other leads you to unspeakable horror.”
 
“Some haunted house this is. I’m going straight to the police once I get out of here. You’re not allowed to touch me. I didn’t sign a waver!” I reach out blindly and clutch at the empty air as if I would somehow find that person’s neck. I kick and scream and run blindly until I hit a wall. Then I try the other direction and this time I feel arms pushing me back. I charge forward and someone shoves me to the ground. I get up and start swinging. My jaw feels instantly dislocated as knuckles connect with my chin. I stumble backward and try again and again. Each time they push me back further and further toward the two doors. Toward where I’m supposed to go. Toward the continuation of their cruel game. I am not going to play along anymore. I keep charging ahead, but each time, they grab me and shove me back. It’s useless. I’m growing weak. I can feel a drip of blood running down my leg from a scrape of my knee. Some part of my other leg feels fractured.
 
I can only hobble forward at this point. Then the sound of my mom’s voice echoes through my head. Jason, just make a choice already and stop being so goddamn stubborn! It sounds as if she is nearby just like that voice. But it could just as easily be my imagination. You don’t want to disappoint me anymore, Jason? Then just make a choice and stick with it already. 
 
I face the doors. Okay, mom. This is for you. I play a quick game of eenie meenie miney mo before opening the door on the left. Complete darkness. I step through. The door slams shut behind me. I try the knob, but it doesn’t open. Just as I suspected. I walk in a straight line away from the door. The air grows musty and colder with each step. I can see a bright light shining from around the corner at the end of this passage. As I approach, I swear I catch a familiar scent. A very distinct smell from my childhood. Freshly cut grass mixed with clean laundry hanging on clothes lines in the front yard. The memory floods back. Mom is sitting in the glider with me on the front porch helping me with my homework while dad drinks a beer on the step. It was the last time I remember us all together. Before dad got into his car the next morning to go to work and never came home.
 
I round the corner and expect to be absorbed right into this memory. But instead I am shocked by what I see. There’s my mom sitting on the glider that used to sit on the front porch. But there is no house. No yard. No clothes line. Just her on the glider at the only end of this hallway.
 
She is much older. I haven’t seen her six years and it looks like she’s aged about fifty. Her skeletal features make her look like a ghoul. I would have thought she is dead if she didn’t raise her head up to look at me. Those sunken, deep socketed eyes shine with the most radiant of recognition. She raises an almost skinless hand toward me. I can see every bone. I walk toward her very slowly.
 
As I approach, the earlier smells from before vanish and are replaced by the smell of a rotting corpse. I breathe through my mouth and try to contain the stomach acid churning inside.
 
“Mom?” I say. “Is that you?”
 
“Come sit next to me, Jason,” she says. Her voice is hoarse and raspy like a chain smoking zombie. “Let’s wait here together for your father to return home from work.”
","September 12, 2023 06:18",[]
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,ngep82,House on 223 Maple RD.,Holland Wells,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ngep82/,/short-story/ngep82/,Horror,0,"['Fiction', 'Mystery']",3 likes,"
The evening air was nice and cool with a mild breeze blowing through the willows that encircled the old house that sat on top of the hill on 223 Maple RD. The house had been sitting abandoned for at least twelve years, the window shutters where barley hanging on by their hinges. The green paint on the old house had been peeling away for some years now. In its time the house was quite a Jewl, there was an upstairs balcony that overlooked the acers and acers of golden wheat fields and an old dirt road lined with dogwood trees that appear to have been planted the same time as the house had been built. There was a wraparound porch that was held up by very detailed bright white Victorian pillars. Yes, the setting on this old house looked so inviting for one to come and sit on its porch swing to enjoy a nice sunset on any given summers evening.Tommy Groves had been eyeballing this old Victorian home for some time. He finally saved up enough money to put a down payment and move his family of four out of the city and into the quiet surrounding of the county side. Tommy had told his wife Julia that the house needed some work but once they got started fixing up the place, the ideas would be endless to make it their own. Julia was a little skeptical about the venture that they committed to but went along with the idea since she trusted Tommy whom she had been married to for four and a half years.As the young family pulled up to the house, little tommy noticed the old tire swing that hung from a willow tree and thought this would be his very own getaway spot. Little Susan was more focused and excited to see her new room that would be on the third floor. The lights had been turned on earlier that morning before they had arrived. Julia walked in and said that the floors were still in great shape, a light oak floor that still had a shiny gleam under the dust that had settled there for years.""Well, the quicker we get our stuff unloaded and moved in here, the quicker we can go investigate the property"" Tommy said as he set the box he had been carrying down on the floor. Julia grabbed a box of dished and headed to the kitchen where she said that she would get lunch started.""Thump""! Julia jumped to the loud noise and ran out of the kitchen to see what had been dropped. "" Is everything ok "" Julia yelled out.""Sure, is sweety, why?"" Tommy replied as he set the heavy box down in the big dining room.""You did not hear that loud thump?"" Julia asked."" No, sure didn't"".Julia brushed it off and went back to the kitchen to finish cleaning the stove so she could finish making lunch. Julia was caught off guard when she walked back into the kitchen and noticed the four glasses that she had set on the counter was shattered all over the kitchen floor. She was sure that she had set them in the middle of the counter. Julia brushed it off thinking that she must of somehow nocked them off when she rushed out of the kitchen to see what the loud noise was.After getting the kitchen clean and lunch started, Julia and Tommy worked together and got the dining room floor mopped, hung the curtains then set up the dining room table. ""I think a mauve color would help bring back the Victorian look in here"". Julia told Tommy. ""If Mauve is what you want, then mauve it will be"" Tommy replied as he kissed his wife and went back to hauling more of their stuff into the house.As tommy got the last of the boxes off the truck and headed back into the house, he turned and yelled at Tommy Jr. who was playing on the swing under the willow tree that sat in front of the house, to go in and wash up for lunch.Tommy set the box in the living room and headed to the dining room telling Julia that he had already told Tommy to come in and get ready for lunch. ""He is already at the table"" Julia chuckled. ""I just seen him on the swing in the front yard"" Tommy Sr. said with a confused voice. ""You must have a wilder imagination than little Tommy does"". Julia replied as she put her husband's plate at the end of the table telling him to get washed up before his hamburgers got cold.After the couple had cleaned and unpacked the majority of their things, they both went out to enjoy the evening on the front porch swing. ""How long do you think it will take to get this house scraped and painted?"" Julia asked as she rested her head on Tommy.""Well after the moving truck comes tomorrow with the rest of our things, I will go into town and get an estimate on how much the paint will cost and see if I can find a helper to get the old paint scraped off.""As the evening slipped away and the wind played its final tune through the willows, the small family settled down for the night in their new home.BAM, BAM, BAM!!! Tommy jumped up out of a deep sleep. There it was again, BAM, BAM, BAM!!! Tommy rushed to the front door to see who or what was banging on the front door. Tommy flung open the door without looking out the curtain and yelled at the man standing there with his fist up getting ready to bang on the door again. ""Who the hell are you, and what the hell do you want?"" Tommy shouted at the man. ""Do you realize it is three o'clock in the morning""? Tommy said as he stood there is his underwear.""MY boy, have you seen my little boy?"" the man with scraggly hair and clothes that looked to not have been washed for months, shouted back at Tommy.Tommy turned on the front porch light and told the man he would be right back after he got his robe on. Julia asked Tommy what the hell was going on as Tommy grabbed his robe and headed back to the front door. ""I don't know yet"" Tommy told his wife.When Tommy had returned to the front door, he noticed the porch light was now off, he went out on the porch and yelled for the man, but the man was nowhere to be found. Tommy turned on the porch light, but it did not come on, so he went to check the bulb, but the light bulb was missing, it had been shattered all over the front porch.As the sun rose the next morning, Tommy climbed out of bed and headed to the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. The moving van would be there at nine thirty AM and Tommy wanted to be ready. As Tommy put the coffee grounds in the filter, he heard a little boy's voice coming from behind him, ""Good morning, Tommy boy"" Tommy said as he turned around expecting to see his son. there was no one there, so Tommy went upstairs to little Tommy's room to check on him. The little boy was in bed sound asleep. ""Thats weird"" Tommy thought to himself.After the moving van came and everything was unloaded and put where it belonged, Tommy told Julia that he was going into town to check on the paint and try to find a helper to get started on scaping the paint off of the house Saturday.Tommy went inside the hardware store and asked the guy behind the counter for a quote on outdoor paint. ""Hello, my name is Sam Wurth, you must be new in town"" the man behind the counter said. ""Ya we just moved here and bought the old house on Maple RD."" Tommy replied.""Oh, you bought that old place? Did you hear what happened there around about twelve years ago?"" Sam asked.""No not really, is there something I should know?"" tommy replied.""Well, there was a family of four, Mr. and Mrs. Jones, and their son and daughter. Thier son went missing and was never found. That drove Mr. Jones crazy, and he ended up hanging himself out in front of the house, from an old willow tree.""""Then one day Mrs. Jones died of a heart attack and the daughter was sent to a foster home. The old house had been sitting there empty ever since.""The men chatted for about thirty more minutes and Sam gave Tommy a handy man's phone number to call. ""Thank you for everything MR. Wurth. I will be seeing a lot of you, that old place is going to take a lot of work to get it back to the way the house was originally built.""Julia was cleaning the downstairs bathroom when she heard a knock on the door, it was a loud knock, the kind a police officer would do. When Julia came to the door, she looked out the curtain and seen an older man with scraggly looking hair with dirty clothes on. ""Can I help you?"" Julia asked through the door. ""My son, have you seen my Littleboy?"" the man asked in a hysterical voice. Julia let the curtain down and opened up the door. To her surprise the man was gone. Just then there was a loud thump coming from upstairs. Julia ran up the stairs and seen that both or the children was fine. THUMP! There it was again. This time she could tell it was coming from the attic. Julia quicky got the children and ran downstairs.Tommy pulled up to the house just in time to see his wife Julia running out the door with their children. ""Tom, there is someone or something in the attic!"" Julia shouted. ""Calm down, I will go and check it out"". Tommy replied.As Tommy started heading up to the attic, he heard a loud THUMP. There was something defiantly in the attic Tommy thought to himself.Tommy pulled the hide away latter down and began to climb up. Just as Tommy got to the top of the latter and stuck his head into the attic, an old dresser mirror that had been leaning against the wall came crashing down, shattering all over the attic floor.Scared but still curious, Tommy entered the attic. The light would not turn on but the light from the two windows lit up the room just enough to see. THUMP! There the noise was again; this time he could tell it was coming from an old chest that was stored behind a big pile of boxes in the corner. Tommy noticed an old TV and VCR that had a tape in it sitting on a dusty old dresser. He pulled out the tape and looked at the tittle that read ""Bad Little Boy"". ""What the hell?"" Tommy thought to himself. Thump!!! Tommy couldn't take it anymore, so he went over to the chest and opened it up. There in the chest was a skeleton of a young child. Startled, Tommy jumped back. CRASH! A vase went flying by Tommy's head. ""GET OUT!"" a lady's Voice screamed.Tommy didn't waste any more time and climbed down the latter as fast as he could. As he ran towards the front door, it slammed shut. Tommy tried to open it, but it would not budge. Pictures started to fly off the walls, dishes started flying across the kitchen crashing and shattering all over the kitchen floor. ""OPEN THE DOOR! Julia screamed, but Tommy was too busy dodging things to hear her.finally, there was a break in things flying around so Tommy quickly went into the dining room and threw a dining room chair out the window and climbed out. He grabbed his family and put them in his truck and quickly drove away.Tommy did not realize that he still had the old VCR tape in his hand. He drove to the local sheriff's office and told the sheriff what had just happened. The sheriff looked at him like he was crazy. ""Here, I found this tape up in the attic"". Tommy told the sheriff as he handed him the tape. The sheriff put the tape that was titled ""Bad Little Boy"" in a VCR and pushed play, what they saw was something so disturbing Tommy got sick to his stomach and could not watch any more. Mrs. Jones was recording herself torcher Ing the poor little boy, her own son. It finally dawned on Tommy the Old man that came looking for his son was MR. Jones.Needless to say, The Groves left all of their belongings and never returned to the house on 223 Maple Road.
","September 12, 2023 09:42",[]
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,yh73gs,"The Staircase, A Memoir",Karen Etter,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/yh73gs/,/short-story/yh73gs/,Horror,0,"['Mystery', 'Creative Nonfiction', 'Horror']",2 likes,"
The sun was beginning to set, a cascade of reds and golds creating a vibrant backdrop to the statuesque three story, Second Empire home.  I eased my car down the long driveway, pulling up to the side of the residence at 1515 Jackson, noticing for the first time how isolated the house was from the rest of the homes on the block.  Stationed like a watchman, the structure was situated on a large wooded lot at the entrance to the historical district in town.  A low iron fence with spiked picket castings surrounded the perimeter of the property, limiting access to the dwelling by either the driveway or a long sidewalk from the street.  Lush landscaping encased a rear patio and serpentine pool, creating a small, private oasis.  Stepping out of the car, I inhaled the sweet scent of roses mingled with decaying sycamore leaves. The soft call of a dove cooed in the distance.
 
It had been a slow Friday.  The kind of Friday that made one antsy and full of regret about the passing summer. A conversation with the executors of the Jackson street home earlier that day hadn’t gone well.  The local real estate market was soft due to the banking crisis of 2008. Even though this was nothing I could control, other than continuing to harp on the sellers to reduce the price, the burden of selling the home fell to me.  Understandably, they were frustrated and wanted to settle the estate.  I had been the listing agent for several months and although I had procured multiple buyer leads, I hadn’t found any takers.  If I didn’t sell it soon, I would lose everything I had invested in its marketing.  
 
My phone rang. 
 
“Hey Karen, it's Chuck Borden.  I was wondering if you had time to show me the house at 1515 Jackson.  My wife and I have been eyeing it and love the exterior.”  
 
“Absolutely, I would love to!  The house is vacant so I can meet you there in a half hour.”  Grateful for another opportunity to procure a sale, I jumped in the car and headed to the house to get it ready for my showing.
 
I maneuvered the key in the ancient lock and with a huge push, the massive door gave way with a groan, opening into the vestibule.  Just as I started to close it, Chuck pushed the door wide open.
 
“Perfect timing!” he said, barging into the home with a confidence he no doubt displayed in the courtroom.  Chuck had recently taken a position at a local law firm and needed to be moved and settled by the end of the year.  We had great rapport, joking easily with one another and, after several meetings with him, a trust had developed between us.  I was sure I would sell him something.  I just didn’t know what or when.
 
“Oh, gosh! You scared me. I wasn’t expecting you yet, but come on in. I was going to turn some lights on for us.”  Taking a deep breath, I proceeded to the center hall of the home.  A grand stairway made of mahogany railings and treads flanked two sides of the entrance.  The open stairwell soared to the top floor allowing one to see the third level railings from the main level.  An alabaster chandelier dripping with crystals hung from the center of the space.  I rubbed my arms, warming them from a chill in the air.
 
“Wow, this is impressive.”  Chuck said as he stepped in behind me.  “I can’t even imagine what it would cost to rebuild that stairway.”  
 
“It is stunning for sure. We don't have many homes like this that hit our market, especially in this condition.”  I said, handing Chuck a detail sheet as we moved into the living room.
 
Chuck ran his hand admiringly along the burnished wood mantle of the fireplace.  “Do you know anything about the history of this home?” 
 
“The house was built in 1898 by a well known surgeon.  The builder constructed the home on a glass foundation so there's no basement.”
 
“Glass?  I’ve never heard of that before.”  
 
“Yeah, I hadn’t either but apparently they used crushed glass to somehow create a concrete like base.”
 
We moved slowly through the rooms of the main level taking time so Chuck could inspect the shimmering chandeliers, carved moldings and ornate cabinetry which adorned the massive rooms.  The scent of fresh paint and floor varnish mingled with the stale odor of days past.  A layer of dust had accumulated the last few months casting a sad and lonely pallor over the space. The home, like a broken hearted soul, seemed to be mourning the loss of its mate.  
 
We stopped for a moment to take in the view of the pool from the conservatory. “Look at that sunset!” said Chuck.  The soft light of the colorful sky reflected off the pool creating mirrored images of the arborvitae surrounding it.  “This will be the perfect spot for an evening cocktail.  I know Jane would love this.”
 
“It truly is special.  The way this home is situated you can see both sunrises and sunsets.  Wait til you see the rest of the home.  I can see you really appreciate the value here.”  The floors creaked and moaned as I led Chuck back through the center hall to the stairway.  Continuing my history lesson, “The family room addition next to the kitchen was completed in 1940. There was an old woman who purchased the home but ended up in a wheelchair a few years after she moved in.   An architect was hired to create that space because she could no longer use the stairs to access the upper floors.”
 
“Interesting.  It does make this home more functional for us, having a living room and family room on one level.” 
 
As we made our way up the stairway to the second floor, I felt a breeze flutter across my cheek causing gooseflesh to pop on my arms.  I had never noticed a chill in the home before. Maybe somehow a window had been opened so I made a mental note to make sure all the sashes were closed and locked after the showing.  The second floor included three spacious bedrooms and a full bath.  
 
“The current owner of the home lived here for about 30 years until he passed recently.  He was a very prominent businessman in our community.  His wife died several years before him, so his daughters are the co-executors of the estate.”  I said as I continued the tour of the home.
 
What I neglected to tell Chuck, having decided it was irrelevant, was that the deceased owner of the home had two daughters and a son.  The son had been a classmate of mine.  When I toured the home the first time with the daughters they pointed out John's room which was tucked in the corner of the second floor.  Sadly, John had been killed in a car accident when we were in high school.  Every time I walked through this room I couldn’t help but feel melancholy.  There was no point telling Chuck and casting any unnecessary aspersions on the home.  
 
“Interesting.  So there have only been three owners in all this time.” Chuck said then continued with a bit of concern, “I was hoping for a 4th bedroom with a master suite.  I'm not sure this is going to be enough for us.”  
 
“Just wait until we get to the third floor.  It could be remodeled into the perfect master suite.  I can’t wait for you to see it.” I added, hopeful to regain his interest.  
 
Holding onto the railing with a tight grip, I headed up the stairway to the third level. “This was a ballroom when the house was built in 1898.  The original flooring is still under the carpeting and from what I am told, was custom designed for this home. The current owner used it as office space.”
 
The worn carpet in the long narrow room was threadbare in several spots.  A trio of large windows provided expansive views of the street and neighborhood surrounding the property.  High stucco ceilings carved into ornate medallions were painted in a soft gold; the once elaborate detailing had deteriorated and chipped, creating an odd disjointed pattern.  This area of the home seemed to have been forgotten, like a lost relic, neglected and ignored. 
 
“I can see the potential here.  I love the eyebrow windows and how it opens to views of the park.” Chuck said. The sunset was at its peak, flooding the room with natural light.  The room seemed to glow with warmth.  “I can envision the bedroom conversion but what about a bath and walk-in closet?  This is the only room up here.” 
 
“Here, let me show you.” I said, leading him to a walk-in attic.  I had to jostle the door knob just a bit before the door opened to an unfinished space.  I inched my way along the wall, batting at cobwebs, until I found the light switch tucked between two wall studs.  The room was oppressively hot, the cloying odor of mothballs and insulation permeated the space.
 
“Look how big this attic is.”  I said as Chuck walked around, trying to catch my vision. “It's so large you could create not only a beautiful ensuite bath, but also a huge walk-in closet.  There are eyebrow windows here too.  They could flank a large garden tub and….” 
 
Clop-Clop, Clop-Clop, Clop-Clop….
 
I was cut off mid sentence by a series of loud, rapid thumps which seemed to come from the stairway.  Confused, Chuck and I walked back to the upper landing.
 
“Are you expecting someone?” Chuck asked.
 
“No, not at all.” I said, trying to sort the sound out in my mind.   
 
“Well, It sounded like someone was running down the stairs.”
 
We looked over the edge of the railing and down to the foyer but it was vacant.  We then walked back into the office and peered out the windows to the driveway but there were no other cars there either. 
 
“Maybe it’s the furnace or some other weird house anomaly.  You know these older homes have some quirky noises, or maybe even a raccoon on the roof.” I whispered trying to convince myself as much as Chuck.
 
“Yeah, no way it's a raccoon.  That sound came from inside this home.”
 
In an effort to get the showing back on track, I headed to the attic to continue describing my plans for the space.  It felt as if my memory of the sound had dulled in those few seconds making me question what we heard, like being startled from a dream by a loud noise. That, and I had to get the home sold.  Fortunately, Chuck followed me. 
 
 “As I was saying, you could utilize this wall for a double bowl vanity and the space between these windows would be the perfect spot for….” 
 
“Clop-Clop, Clop-Clop, Clop-Clop, Clop-Clop….”  
 
Again, there was the sound of the successive pounding of footsteps on the stairway.  Not just a few steps but a full flight of steps.  The sound of someone or something running down that full flight of steps.
 
“Okay, someone is messing with us now.  I know someone is on those steps.”  Chuck said as he dashed to the third floor landing with me in tow.
 
We looked down the open stairway.  No one was there.  
 
I tried to keep up with Chuck as he ran down the steps to the main floor. All of the doors were locked except the front door which we could see from the third floor landing.  The rooms were all empty.
 
Pushing our way out of the house onto the porch, we proceeded to the lawn to see if someone was in the yard or driveway. Chuck's mounting agitation soon gave way to fear when he realized there was no one there.
 
Chuck, several feet ahead of me, out of breath and ashen, yelled “This ones not for me” as he loaded himself in his car and drove away.  I found myself standing alone, in the twilight.
 
I never did hear from Chuck again. I lost the listing the next week.  In my twenty two years selling real estate, I had never experienced anything like that.  All the times I had been in the home previously, I didn’t hear or sense anything odd or unusual.  I didn't believe in ghosts.  At least I didn’t until that late, fall afternoon.  I often drive by the home at 1515 Jackson and wonder. What was it that we heard? Was it really a ghost and, if so, have the new owners heard it too?  
 
","September 14, 2023 13:46",[]
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,cyy1yn,Far Too Far Down,Jake Fordyce,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/cyy1yn/,/short-story/cyy1yn/,Horror,0,['Horror'],2 likes,"
Aubrey’s first thought upon seeing the house was how desperately lonely it was, like desert rain. There was nothing else as far as she could see between the mountains on each side of the valley, and even the mountains seemed to be trying to lean away from the house. Four people, a house, and a nervous moon peeking out from behind its dark cloud quilt.
Her second thought was how small it was. She watched it approach for miles, waiting for it to grow into one of the large, foreboding manors that she had come to expect from these yearly trips. But as they drew closer to the dot on the horizon, she eventually realized that that was all of it. It was a tiny speck of a house, weighing heavy on the vast sandy expanse.
“No,” she said.
“What?” Chloe asked from the driver’s seat.
“We’re not going in there,” Aubrey said.
“What’s the problem?” Dom asked from the back seat.
“Is it one of those underground houses? The bunkers?” Aubrey asked.
“Yes,” Chloe answered.
“There’s no way—”
“I know. I know. I know how you feel, and that’s why I didn’t tell you first because you’d say—”
“I’m not going in there.”
“Exactly. Aubrey, when have I ever let you down? Trust me, this is going to be great.”
Aubrey shook her head.
“Try it out for a bit. If you really can’t stay the night, you and Ryan can take my car back to that motel we saw.”
“Yeah, no worries,” Ryan said. He placed a comforting hand on Aubrey’s shoulder.
The exterior looked like a concrete shed with a single steel door fit with a tiny window.
“It looks so inviting,” Aubrey said.
“Oh, stop,” Chloe said. She tried to turn the doorknob. “Hey, can one of you big, strong men come open this for me?” She winked at Aubrey.
“Never fear, little lady,” Dom announced.
After some grunting and sweating, Dom stepped back to rethink his approach.
“It’s really rusted shut.”
“Or maybe it’s locked?” Ryan asked.
They turned over the welcome mat and found a key.
Through the door was nothing but a single light and a commerical stairwell that looked like it belonged in a hotel or an office building. At the bottom of the stairs, a door opened, revealing the first story of the home.
A ring of perforated metal platforms and iron railings surrounded an open hole in the center of the room. Rough tunnels led away from the central room to each of the hand-dug, pod-shaped rooms of the home. The kitchen was the only exception to this design. Its entire width was carved out, giving it an open feeling.
With a white-knuckled grip on her flashlight and backpack strap, Aubrey walked carefully through the maze of items scattered across the floor to look through the hole in the center of the room. There was another level to the house twenty feet below them and one more below that, each with the same layout.
“Wow, this looks like Dom’s apartment,” Chloe said, picking a sock off of the rail next to Aubrey.
“Yeah, it smells like it too,” Ryan chimed in. “How did you find the one place in the desert that smells like mildew?”
“This is so cool, though,” Dom said, shining his light on a carved portion of the wall. “Look at this. They wanted a shelf, so they just dug one out. All you need is a shovel, and you can make any furniture you want. No trips to Lowe’s or watching how-to videos on Youtube.”
“So what were these people? Doomsday preppers?” Aubrey asked.
“Maybe religious nuts who thought they were sneaking microchips into vaccines,” Chloe said.
“Hey, that’s a real thing,” Ryan said.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I saw it in a Tiktok.”
They all laughed together.
They wandered into each room, looked around briefly, and came back out.
“Found the stairs to the other levels,” Dom reported. The others followed him into one of the round rooms and down the stairs.
They explored another ring of rooms, mostly bedrooms and a living room this time. They navigated past more items scattered about the floor, hanging on rails or up on shelves, or, somehow strangest of all, sitting exactly where they should be.
Aubrey leaned over the rail again. One more floor to go.
“What happened to the people that lived here?” Ryan asked.
Chloe shrugged. “Rumors say that they just stopped coming back to town. People started asking each other if they’d seen the Woods—”
“Wait, what woods?”
“That was their name. They were the Woods family. Anyway, the people asking around kept getting the same response, and eventually they decided they had better go check on ‘em. When they got here, it was empty. They say it’s been empty ever since.”
“You guys ready to check out the next floor?” Dom asked, already at the stairs. Aubrey ran to catch up.
On the next floor, Aubrey went back to the center of the room and leaned carefully over the rail. The hole in the center continued down further.
“Are there any more stairs going down?” she asked.
“No, this is the bottom,” Chloe said.
They walked into each of the rooms, leaving Aubrey by herself.
She couldn’t take her eyes off the hole. She shone her flashlight around its sides, traced it slowly down fifty feet, a hundred, even further still, until the light could no longer make the trip back up. The darkness seemed to be alive and chasing away the light as it moved.
She could feel a pull from something deep inside, far too far down, something that wanted to be with her. She knew that if she didn’t go to it, it would try to come to her. There was something lonely in the great empty chasm, as lonely as the only house in a valley, and it didn’t want to be lonely any longer. She moved her flashlight again, almost convinced that she could make out some dark shape trying to form.
“Hey—” Chloe said.
Aubrey screamed and slapped her mouth.
“Sorry. You okay?” Chloe asked.
Aubrey nodded.
“You good to stay for story time?”
“Yeah, let’s do it. Only…”
“What?”
“Can we do it on the top level?” Aubrey eyed the hole nervously.
Chloe saw what was worrying her and was a good enough friend to not tease her about it. “You got it. C’mon boys, heading upstairs.”
“You know this stuff is heavy, right?” Dom asked.
“Oh, is the poor football player getting tired?” Chloe teased and pulled Aubrey to the stairs.
Back at the top level, they picked a bedroom to set up in. As was their custom, they all sat in a circle on the floor around a Coleman gas lamp. Chloe pulled a bag of fun-sized candy bars out of her backpack and passed it around.
“Welcome one and all to our fifth annual Halloween haunt,” Chloe announced once they were all settled.
“Our first tale—” Thunder tumbled down the stairwell. Chloe laughed at its timing. “Our first tale begins on a dark and stormy night, just like this one,” she continued.
With the lantern’s flickering light shining up onto her face, she was the first to take a turn telling a spooky story she had prepared over the year. Once she was finished, Dom took a turn, then Ryan, and finally Aubrey.
When the stories were finished, Dom brought the Ouija board out of his backpack and laid it on the ground. Chloe led the group, asking the poor, tragic souls that could hear her calls if they would kindly respond with any sign, any sign at all. They all watched with eager fingertips on the planchette as nothing happened.
Satisfied that they had again failed to reach the supernatural, they unofficially segued into joke topics: hypothetical marriages, the number of kids they would each have, who would survive longer in Friday The 13th. Each answer was carefully nudged into place by four competing hands that were each trying not to give it away that they were also nudging, and the whole time, all of them knew that the others were nudging as well but obeyed the rule that you can’t admit that you know everyone is doing it.
At some point during their yearly traditions, Aubrey forgot all about the hole in the center of the house that led deep into the earth. It wasn’t until they were wrapping things up and discussing sleeping plans that she finally remembered it and the fact that she may have to see it once more, if only when leaving.
“Are you staying or going?” Chloe asked.
“Staying,” Aubrey said, trying to sound casual.
“Atta girl. You can stay in this room,” Chloe said, reading her mind as always.
“You’re missing out,” Dom said. “If I’m sleeping in an underground bunker, I’m sleeping as far down as I can get. You in?” he asked Ryan.
“Yeah, let’s go.”
“Chloe?” Dom asked.
Chloe looked at Aubrey.
Aubrey wanted to ask if Chloe would stay with her so they could stay up late like they did when they were younger and let their minds wander and conversation drift like a feather in the wind, but she knew Chloe wanted a chance to sneak off with Dom and let her go.
“You can go. I’ll be fine,” Aubrey said.
“If you need me, just yell. No doors!” Chloe said, and she slipped out of the lantern’s light.
Aubrey laid down on a sleeping bag and stared through the carved stone hallway into the eye of the house, and felt it staring back.
 
Aubrey dreamed that she was in the Friday The 13th movie on Crystal Lake, floating along in a canoe that was taking on water and unable to steer back toward her friends at the dock. The sides of the canoe dipped under and left her floating in the dark green water. Cold waves splashed her face as she was carried further from shore, helpless to get back to her friends.
She woke up in a sleeping bag that was soaking wet. She unzipped it, tossed the flap aside, and heard the splash of water as it slapped onto the wet floor.
The gas lamp threw her reflection onto the dark water that was filling the room.
She finally realized that the house was flooding.
She leaped to her feet and sprinted toward the door, then stopped and went back for a flashlight, then started again. The water was rising fast. It snuffed out the gas lamp before she was across the room again.
Her beam lit the hallway and the rising water. The hole in the center of the room was gone, or it was expanding to swallow the entire place.
She couldn’t move closer.
“Chloe! Chloe!” she yelled.
“Dom!” she tried.
“Ryan! Anyone?” she pleaded.
The water was at her waist. They had all gone lower, down into rooms that were now 20 or 40 feet under the surface of the rising water.
It didn’t make sense. They wouldn’t have left her. Her mind couldn’t let the only other explanation make sense.
The water was at her chest.
She held her flashlight high and started to move, but something else moved too. She jumped backward and swung the light around, trying to find whatever had moved. There was nothing.
Aubrey watched the hallway fill with water, telling herself as it raised each inch that it couldn’t possibly raise another. Not one more. It couldn’t raise one more. Still six inches left, it would stop there with enough room to breathe.
It didn’t.
Aubrey floated in the room, safe in a pocket of air formed by the arched ceiling of the room. The water seemed to have stopped rising.
She stared at the level. It still rose, but very slowly now. The air must have been escaping through pores in the rocks or natural cracks.
She tried to gauge how much time she had left. She held a thumb sideways to the wall, just above the water, and started counting. She counted a minute before her thumb went under. Maybe 40 or 50 thumbs to the ceiling. Less than an hour until the water squeezed all of the air out of the room. She knew she couldn’t wait for help.
Which way was the stairwell? It was one hallway to her left. No, that was the way down. The way up was two hallways to her right. Or was it three? It was hours ago when they explored the house.
She didn’t have time to get it wrong. She didn’t even have time to consider her plan. If the water was still rising, it might be all the way up the stairwell now, spilling out onto the desert.
Then something brushed against her leg, and she screamed and thrashed in the water.
Aubrey sucked in a huge breath and shoved off the wall. Her shoulder scraped against the rough tunnel as she swam through it.
The flashlight died in the water, leaving her completely blind.
She followed the wall with her right hand, found the end, and turned right.
She swam past the first doorway. Her lungs ached.
The next doorway was too wide; it had to be the kitchen. She used its wall to kick off again. Her chest heaved, trying to pull in air.
The third doorway had to be it. She went in, ten feet in, and found the stairs. She pulled on the rails to help propel her up the center of it and finally broke water.
She weakly dragged herself over the rail and onto the stairs, taking in great breaths to satisfy her burning chest. The water was still rising. If she had waited any longer, she may not have made it out.
One step at a time, staying just above the water, she slowly climbed the stairs. When she was ready, she stood and started walking.
She was on the last landing; another twelve stairs, and she would be at the top. She let the flashlight fall and saw the wet footprints in front of her, leading up each step.
At the top, lit by the glow of moonlight dampened by clouds, was something moving, writhing, coalescing, trying to take form but not yet sure which form to take.
It was something from far too far down in the hole, and it wasn’t lonely any longer.
","September 14, 2023 19:30",[]
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,i4i4nx,The Malberrie Haunted House,Camryn Hitchner,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/i4i4nx/,/short-story/i4i4nx/,Horror,0,"['Suspense', 'Horror', 'High School']",2 likes,"
It was the night of October thirty-first, and I was getting ready for my thirty-first shift at the Malberrie Haunted House. It was the Malberrie’s first year of being fully in business and it was quickly becoming the most popular Haunted House and Halloween attraction in all of Washington State. 
I won’t lie, this wasn’t where I imagined I would be at this time in my life. Not even close. I thought, or hoped I suppose, that I would be partying and hanging out with the rest of the kids in my grade, but money is money, and I happened to enjoy making it.
I have worked every day of October, six pm to midnight, and every time I have had to dress in crazy costumes and cover my face in fake blood.
I was given two costumes that I could choose to rotate throughout my time on the Malberrie scary crew, which is what we called ourselves. One was a ragdoll costume. It came with a bloody, torn up, doll dress, a messy red string hair wig, and of course the look was topped off with a stitched smile and fake blood dripping from my eyes, like scarlet tear drops. I also had to carry around a bloody teddy bear when dressed as the ragdoll. The second, my preferred costume, was a clown. I wore a jumpsuit of all sorts of different patterns. The left leg was covered with different patches of random cloth. The right leg was rainbow checkered and the abdominal section was bright yellow with pumpkin shaped buttons in the center, and each sleeve matched the opposite leg. So the right arm had patches and the left was checkered. 
The best part of this costume, however, was the object I was given to carry around, a knife. A long bladed knife. It was fake, of course. The difference between this knife and a real one was this knife would retract into itself when pressure was applied to the tip, rather than stabbing through whatever it had been pressed upon. This knife gave me the ability to truly fall into the role of a crazy clown. When dressed as the ragdoll, my acting options were extremely limited. I was unable to build my character and really scare the incoming customers. With the knife though, I was able to add my own touch to the clown. I didn’t just have to walk closely to the people coming through my area, with my head tilted and the teddy bear clutched tightly between my arms, hysterically laughing or screaming. Instead, I was able to act out the true psychotic nature of a killer clown. 
Some days I would choose to pretend as if I had just found the knife, and as I found it I acted as if I had just come up with the best idea. To use it on myself. So I would press the knife into my stomach, or chest, or leg, several times, until my audience was so disturbed they rushed away from my section. That initial stab would always receive a few screams from those watching, if not out of fear, then out of shock. That was good enough for me. 
Other days I would hide the knife behind my back, jump in front of a group, and tip toe up to my coworker from behind, making the customers believe they were unsuspecting even though they were absolutely in on it. Right as I reached the back of my coworker, I would turn to the crowd behind me, raise a single finger up to my lips, as if to signal their secrecy, and wink at them. Then I would turn swiftly, and press the knife into my coworkers back. My coworker would freeze before grasping at the knife that had been ‘implanted’ into their back, and follow that by quickly crumbling to the ground, pretending to die. After this act, I would turn to the crowd, give a large and crazed smile. Then I would sprint towards them with the knife raised above my head, implying that they too would suffer the same fate as my coworker had. They usually would all run and scream, and when they had completely cleared the area, my coworker and I would laugh and high five, pleased with the reactions we had invoked. 
The only other idea I had for an ‘act’, was to ‘stab’ one of our paying customers. However, that was against my contract. “The actors, a part of the Malberrie scary crew, within the Malberrie Haunted House were to not come in direct contact with any of the attractions viewers/customers.” It was implemented to keep the company safe from the looming threat of being sued. It was smart, I guess, just made my job slightly less fun. 
Tonight was the final night of the haunted house showing, so of course I planned to wear my favorite costume. I was running a little late already and was having a hard time finding all the pieces. I yelled to my mom, “MOM? Do you know where my clown costume is?” 
“I washed it!” She had hollered back. I ran down the stairs and into the laundry room where my clown costume hung from the shelf. I reached out to grab it, but it was still damp. 
I rolled my eyes, “Great,” I whispered under my breath, “MOM? Where is my ragdoll one?”
“In the washer right now, why?” she replied. 
“Nevermind, “ I muttered as I pulled the damp suit from the hanger. I threw it into the dryer and prayed that it wouldn’t shrink, or fade, or bleed. I had to wait a total of twenty minutes before the dryer dinged, calling out to me, letting me know the clothes inside were fresh, warm, and dry. I put it on as fast as I could, grabbed my keys, and rushed out the door. I didn’t realize until I was about a block from my house that I had forgotten the key part, not to mention my favorite part, of the outfit. The knife. I turned around and sped back. I threw my car into park, but I didn’t bother turning it off before I got out. I quickly ran up to the door, before I had even reached my hand out to grasp the doorknob, I saw the knife sitting on the front patio chair. I said a quick thank you to my mom in my head before grabbing it and hurrying back to my car. 
Somehow I pulled into the parking lot at five fifty-five pm, thankfully not late, not yet at least. I raced into the “employee’s only” door, frantically tossed my stuff into my locker, and grabbed the tablet to clock in. The time read five fifty-nine, practically right on time. I let out a heavy sigh of relief, and felt a hand on my shoulder. I spun around swiftly to see who it was. 
“Jeez! Sorry,” Amber, my coworker who would always put on my acts with me, said, “I didn’t mean to scare you.” 
A small laugh escaped my chest, “It’s cool, I was just filled with adrenaline, thought I was late.”
She smiled.  She was the first person I met when I started here, and we had become fast friends. She started working here shortly before me and showed me the ropes when I was brought on. We had similar dreams and hopes, but mainly we got along because we both enjoyed scaring the heck out of others. 
“So what’s our first act tonight?” Amber asked. 
I brought my hand to my face and rubbed my chin with my pointer finger, pretending to give her question a serious amount of thought, when I had really had my mind made up since that morning, “I think…” I started, slowly allowing my hand to retire from its task, “we should probably start with the regular attack, but let’s spice it up a bit. I’ll sneak up on you like normal, but this time, when I turn around to tell them to be quiet, you turn around slowly, wink at the crowd, and grab my knife and ‘stab’ me instead.”
Her eyes shimmered with excitement, “Oh my gosh!” she squealed, “That is guaranteed to get us more than just a few screams!”
“That’s not all, I say you follow me to the ground, ‘stab’ me again, and then raise your head up to the people, slowly tilt your head,” I explained as I illustrated the way it would look as she did it, “and then run at them.”
She jumped back a little and laughed as I ran towards her, “Now that,” she agreed, “will get us a lot of screams.” 
I smiled at her, “Okay, you ready?”
She nodded. I grabbed the knife from my locker, and we headed towards our designated area of the haunted house to prepare for our first audience. 
After about three minutes of standing around and waiting, we heard voices coming from around the corner. “Our first victims,” I told her as I rubbed my hands together and let out a small mischievous giggle.
We quickly got into our positions, and as the group rounded the corner, I snuck out in front of them, the knife behind my back. The crowd let out a gasp as I tip-toed beyond them, they even paused in fear when I initially jumped in front of them. I knew we were about to get an amazing reaction. Slowly, I crept towards Amber. When I reached her I turned to the people behind me, I raised my hand to my lips telling them to be quiet, just as we had planned. 
As I did this I surveyed the group. Four teen girls. Probably around the same age as myself, sixteen or seventeen. They all clung to each other's arms, whispering, “Oh my god,” and “I’m scared,” to one another. I smiled behind my finger, knowing that our act was about to scare the absolute shit out of them. 
In my peripheral vision I saw Amber beginning to turn towards me and the crowd. I actually had to bite my tongue in order to keep myself from laughing. I could feel the anticipation surging through my body. 
She winked, and swiftly grabbed the wrist of my hand that held the knife. The group let out another gasp, in unison, and they all screamed as Amber pushed the knife into my abdomen. 
Strangely though, so did I. I screamed louder and harder than I ever had in my life. Amber immediately broke out of her character and looked at me, concern stained her face, panic flashed in her eyes. I watched as her gaze shifted from my own eyes down to where the knife was. My legs began to feel tingly and unstable. I could feel myself drifting to the floor. Amber followed me down, just as planned. That’s, I think, when she saw the blood. She rapidly ripped the knife out from inside me, and hurled it down the hall as if the knife was the scariest thing in the world. 
The group saw this as an opportunity and rushed past us. I heard one of the girls say to the others, “That was too real for me.” They just didn’t realize how real. But no one came to my aid, and my vision blurred. Amber sat holding her legs to her chest, unblinking, and held tightly onto my hand. I wonder how long she stayed that way. Five minutes? An hour? Until close? I’ll never know, because that night, the night of October thirty-first, during my thirty-first shift at the Malberrie Haunted House, I was stabbed. I died. 
 
","September 14, 2023 23:46",[]
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,1mth1i,Night Terrors,Jon Blackstock,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/1mth1i/,/short-story/1mth1i/,Horror,0,"['Horror', 'Suspense', 'Speculative']",2 likes,"
	The child's laughter was the worst of all. With her red hair cascading down her rotting face, she laughed, always facing Charles, looking dead into his eyes. The wind blew through her tattered dress and tattered torso, the ripped flesh at one moment seeming like a terrible injury and at another like a part that had fallen off naturally. She opened her mouth wide and wailed a screeching laugh that pierced the drums of Charles Wallace's ears.
 
	The child did not walk but appeared and disappeared and re-appeared as a random apparition in the darkened abyss of Charles Wallace’s room in a haunted asylum in the Appalachian foothills. As she grew closer, Charles could define no specific threat the child posed except for her insistence that she existed and the implication that he did not. 
 
	That and the fact that she was just a harbinger, for as soon as she disappeared for the last time, the red-haired hag appeared from the same dark corner, replacing the child and adding only the horror of hope. And then, without obeisance, the hag disappeared, and without a sense of having woken from a dream, Charles Wallace sat at the edge of his bed waiting for sunrise.
 
	""These,"" Charles decided aloud, ""are not run-of-the-mill night terrors.""
 
	The sunrise he'd waited for in silent solitude made its way over the opposing side of the old farmhouse, stretching long shadows across the dewy valley toward the bases of the Appalachian foothills. The immediate range of mountains presented an impenetrable fortress surrounding the flood plains, cow pastures and pecan groves. Charles watched the morning drama unfold from his third story room in the Avalon Sanitarium. 
 
	The shadows stretched and retreated, a dark tide under the sparkling light of antic sprites dispersing across the furtive fog. He'd been awake and afraid since the visitation: sitting, cowering, quietly praying for dawn. And when it broke, indirect light spilled in, casting long shadows in his room—dancing figures that scared away the threat of new visitations.
 
	Charles could smell breakfast cooking downstairs, so he dressed in unnecessarily formal attire that included a neck wrap tucked into his collared shirt. Formality gave Charles a sense of normality, a nostalgic reminder of a life before the sanitarium, a wistful keepsake of a time that he, when pressed, couldn't even vaguely recall. 
 
	He plucked his tweed coat from a round iron fixture that had been screwed in about waist-high on the wall—waist-high to Charles, but Charles was tall. There was another one on the opposite wall where he hung his least favorite hat. The large I-bolts, his counselor had told him, had been used when the original owner's wife had come to visit. 
 
	Ironically, the wife, who'd inherited the land, had been made a permanent resident of a sanitarium south of the mountain line. Her husband would, on occasion, bring her to the home, but the house had to be modified to accommodate her particular condition. The I-bolts allowed her to be restrained while standing, humanely decreasing bedsores and allowing the wife to look out over the pecan groves and foggy flood plains of Avalon. 
 
	The restraints didn't intimidate Charles any more than the mountains or the sanitarium itself. Something comforting, there was, in the formality and conventions of restraints and foothills—a society of boundaries like love. Something, there is, in freedom, however—a lost fragmented memory, a disintegrating structure.
 
	On the way down to breakfast, Charles passed the usual cast of residents who wandered the halls, usually in bathrobes, looking at the various artworks that almost completely hid the walls—paintings of fruit overflowing in bowls and faceless women in white bonnets working the fields. Charles did not know what some of the residents' faces looked like, and the others had expressionless faces anyway. He made no eye contact with any of them as he descended two flights of stairs to the east dining room. The other residents were free to do what they wanted—hopeless cases they were. He, on the other hand, had hope of an appointment.
 
	He sat at his regular place, facing out through the windows of a porch that had been converted into a Florida room. Two poached eggs, melon, and coffee waited. He tried to eat first, and he had started, but he couldn't contain his excitement. He swallowed some coffee and checked under the napkin.
 
	There, he found a small white envelope sealed with a golden fleur-de-lis sticker. He closed his eyes and opened the envelope, trying not to tear the design. Inside, he found the stiff white appointment card he'd longed to find: 
 
	Patient  Charles Wallace  
	has an appointment to see
	counselor  Raya Lethe 
	at  her office  at  9:00 a.m.
 
	He finished eating and waited as long as he could. He decided that he did not want to be late, so at 8:45 he stood, placed the invitation in his pocket, and walked down the hallway to meet the counselor—his counselor. At first, he sat on a wooden bench outside her office, but he sensed that the office was empty. He could hear no sounds after a few minutes, even though he could hear other residents walking slowly down the carpeted hall around the corner.
 
	When he put his ear to the door, he realized the door was not latched. It opened to a dark room. Charles felt up the side of the wall for a light switch, but he could not find one. He slung the door open, allowing the morning light from the foyer to show him a totally empty room. 
 
	There was no chair, no desk, no phone, and no lamp. This arrangement of furniture is what he thought he'd remembered. This, he thought, could have come from the time before, but he had no idea. Regardless, only emptiness filled the room, and as for Lethe, he saw only her absence.
 
	""Stop. Wait."" An elderly woman, maybe in her late seventies, had walked down the hall. She looked straight ahead as if she were taking great care not to fall. ""Where is the...?""
 
	He could tell the woman was going to walk by. Charles grabbed her by the shoulders to stop her. She looked straight ahead even when Charles stood directly in front of her.
 
	""Where is Miss Lethe—Miss Lethe, the counselor? Where is she?""
 
	The woman waited until Charles let her go, and then she continued her slow, steady pace down the hall. He re-checked the room, and then he re-checked the invitation. He walked back toward the dining room and the staircase where he saw a man looking at an oil painting of another faceless man on a ladder reaching a stick up into an apple tree.
 
	""Where is she?"" Charles asked and turned the man around. ""Where is Miss Lethe—Miss Raya Lethe? Where is the counselor?"" The man simply continued to turn when Charles let him go until he'd spun full circle and stared again at the painting.
 
	He then heard another person descending the stairs, a woman—a younger woman this time—about Charles's age. He ran to the stairs to jump in front of her before she could get to the bottom. She tried to go around him one way, and then the other while Charles asked, ""Why has she left me? I have to tell her about the dream. I have to tell her about the visitation.""
 
	When the woman gave up trying to walk around Charles, she finally looked him in the eyes and smirked.
 
	""What?"" he asked. ""What was that?""
 
	Then she laughed a little before laughing a little more until she finally spewed laughter into Charles's distraught face.
 
	""What are you laughing at? What?""
 
	Charles stood aside and let her pass, and when she did, she joined the rest of the residents that Charles had encountered earlier. One at a time, they all broke into laughter. The once lifeless covey of fellow residents had become animated and even cooperative, standing and laughing at Charles.
 
	""Where is she? What have you people done with the counselor? I have to see—""
 
	""No, Mr. Wallace, you want to look.""
 
	Charles turned to see a man in overalls standing on the landing at the second floor. At first, the man did not look at Charles; then, he seemed to have been always watching him. Charles ascended to the man at the top of first staircase.
 
	""What do you mean by that?"" Charles asked him. ""I demand to know...."" Without any re-action from the man upstairs, Charles realized he had no right to demand anything, including the right to know.
 
	""I mean simply, my boy, that you go through this cycle every day. Terrors, breakfast, panic, sex, blackout, terrors, and start again. You should get some real sleep, and then try doing something terribly different tomorrow.""
 
	Charles had become aware that the laughter had stopped, and then he looked down to see that the rabble had dispersed.
 
	""I can't sleep,"" Charles told the caretaker. ""The nightmare returns. The girl accuses me, and the hag threatens me.""
 
	""Nightmares?"" the man said. ""Oh, I say, you really do need some sleep. What, pray-tell, leads you to the conclusion that she is a nightmare?""
 
	""She? But there are two: a girl and—""
 
	""See, as I say, you look, but you don't see. Try hard, Charles, to do something original tomorrow.""
 
	""If only.... If only I could remember what I did before,"" Charles said.
 
	""Before what, Charles?""
 
	""Wait,"" Charles said. ""How do you even know my name is Charles?""
 
	""How do you know I am the caretaker, Charles?""
 
	Charles had no answer for this. ""How did you even know I thought—?""
 
	""Some days,"" the man continued, ""you ask me who I am, and some days you do not. Some days you remember just that much, and some days you don't care. But I keep you from returning to her. Carry on, my boy."" The caretaker had begun to descend the stairs. ""Carry on.""
 
	Charles regained faith and returned to his bedroom where he slung the door open and found the counselor standing and looking out the window where Charles had watched the sunrise spread across the sanitarium yard. She wore an Easter dress with festive flower prints—a mostly white dress with flowers of half the colors in the world. She had long blond hair and blue eyes that sparkled in his soul as she turned to face him.
 
	""You have to sleep, Charlie,"" she said.
 
	Charles realized this was probably the most beautiful girl who'd ever spoken to him. She was younger, but not unreasonably younger. Charles really couldn't guess her age. Maybe she was whatever age she wanted to be. Or worse—maybe she was whatever age he wanted her to be.
 
	""I've tried, but the visits—they wake me up, and then I just sit on the bed there and wait for daylight.""
 
	""Here on this bed?"" she asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.
""Like this?"" she asked. She patted the bed. He didn't respond.
 
	""Why do you wait for daylight, Charlie?""
 
	""Because,"" he said, ""you come at daylight. When you are here, the visitors are not.""
 
	""Sit with me, Charlie."" She patted the bed. This time, he could not refuse. ""Do you realize,"" she said, ""that this is the first time you've ever admitted this? You've never admitted that you needed me. In fact, you've never admitted any weakness at all. Ever.""
 
	""Why would I do that now?"" he asked honestly. ""Do you think it's because...?""
 
	He stopped because she had started to smile. She closed her eyes, smiled, and even rolled her head around as if she were getting a massage or was hearing her favorite song.
 
	""Go ahead, Charlie. Go ahead and say it.""
 
	""I was just going to say that...that maybe I admitted something...something more because we met here...in my bedroom...in my bed.""
 
	""Oh, Charlie. Where did we meet yesterday, Charlie?""
 
	""In your...."" He really didn't recall, but he assumed, ""We met in your office like we always do. Like we always do.""
 
	""Oh, Charlie, can you remember ever meeting in my office? Where did you sit? What did we talk about?""
 
	""I remember you. I remember you are pretty."" Charlie closed his eyes, and a flood of soothing realities washed away the darkness in his mind. ""I remember the ghosts not being there. I remember a bright light of sweet oblivion where regret and fear will never reach me. Never.""
 
	""Do you remember making love to me, Charlie?""
 
	When he opened his eyes, Lethe had disrobed, and Charlie threw his arms around her, allowing himself to be engulfed into her endless light where regret and fear lost all meaning.
 
	""Give yourself to me, Charlie,"" she said, or someone said. Charlie wasn't sure who said it.
 
	""What? Who are you?""
 
	""Give yourself to me.""
 
	Charlie didn't remember saying no, but when he opened his eyes to a room of utter darkness, he knew he must have denied something.
 
	Charlie tried to look out the window, but the world had grown so dark that the night was indistinguishable from the room. He rubbed his right arm down his left shoulder, which was wet from sweat, and he, Charles Wallace, found himself naked and alone.
 
	He knew they would be coming—the visitors, and no sooner did he know than did the little girl walk out of the dark corner. She had red hair, and her white teeth showed through her left cheek where the skin had fallen. He could even see her tongue between her teeth when she laughed. And she fizzled into oblivion on one side of the room and zapped into being in another. And she laughed.
 
	And in a voice he recognized, she said, ""Why do you remember me? And you don't remember my sister, the smiling one?"" She laughed again. Then she said in that recognizable voice with the rhythm of a nursery rhyme, ""She falls away as I now do, and rot away we do. It's true. But she would not--oh she would not--laugh at you as I must do.""
 
	""Why? What have I done?""
 
	""Oh, poor man, there is no sin, only regret for what could have been.""
 
	Charles closed his eyes. He could take no more. He wanted to scream, maybe for help. Where was sweet Miss Lethe? But he did not scream for fear that his voice would conjure what he loathed most, and when he thought of that, he heard her voice and knew he'd thought aloud.
 
	""And fear of what shall be?""
 
	The hag now stood in the darkness beyond the table in the middle of the room. A single candle arrangement showed that, as always, the girl had been replaced by the hag. She stood beside an empty bookcase and draped her arm across an orange chair covered in protective plastic.
 
	She approached him slowly, saying nothing as usual. He wanted to holler at her to admit something, to threaten him, to tell him what she wanted. But she admitted nothing, and approached at a steady speed that brought her closer but never closer than infinitely far away.
 
	""You think she doesn't really want me,"" he said. ""You think she'll leave me again. Every day, another death. That's what you think.""
 
	The hag laughed a shrill little howl and admitted nothing of the sort.
 
	""But it's different now. It's different.""
 
	Charles looked at the hag as he never had before. He looked without wavering, like watching a white spot in the darkness until it disappears. This time, however, the hag stopped her laugh, not so much in defeat but in acceptance. She stepped into the corner and looked back at Charles. In the recognizable voice, she said, ""But it's nothing, Charles. Can you fathom nothing? Do you not fear nothing and eternity?""
 
	Charles closed his eyes: ""Not more than this,"" he said.
 
	And when he opened his eyes, his counselor walked out of a bright light in the corner that ate the darkness and the furnishings and the sanitarium. Charles, standing, embraced her as she enveloped him.
 
	""This,"" Charles decided aloud, ""was not the run-of-the-mill bliss.""
","September 15, 2023 01:27",[]
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,6w27t0,Hostility House,Ari Loden,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/6w27t0/,/short-story/6w27t0/,Horror,0,"['Fiction', 'Horror']",2 likes,"
tw // verbal, emotional, and physical abuseCarol jerked awake. The sudden movement caused her dog, Hamster, to topple from the foot of the bed.Her husband shifted. His voice, tired and bearish, was low. “God, Carol, what is it?”Her own voice, panicked and high-strung, contrasted his. “You didn’t hear that whispering?”“What whispering?”“It was right in my ear! Mike, that wasn’t you?”“No. Did it sound like me?”“Well… no. I guess not.”“See, wasn’t me. No whispering. Only sleeping. Or trying to.”“Where’d Hamster go? Hamster!” Carol called.“He’ll be fine. Sleep.”She sighed then patted Mike’s side. “Okay, I’m sorry. Sweet dreams, Mike.”He grunted and soon began snoring. She sat up for a while in the dark still, watchful.***When she woke up, Mike wasn’t there. “Michael?” The muffled din of pots and pans carried from downstairs, along with her husband’s trademark curses. Relieved, Carol got out of bed and put her slippers on.She slowed halfway down the stairs. Her skin tingled. Without knowing why, her body tensed. She looked downstairs to see Mike’s back, him facing what smelled like eggs and bacon. He was dressed, though it was the weekend. Hamster was at the foot of the stairs devouring his own breakfast.She didn’t want to be on the staircase anymore. Hurriedly, she continued her descent. “Michael.”“Hi, honey.” He didn’t turn around.“Do you think the house could be haunted?”He winced, dropped the spatula, caught it. He faced her. “No! Is this about the ‘whispering’?”“Partly, yes.”“Partly. Okay. Carol, we’ve lived here for four years. It wasn’t haunted before, why would it be haunted now?”She shifted her feet. “I don’t know.”“You don’t know.”“I just have this feeling—”“And I have a feeling that it’ll rain cats and dogs today, but look, clear skies and reality!” He threw the spatula into the sink and stalked off toward the front door. “Damn it, Carol!” he roared as he passed her. Hamster hovered protectively over his food, growling but scared himself.Mike flung the door open and put on his shoes.Her voice was small, “Mike?”He slammed the door.Wide-eyed, Carol stared at the door for a moment. Hamster whined at her. She could smell the eggs and bacon burning.***Mike came home late that night. Carol was watching TV when he came in. He’d spooked her; she wasn’t expecting him to come home, and she’d been hearing all sorts of unexplainable, strange noises… none of which she felt she could tell her husband about now.He glanced at her and looked like he had something to say but decided against it. Instead, he withdrew upstairs. She had no clue what was going on with him but felt it was her fault. All she’d said was she heard some whispering!That night, she slept on the couch.***The next evening, they had a talk.He said that lately he noticed some unbecoming changes in her, but wouldn’t elaborate on what they were or how she could fix them. She asked if what she said about the house bothered him, but he only clenched his fists. He never answered any of her questions. It was more like a lecture, not a talk between a husband and wife of six years. Her hands fidgeted the entire time—her way of trying not to look around her incessantly, as she heard mysterious noises then as well and didn’t want to upset Mike. But he caught her attention when he ended with:“Carol, I love you, but if anything ‘haunted’ comes up again, don’t tell me about it. That’s a hard rule from now on. I don’t want to leave you, but I will.”She lifted her face, shell-shocked, and shook her head at this. “What? Why?”“I’ve said my piece,” he said as he got up from the table.Carol pushed her body up with the table, chair squealing behind her. “Michael, I haven’t said mine!”It was too late, he’d disappeared up the stairs. Did he expect her to go to bed with him like nothing had happened? Follow this ridiculous rule, which just boiled down to her not being able to confide in her husband? Her brow furrowed, and she was left feeling very confused.Who was this man?***A month had gone by, and Carol hadn’t mentioned hauntings again. She’d played the good wife. She still heard things, even started seeing things like shadows, quick movements. Whenever she was home alone, Carol talked to Hamster about these things; Hamster didn’t judge. But because of what Michael had said, she honestly wondered if she was going crazy. Every night once Michael had fallen asleep, she cried, afraid.Every morning before he went to work, she wanted to tell him. The words were on the tip of her tongue, but she held them back. Said, ‘See you later, honey. Have a good day,’ and told Hamster instead as she got ready for work herself. If the floor creaked, she and Hamster flinched. If there was a whisper, their heads snapped toward the direction it came from, their fight or flight instincts awakened. Hamster hid behind the couch if he saw a shadow move questionably.And then its behavior escalated further. Sometimes a vase or picture frame or lamp was knocked over or thrown. Carol trembled as she cleaned up the mess and came up with an excuse to tell her husband.Carol was torn. She wanted to get out of that house, for her and for Hamster, but she didn’t think Mike would leave even if the house was on fire.Can’t I just leave? Carol thought as she put her makeup on one morning. Her eyes were swollen from crying. She cried because she couldn’t talk to her husband and because when she opened the refrigerator that morning, every single item—milk, butter, jam jars—had been set on its side. This was unmistakably the weirdest thing whatever lived in the house with them had done. Not very scary, but this had unsettled her that much more because of it.She didn’t think she could take much more.***That Saturday, Carol awoke early, too much anxiety weighing down on her to sleep well.She went downstairs to prepare breakfast. When she turned the burners on, a thundering, ominous screech started up. She recoiled and turned them off. The noise stopped. She and Hamster exchanged looks, then she turned the burners on again. The screeching started again. It even sounded when she opened up a cupboard or the refrigerator.Carol was rattled, her head in agony. “Stupid migraines,” she mumbled. Upstairs, Mike didn’t stir. She took a deep breath, shakily put earplugs in, and got to cooking.As soon as the food was ready, Hamster began barking louder than he ever had before.She winced. “Hammy, no. Shhh, shhh.” Carol petted him until he calmed down.Mike came downstairs and kissed her cheek. “Hi, honey.”“Hi. I made your favorite.”“You did. It looks delicious.” He sat at the table, where Carol’d already placed a big plate for him.They ate in silence for a minute, but Carol couldn’t hold it in any longer—the shrieking kitchen had reassured her of that. Nervous, she wiped the sweat off her palms. “Michael?”He grunted, digging into his French toast.“I’ve been—” Hamster started barking uncontrollably again. “Hammy! Hamster, come here,” she cooed.“You better shut that dog up, he’ll piss off the neighbors.”“Hamster, shhh, shhh.”As Carol got Hamster to quiet down, Michael continued to eat. Hamster whined and paced around the table and kitchen peninsula.“He’s acting funny,” Mike remarked.She tried to laugh it off. “Yeah, I don’t know what his problem is. But, anyway, Michael?”“Yeah?”“Um, I know what you’ll say and I’m sorry, but I have to say it. I really, really think the house is haunted. I keep—”A loud, exasperated groan left his lips. He threw his fork down on the plate and pointed at her, “Carol, I told you—”“I know and I tried! I tried, okay?! I can’t hold it in anymore!”“There’s nothing to hold in! The house is not haunted!”“Then why do I keep hearing and seeing things? You didn’t hear that loud as fuck screeching earlier?”“There wasn’t any screeching!”“You didn’t see how the entire fridge was turned upside down!”“The entire… what? Carol, listen to yourself! You haven’t heard or seen anything!”“How would you know?! And, and all those things that broke! They’d fall on their own, fly across the room!”Mike massaged his temples. “You said you accidentally knocked those down.”“I lied! You haven’t let me talk to you!” She noticed she’d started to cry.“You can talk to me… as long as you talk some goddamn sense!”“What about Hamster? Him, too! He reacts and gets scared!”“He’s reacting to you! He’s a dog, dogs react to people!”“Why else would he bark so much today?”“He’s a dog, Carol!”“And the house is haunted, Michael!” she sobbed.“I’m done!” Face red, he heatedly got out of his chair, hurled his used napkin at her, and tromped upstairs. Carol sat, vigorously swiping at her tears with the backs of her hands. Her head throbbed. She thought she heard him packing.Her mind whirled and tumbled, frantic but exhausted. He’s packing? What does this mean for me?He loudly came down the stairs, suitcase in tow.She gasped. “Where are you going? You’re leaving? Are you serious?”No response.He got to the door and opened it, but Carol was right there and closed it again. He turned on her and shoved her back. She stumbled but didn’t go down—she felt something behind her that had prevented her from falling, though there was nothing there but empty space. Hamster stood a yard away, barking and snarling.“Goodbye,” he said with contempt. He slammed the door, leaving it vibrating.Carol stood there rigidly, slowly feeling time go by and not being able to do anything about it. She couldn’t move. Hamster whimpered and howled, prancing around in front of her to try to get her attention.But she already knew.She could feel and even smell its breath, its presence, behind her.She couldn’t describe it in her mind; she was too afraid, her mind a complete blank… everything from her husband’s betrayal to what stood behind her had taken its toll.
","September 15, 2023 05:27",[]
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,j4zx0y,Paralysis,Ian Grogan,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/j4zx0y/,/short-story/j4zx0y/,Horror,0,"['Horror', 'Suspense', 'Thriller']",2 likes,"
	Dreaming, your stomach feels weightless in your throat as you find yourself falling into a darkened chasm with no idea when or how long you have been descending. Looking up, you notice a trickle of light, a possible source of where you may have befallen. Reaching out to the light, you try to escape as the glow suffocates in the surrounding blackness. Fear and loneliness encase you like a mother’s womb and you succumb to the bleak surroundings, forfeiting any fight left inside. 
 It’s over, you think to yourself.
           4:13    
	In a jolt, you wake and your eyes forcefully open to familiar territory. The room glows a deep red as the projection from the digital table-top clock shines into the desolate night, illuminating the subtle silhouettes within it. You catch your breath but realize the only thing able to move is your eyes and your consciousness. You are frozen.  Frantically, your vision scans what little scenery occupies your perception; the clock above your head reads 4:13 through rapid blinks as you let your pupils adjust to the searing crimson. The Nordic dresser displays your lofty laundry goals which sits adjacent to the bamboo headboard hovering above your skull. Before you, the outline of your body reflects in a crimson glow on the blank 50” screen settled on the media stand perpendicular to your bed. You can just barely make out the plaid pattern sprawled across your body, encasing, as you panic to be freed. The pictures on your wall stare at you ominously.
	Further exploration causes you to notice the ominous void nestled in the corner at the bottom of your eyesight. You can feel the black mass looming precariously, the figure gathering energy from its surroundings. It doesn’t belong. It pulsates, unrhythmically, disjointed. Suddenly, the form begins to shift. It weaves and contorts its shape menacingly. Limbs sprout and stretch as they jut across the walls and lunge into the floor, propelling the form from ground level into the air. The disheveled darkness slowly begins drifting towards your bed and you hear the rasp of its breath as it takes every stride in anguish. A silent cacophony in a wave of numb terror.
           4:14
	You wriggle and fight and yell internally. Neurons fail to carry the message to their intended targets; your body remains motionless. The panic builds inside you as the presence disappears from your gaze. Your eyes flutter as they try to focus on where the mass has migrated. Undetected, its limbs reach the end of your bed and cause it to lower under the immense power. Slowly, the blanket begins to slide off your body. Your shoulders, chest, hip, knees and finally feet all gradually become exposed to the elements. The cool night air tickles your exposed skin. Goosebumps. Your eyes transfix on the television, watching your reflection as the mass tosses the blanket aside and begins to crawl up your body. A front row seat to your own hell.
	You watch as the outstretched fingers jaggedly creep up your calves, feeling each digit burn your skin like lit cigarettes. The mattress creaks as it attempts to support the extra weight. You sink into the newly formed crater, mummifying your corpse. 
 4:15
	You close your eyes, tight. Maybe if you pay no attention to it, the beast will cease to exist. Your immature actions are immediately invalidated as you feel the monster plant more extremities into the bed around you and begin to encapsulate your frame. You feel the mass slowly lower itself onto your body, your chest aches as you fight for breath. The shapeless form shrouds your presence. You hear the figure breathing in tune with your gasps as if it were mimicking your struggle. The long wheezes break the silence in the room. If this were it, it would be time for your body to regain its strength and fight back. Paralyzed. Nothing. You’re trapped in your own useless cadaver as the tomb begins to irradicate what hope you have left.
	The figure leans in close. You can feel the searing breath paint the back of your neck as the smell of burnt plastic and tar attacks your nostrils. The monster stops moving. You can’t even see your reflection on the television. You are lost. Just then, it begins to speak. “Try as you will,” the low harsh voice crawls in your ears and infiltrates your mind, “you cannot escape me.” You struggle. You can’t. “I will aways be here, lurking, waiting. I am your shadow, your force, what awaits you. I warned you, told you to leave.” You struggle. You can’t. “I am eternal.” Its last gasp singes your nerves and traumatizes your core.
 4:16
	 You shoot up. Your entire spirit is released all at once and a thousand impulses react, directing you to sit straight up in your bed. Sweat drains rapidly from your forehead, down your cheek, slows at your neck and nestles on the already damp collar of your shirt. In a momentary lapse of confusion, you try everything you can to breathe once again. Air quickly fills your lungs and you feel the oxygen loading your blood stream and kick starting your extremities. You scan the room. Red. No black, just a red glow. The reflection of yourself stares back at you sullenly. 
	You reach for the half-crumpled pack of Marlboros and the lighter resting on your bedside table just beside the clock. You shakenly raise your hand to grab one of the cigarettes and slowly bring it to your mouth. With your other hand, you place the lighter at the crux of the smoke and in and instant, strike a flame. The spark briefly blinds you as it turns the tobacco into a glowing coal at the tips of your fingers. You inhale, deeply. The smoke fills the room. The stream emanating off the cigarette enters your nose and tickles your sense of smell. Your nerves begin to calm. Your mind races. You have no idea what to do next. You exhale.
 4:17
	A faint hint of burnt plastic and tar still fills the air. 
	You must move.
","September 11, 2023 03:26",[]
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,bgx7be,The Great Serpent's Manor,Nusaiba Hossain,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/bgx7be/,/short-story/bgx7be/,Horror,0,"['Fiction', 'Horror', 'Mystery']",1 like,"
No matter who you are or what you are, if you enter this manor you will not make it out…
 
How scary could it be? I questioned myself laying on my bed submerged in my unusual but nearly useless thoughts. Turning to my side I saw the huge manor situated at the top of a hill. Far away from the neighborhood, yet people still think each full moon, it releases bad omens upon the village. 
 
My parents were ghostbusters, they travelled from country to country to hunt down ghosts but never dared to even talk about the ‘Great Serpent’s Manor’, yep, that’s the name of that strange place. The name was probably given by some good old, ancient lunatic. My mind drifted to what people would say if I went into the manor and made it out alive, so far no one succeeded in this task, I’d be known as the hero of the village, I can just imagine it. With that thought and a new mission set in my brain, I went to sleep.
 
I woke up to the sun shining at my face, “ugh”, I groaned out of annoyance. My parents were not home like always. I forced myself out of bed and dragged my feet towards the washroom. I freshened up and made my bed. I’m a teenager but exceptionally organized. I've always wanted a girlfriend but my mother always told me to focus on my studies for now. It was still early so my aunt and uncle had not woken up yet. I made myself a quick lemonade and cycled through the whole neighborhood. After coming back I took a shower and started going through my biology notes for my next biology exam.
 
After I was done studying I went downstairs to have breakfast. I saw my aunt sitting on the counter working on her laptop and having some pancakes. “Morning”, I said in a monotone. “Oh, good morning dear. Listen, me and your uncle were invited to dinner at my boss’s place-"" ""I don’t wanna go”, I replied sitting a few chairs away from her. “oh, but don’t you think you should focus on your social life? You know, his daughter is very pretty.” she  said, wiggling her eyebrows. “I don’t want a girlfriend”, that’s a terrible lie I thought. “Oh come on when your father was at your age he would sneak out of the house just to meet his girlfriend”, she said smiling, I gave her a cold stare, ”do I look like an idiot who has a table full of options on job taking and chose to be a ghostbuster, I think not.” I snapped at her. “Woah, easy there bud”, my uncle walks in and plants a kiss on his wife’s head. I got off of my chair, “where are you going”, “ I’m not hungry” without waiting for a response, I headed to my bedroom. I sat down on my desk, put some music on and started making flashcards for my biology exam.
 
“Michael, dear we’re leaving,” I just hummed in response, “I made some dinner for you, it’s in the fridge-” “ okay I understand, now please let me concentrate,” I felt really annoyed, “okay then, we’re leaving. It may be past midnight when we arrive,” with that she left. I usually don’t get mad, but I absolutely hate it when someone compares me with my parents. Other people are awed by the fact that I have such cool parents, but they’re not cool. They are almost never home and even when they are they get called to a new mystery. I used to make a lot of friends in high school and I always thought our friendship was genuine but later I learned that they just used me for clout. This is also one of the many reasons why I can't get a girlfriend, trust issues.
 
I must show everyone that I’m better than my parents but how am I supposed to do it? My eyes went to the window, which showed the great manor, that’s it. This is how I’ll show everyone that I am capable of doing even more than my parents. I walked to my ‘Parent’s room’ which is completely useless as they rarely come to visit. I asked my aunt to turn it into a library but she said no and told me to think about how hard my parents are working,  as if. I opened the door which let out a creaking noise. It was very dusty here. The walls cobwebbed which had harmless spiders sitting on them. I walked to their closet and opened the door to a very filthy place. As soon as I turned the light on, many bugs crawled to places where they could hide. I ignored all the commotion going on on the floor and walked towards one particular cupboard. When I opened it, it released a cloud of dust which made me cough. I took out the huge box that was innocently sitting there. There was a thin layer of dust on the box which I rubbed with the sleeve of my sweater. I opened it and grinned, “perfect”.
 
Sitting at my desk I started making a full plan on how I can sneak into the manor without anyone noticing and how I will solve the mystery. I’m not going there to bust ghosts down, I’m going there to prove that they don’t exist, and that ghost busters are completely useless. I worked for nearly 2 hours and still didn’t have a proper plan. I was extremely tired and very hungry so I called it a night and went to the kitchen to have dinner. It was 8pm already, even on weekends I head to bed at 9pm, which is weird but it’s good for my body. I completely ignored the dinner my aunt made for me and made myself a salad and grabbed a pre-made smoothie from the other day. After that, I took a quick shower, brushed my teeth and headed to bed.
 
After nearly a whole week I had a proper plan. I have to sneak into the manor at the dead of night when everyone is asleep. I lay in bed revising my plan in my head for the third time. My eyes itched with tiredness but my mind was full of energy. I got everything ready today, my mission starts at midnight tomorrow. I somehow managed to convince my aunt and uncle to go to Hawaii for the weekends and that I will make it just fine. They hesitated at first but later agreed when I explained to them that I’m an 18 year old college student who is capable of taking care of themselves. After about an hour or two I managed to fall asleep with dreams like a giant snake trying to eat me up.
 
I woke up to the sound of my aunt yelling. I was extremely tired but somehow managed to brush my teeth. It was 6am, their flight was in an hour. They hurriedly got ready while I made my lemonade and called an Uber. My uncle and the Uber driver shoved the luggage in the trunk of the car and got in. My aunt kept on telling me to be careful and to take care of myself. When they left I headed out for my cycle ride around the neighborhood. My day went on  as usual but after sunset, the real operation started. I prepared everything and had a heavy dinner to keep myself full during the mission. At exactly 11.50 I made my way towards the manor.
 
It was a full moon thus everyone went to bed early, so this was perfect. It took me 15 minutes to reach the hill and another 15 minutes to climb the hill. I made it to the top of the hill, rubbing sweat off my face. I looked at the giant manor standing in front of me. It was ten times bigger than my house. I sighed, “well, here goes nothing”, I muttered before opening the gates of ‘horror’.
 
The giant doors creaked as I opened them  and slammed itself close when I entered. “This is creepy,” I said in the darkness before reaching out for my flashlight. When I was about to turn it on all the torches lit themselves up illuminating the darkness. I gulped before taking  the hall to my left. It would take more than a year to memorize the twists and turns in this manor. I found myself in a particular hallway surrounded with armor of knights that guarded this place many centuries ago. I held my breath the whole journey when walking through the creepy hallway. I relaxed after that hallway ended and I entered a new hallway. Finally, I found a door which opened to a magnificent library. It had shelves that went as high as 18 feet. I walked through the library taking in the smell of old books. There were books from all the way to the early 1800s. My hands brushed the binders of books carrying titles like ‘American Civil War’ ‘Battle of New Orleans’ and many more.
 
I got distracted when seeing a book called ‘A History of Great Britain’, I always found books about the British Empire very interesting. I sat down on the floor with the thick book lying on my lap as I went through the contents. I sat in that position for almost an hour before realizing how much of my time I wasted, I hurriedly put the book in my bag which made it twice as heavy than it was a couple of minutes ago. I exited the library and continued my stroll around the manor. After walking for about 15 minutes, I realized that I returned to the front doors. My legs could not take the weight of my bag anymore so I took the book out and placed it in front of the giant double doors.
 
I proceeded up the stairs, my legs aching with every step I took. I breathed in shallow panting breaths. Finally, when I made it to the second floor, I leaned against the railings trying to catch my breaths. After my respiratory system gained a steady pace I walked to the hallway on my right. It was already 2.30am, my eyes were itching out of tiredness but I didn't stop. I was determined to unravel the secrets of this place. After ten minutes I found myself in front of a massive door made of heart pine with marble framing. When I entered I found myself in a huge luxurious bathroom. 
 
It was an old style, dirty bathroom which smelled terrible. Under a large, cracked mirror were a row of chipped, stone sinks. A fancy toilet sat at the opposite of the sinks and a huge bathtub, the size of a swimming pool sat in the corner. The room was damp and reflected the dull light given off by the stubs of a few candles, burning low in their holders. I went forward to one of the sinks and for a split second, instead of my reflection, I thought I saw a man, wait, he can’t be a man, he can’t even be a human. Whiter than a skull, with wide, livid scarlet eyes, and a nose that was as flat as a snake’s, with slits for nostrils. I blinked multiple times only to see myself in the mirror with a horrified expression. I took my flashlight out to examine the sink only to find a snake engraved on the tap. I started turning the tap, but instead of water , the floor under my feet gave away and I started falling into a void of nothingness.
 
After what seemed like hours, my legs finally made contact with the floor. I somehow managed to stand up, my whole body was shaking from the sudden event that took place. I saw my flashlight laying a couple feet away from me lighting up the darkness forming weird shadows on the wall. With every step I took towards my flashlight, I heard a loud ‘crunch’ that echoed in this enclosed area. I must be thousands of feet underground. I grabbed my flashlight and pointed it at the floor. My gasp echoed around the chamber, as I saw piles of bones laying on the floor. I started moving forwards with wobbly legs towards a hallway that led to nothing but a black void.
 
 I made it at the end of the hallway to find myself in a giant chamber filled with statues of snakes on each end. I held my breath as my eyes fell on a giant slimy, thick, green snakeskin innocently lying on the ground. It was about 50 feet long. I touched and scanned it when someone or SOMETHING grabbed my feet and pulled me to the ground. I was being supported by about hundreds, no, thousands of venomous cobras, my scream for help was barely audible over their hissing. Just then I saw a 50 foot large snake uncoiling itself. I was nearly sobbing as I continued to scream for help. The gigantic snake brought its face really close to mine with its eyes closed. 
 
Before I knew it, a pair of bright yellow eyes stared back at me and...
 
 
","September 15, 2023 22:17","[[{'Emilie Ocean': ""Very interesting plot that keeps the reader wondering what happens next. Thanks for sharing The Great Serpent's Manor with us, Nusaiba :)"", 'time': '16:28 Sep 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,st9yoq,The Thaumatrope ,K. Espinola,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/st9yoq/,/short-story/st9yoq/,Horror,0,"['Horror', 'Fiction']",1 like,"
Lenore Whitten had lived in this house for one hundred and fifty years. Or, at least, that’s what she would claim if anyone ever asked her. But, in reality, there was little left here from her time. All the furniture had gone when her parents sold the home in 1888. At the end of the century, the porch had been replaced when the owners’ little terrier fell through rotting boards. In the twenties, the plumbing had been redone. Then, a young couple had moved in and arranged for the wall between the kitchen and parlor to be removed. It opens things up, they’d said. Thirty years later, the downstairs office went through intense renovations, the pine walls replaced with brick. For several weeks in the early 2000s, some men in coveralls had gutted and rearranged the kitchen. Those were all the major things, but there’d been smaller edits made in between: fresh paint jobs, new carpets, updated hardwood floors, fancy electric lights. This was the Ship of Theseus, and Lenore would answer that age-old question with a simple: yes, it is the same vessel. 
	Though, in fairness, those who pose Theseus’s paradox never figure phantoms into the equation. 
	The truth was that Lenore saw the house’s history in a way nobody else did, in a way that nobody else saw her. Here and there, she’d witness the afterimage of what had been, the lingering presence of inanimate ghosts. The house was like a confused mirror, at times reflecting things it had captured centuries ago— even when there was nothing left to touch or hold. Sometimes Lenore drifted through the kitchen and there was the familiar silver coffee urn the maid had used each morning. She could hear the faded chirps of her parents’ voices praising breakfast and her own requests for more buttered rolls and marmalade, all as she floated into the parlor and tried to picture the old hearth. There, she’d once licked her thumb and ran it across the andiron, using the soot to draw pictures on the brick. About once a week, upstairs where the nursery had been, the spectral melody of “London Bridge” bounced off music box pins, clear and dulcet. Some days, her bed flickered back into place, barely visible, laid overtop the wire wastebasket that stood there now. Lenore loved seeing her old quilt and the cloth jester doll she’d loved from the day of her birth to the night of her death, fourteen years later. 
	The memory was strangely sweet now, her feverish face pressed against dear Jester’s colorful clothes. She recalled her mother beside her, combing her hair with cool fingers. There came the recitation of stories and prayers and nursery rhymes. Lenore’s pain had burned away with death and time, and only words of love remained, only whispers of gratitude for the little time they’d had together. That was what kept her here. She had no business to finish, no wrong to right, no vow to keep. All that remained now were her dreamy wanderings and the recollections which sometimes superimposed themselves onto the real world. It was like playing with a thaumatrope, spinning the card stock and watching two distinct images overlap. 
	But, one winter day, Lenore sensed something eerie about the old, new house. She was leaning over a bassinet— insubstantial, and now partially cutting into a nightstand— where her baby brother had once fidgeted with rattles and a stuffed bunny named Bromley. Lenore could see the little creature there now, tucked between blanket and pillow. She hummed to herself, about to finish so she could wander into the garden, when her last note was sliced in half by a sharp scream. 
	Lenore had no muscles to tense, no nerves to feel the shock, but her essence quivered. The noise had been brief, but keen as a needle. She listened. The house was quiet, leaving Lenore with not much to do but remain still and imagine things into pockets of shadow. She tried to shake off her fright. The garden, she remembered. Yes, the garden. Maybe there she would be able to watch some cardinals, like rubies, alighting on snow-covered branches. 
	Day melted into evening without much trouble. Lenore skipped across the upstairs hallway runner, thinking about how Christmas was only three weeks away and how excited she was to see perhaps a few flickers of the gifts that had once filled the parlor. She’d see toys surrounding the tree and stockings filled with oranges and chestnuts. Some years she even caught old, warped glimpses of herself in the ornaments. Her hair in curls. The special white frock she’d rarely been allowed to wear looking so darling on her. 
	When she turned the corner, she slowed to a stop. The hallway lighting was all wrong, and it didn’t take her long to notice that it was because there was a lamp lying sideways on the floor, throwing intense yellow light at all the wrong angles and casting shadows where they shouldn’t be. It had fallen off a table and the base was cracked. Lenore peered down at it and saw markings on the ceramic, as though someone had picked it up after finger-painting. With red paint, Lenore tried to tell herself, knowing how naïve that sounded. 
	She drew away from the broken lamp, trying to will the house to show her something pleasant, to let her listen to her mother’s voice, calling for the family to come see Lenore’s brother taking his first quavering steps. The new house had never bothered her before, never saddened or scared her— she’d embraced it, cherishing the fresh experiences and new people alongside the long-ago recollections. Now she wanted the shades drawn. She wanted to block out this hallway, its uncanny yellow light, and its misplaced shadows. Please. 
	Lenore saw an open door before her, and was lured to it against all instinct. She drifted to the threshold. Her gaze crept across a stained carpet and upwards to the skirt of the bed, then a bit higher. She could see a hand, nails painted Caribbean green. The drip, drip, drip of scarlet off the wrist. 
	When she shrieked, it was like a spasm of her being. An echo of wind. She retreated back to the hall. Her home, her lovely, lovely home— what had happened to it? What had come and set up shop here? The house briefly returned, entirely, to its original state, as if understanding Lenore’s panic and entertaining her for only a moment. She saw a hallway filled with portraiture and sepia photos of her family, the gentle glow of oil lamps, and warm colors. Then it flicked back to the new house, as quick as the flip of a switch. 
	There stood a man, carved up by shadows and odd light. She recognized him as the person who’d bought the house four weeks ago, but she’d only glimpsed him since then. Now he stood before her in full, frightening detail— cropped hair, broad shoulders, and a knife clenched in one hand. Lenore released another spectral wail and darted away. The man stiffened and stared, perplexed, in her direction but then continued into the bedroom. 
	Such horrors need only happen once to damage a mind irreparably. This was true of Lenore who now wandered her old haunt with caution, afraid of the things she might see. She spent hours trying to forget what she’d witnessed, but always her thoughts returned back to it. Once, just once was enough for the paranoia to take root and change things forever. But it didn’t just happen once.
	Young women entered and never left. Lenore heard pleas and screams and splitting flesh. It all happened in flashes, interruptions to otherwise normal nights. She was plagued by these images and, on the worst of days, she’d find herself stepping into a room and nearly passing through the plague rat himself as he went about his work, carrying diseases of the spirit.
	She endured, weighed down by the brutality which leapt forth without warning. Sometimes she’d go days without seeing much of the man or his evil pastimes. Then, just as she was on the cusp of regaining some peace, the next atrocity would be there— violence on the kitchen floor, in the bathtub, by the back door. And she was Sisyphus watching his boulder roll back downhill. The worst was when the thaumatrope spun fast and long, and these awful sights bled into her happy memories of the cozy house she loved. But what could she do? Leave her home, flee the demon? Run out into the unknown and hope to pass to the life that came next? It all frightened her. She pondered fighting back, haunting back. Could she hurl her screams through the corridors? Cause some grief of her own? If she’d been a different sort of spirit, then maybe so. But, just as not everyone is compassionate in life, not everyone is vengeful in death. And not everyone has dark, terrible malice within. 
	Lenore had liked stories when she was young and had continued to read them over the shoulders of the house’s new residents. She’d been enthralled by the first TV she’d seen, its picture staticky and weak but there, moving and speaking. She knew short rhymes to cast away naughty ghosts, and that salt could ward off devils. When John Seward had had trouble with the dead, he’d called upon Van Helsing. But Lenore could not think of someone she could call, someone to expel this rotten soul from her home, someone to keep her from being haunted by the living. 
 
","September 15, 2023 11:21",[]
prompt_0004,Set your story in a haunted house.,zrrr8y,The New Apartment,Mitchell Kaye,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/zrrr8y/,/short-story/zrrr8y/,Horror,0,"['Horror', 'Suspense']",1 like,"
Steven couldn’t get out of bed. After three days of lying there alone, his bedroom door slammed shut, stirring up a curtain of dust. The noise startled him, although that would hardly be apparent to an observer, as he didn’t budge. The dust slowly spread throughout the room and when it slithered into his ragged throat, he began to hack and squeeze and writhe. Every time he rolled over, his sharp and sore toenails snagged the sheets, undoing a thread. Steven moved into the apartment two weeks ago and immediately fell ill. He’d accepted a job in another city and needed to start quickly; he picked an apartment online, signed the lease, and flew in with the couple of bags he could carry on the plane. He planned to get his feet set a bit before flying back home and renting a truck to grab the rest. The first day of his new job, when he woke up, he felt a tingle in his throat and a pressure behind his left eye. All day, while signing new-hire documents, meeting his coworkers, and ingratiating himself to his boss, the pressure built. By the time he got home, his eyeball felt like it was about to explode. When he looked in the mirror, the white part was blood red. He lied down, thinking it must be the stress of the move. In the middle of the night, a noise awoke him. Head still pounding, throat on fire, he turned on the lights. Who’s there? His words fluttered throughout the empty apartment until they found their way to a lamp that had somehow crashed onto the floor. Shards of glass were scattered around the room, begging to be stepped on. He hadn’t purchased a broom or vacuum for his new apartment yet, so he just went back to bed.The morning sun woke him up three minutes before his alarm. A sliver of light shined through the window, directly into his eyes. It felt like they were being pulled backwards into his skull. He turned over in the bed and instinctively checked his phone. Though he’d plugged it in the night before, it held no charge. He sat up and looked out his bedroom door, down the hallway, and remembered the broken glass. Steven tip-toed through his apartment, careful to avoid the little glimmers of violence waiting for him. His second day of work started out indistinguishable from the first: documents, review, signing, on-boarding. He’d flown out for this? Left his family behind? The pressure felt unbearable. He could see his boss’ lips moving, could feel the vibrations, could sense he was being looked at, expected to answer, but the world was dull and impossible. His gut squeezed tight, as if he was manually requesting his body breathe. He felt like he was watching himself flounder from a thousand feet and a thousand years away. “I need to go home.” The words exited his mouth and he nearly fell over. Steven’s boss stared at him, shocked. A new employee with the gall to act this way on their second day? Steven tried to wait for his boss to oblige his request but after a moment of silence, he turned and left the room. His boss followed “where do you think you’re going? Are you crazy?” Steven couldn’t hear him, the pressure, the pressure. Upon walking into his apartment, Steven tossed his briefcase onto the floor, took his shoes, socks, tie, shirt, pants, watch off and made for his bed. On his way, he stepped on the glass he forgot to clean up from the night before. He’d planned to purchase a broom on his way home but forgot to make the stop. Blood poured out from the bottom of his foot as he danced his way to the bathroom. He sat on the edge of the tub, holding a piece of rolled up toilet paper to his foot to stop the pressure, but grimacing as doing so pushed a splinter in deeper. He cried out; between the pressure, the possibility of getting fired, the foot, the glass, he felt lost, angry, and engulfed. Sensing the blood had abated, he rinsed his foot under the faucet, and carefully pulled the splinter out with a pair of tweezers. Two gnarly cuts on his foot and he was expected to wear dress shoes the next day? After a brief respite, he waddled to his bed and lied down, hungry but too tired to do anything about it. He still needed to clean the glass, needed to reach out to his boss and apologize for the day’s mishap, explain that he’s normally very reliable. The pressure in his eye kept building until he passed out. Hours later, Steven woke up. It was pitch black in the apartment. A maroon puddle marinated into the carpet beneath his foot, which had started bleeding again. His heart pounded in his throat as he felt a tall figure standing over him. He couldn’t see anything but felt the heavy angst of danger compressing his lungs, pushing him into the mattress. It hovered for a moment. And then without a word, the weight vanished and the sun was out, once more, shining directly into his eye. Steven rolled over in the bed, with just enough energy to check the time. It was noon. He winced, fully expecting an email from his boss relieving him of the job he moved hundreds of miles for on the first week. His stomach pinched tightly and he realized he’d hardly eaten since getting to the city over the weekend. Through the pounding, Steven called a nearby pizza place to order delivery. He just wanted something easy. The phone rang three times before a gruff man answered. “Mario’s Pizza, whadaya want?”“Can I get a large pie, black olives and pepperoni.”“Pick up or delivery” “Delivery” “What’s the address?” “1229 W Maple” The man cut Steven off. “No no no. Absolutely not. We don’t deliver there.” The phone clicked off. Steven double checked the address, wondering if he’d accidentally called a restaurant that was too far away but Mario’s was hardly a 5 minute drive away. His stomach grumbled and he gnawed on his nails. He didn’t have the energy to call another place, so he gave up; he’d just get food later. Lying on his bed, Steven felt the pressure in his eye disappear. His body racked back and forth with the waves, was he on a boat? He smelt the bait worms him and his grandfather used. He hated the part where you put the hook through them. He heard a laugh behind him, unmistakably his grandfather’s. Jubilant footsteps marched from the back of the boat to where Steven was, “I caught one!” his grandfather smiled. Steven took a picture of him holding the fish, they measured it, and they delicately cleaned it so they’d be able to eat it later. The grandfather picked the cleaned fish up and chucked it into the ice-filled cooler. The grandpa slammed the cooler shut and Steven’s eyes opened. He was still in bed, staring up at the ceiling. He inhaled a cloud of dust and began gasping and coughing. As he turned to his side, hoping that would expel the dust and angry at himself for not leaving water by his bed, he saw a figure, standing in the corner of the room. “GET out.” the figure said. Its voice was a deep rumble that didn’t seem to make sense coming from such a small body. “You are not welcome here.” It lurched forward.The pressure in Steven’s eye was unbearable and his throat felt like a piece of gum enshrouded by years of dust and dirt. “Can you please get me water?” He asked, in between coughs. The figure stood still. “Please” he asked again, hunched over with his hand facing the ceiling. He coughed again and bellied over, gasping for air, the dust still floating around. The figure laughed. “I’m trying to scare you, you know? I don’t want you or anyone else here” Its menacing aura gave way to confusion. Steven picked his head up momentarily, coughed, and said “I get that, I just am tired and thirsty. I’m sorry.” The figure left the room, retrieved a glass from the cabinet, filled it at the sink, and brought it to Steven. “Thanks.” He gulped the water down immediately. “Where are you from?” Steven asked as he lied back down on the bed. “Here.” “Here the city. Or here the apartment?” “Err. both.” “That’s cool.” The figure moved closer and the pressure in Steven’s eye built again. He pressed his hand against the eye and began to cry. “I’m sorry, I know you don’t want me here. I’m going to need to leave soon anyway. I’m probably fired but I can’t check my phone.” The figure tilted its head. “I don’t even know what day it is, my stomach hurts so bad, I tried to order pizza but the guy wouldn’t respond.” As if the water gave his body the energy to feel the full extent of its misery again, Steven rolled over in the bed again, now facing the wall, one hand on his eye and one on his stomach. “I can let you charge your phone, at least.” “Thanks, I appreciate it.” The phone beeped and the screen lit up with an image of a charging battery on it. Steven looked at it briefly and decided to sleep while he waited for it to fully charge. When he woke up, hours later, the figure was still in the corner of the room. It saw him stir and shuffled over to the edge of the bed but when Steven winced in pain, it moved back to the corner. Steven felt a tiny bit of relief and reached out for his phone, now fully charged. It had been almost two weeks and he hardly remembered any of it. Had he even been to work twice? He didn’t know. His phone had 10 missed calls and hundreds of unread emails. Apparently, he’d been fired 8 days ago. Funny that. Steven laughed. He’d zapped through his savings for this job. Had to go through 4 rounds of interviews. He’d dreamed about it for months. He was staring at the ceiling when he noticed the figure wasn’t in the room anymore. It must have left while he was looking at his phone. Steven tried to get out of bed but didn’t have the strength to; his legs wouldn’t move. He removed the covers and noticed his legs had shrunk, they looked like his grandpa’s legs when he visited him in hospice as a child. He blinked a few times, unable to grasp what was happening, it’d only been two weeks, is that even possible in two weeks? He shivered and put the covers back on. That night, while lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, he felt the pressure build in his eye again and knew the figure was there again. He said “I am planning on leaving. I’m sorry I’m still here. I need to figure out a way to get the strength to stand again but I’m going to leave.” There was no response. He looked to the door and noticed a brochure floating in the air. “This is another pizza spot. You shouldn’t have trouble ordering from this one.” Steven dialed the number and while it was ringing, asked, “Would you like anything?” The figure replied, “I cannot eat.” Steven shrugged and placed his order. Once he hung up the phone, he realized he didn’t have the strength to get to his wallet or to grab the pizza from the door. He didn’t even know if he had the strength to open a door at this point. He’d hardly left the bed for two weeks. “I know this is asking a lot. And I’m sorry to be so much trouble. Would you be able to go in my bag and grab my wallet and get the pizza when the delivery driver arrives?” “Won’t that scare the driver away?” The figure replied. “Uhhh. Maybe. I don’t know. I can barely think at this point.” “I’ll leave the money at the door and ask him to just leave the pizza.” “Alright. Again, thank you. I appreciate it.” After a moment of silence, Steven added “I know you can’t eat but if you do end up wanting a slice, feel free to grab, it’s all good.” Twenty minutes later the doorbell rang. The driver called out “I got the money. Pizza box is on the floor.” and left. The figure opened the door, retrieved the box, and made its way to the bedroom. As it approached Steven with the pizza, his eye felt like it was about to explode.“I’m sorry, I’m not trying to be a dick, I know you don’t mean to do it.” The figure tilted its head, wondering itself whether that was true. “It just hurts so bad I can’t help it. I know it’s not polite.”The figure left the pizza box on the bed and when it backed away, Steven let out a deep sigh of relief. As he ate a folded up slice, he asked where the ghost was from and the ghost explained it was born in that house, had lived there its entire life, and was murdered by a stray bullet in almost exactly the spot Steven was lying. “Sheesh. I’m sorry to hear that, man.” The figure shrugged. “And you’ve been here since then? Just haunting people?” Steven scratched the back of his head with an emaciated arm. “Pretty much. This is my house. Why are there other people in it?” “I hear that.” Steven finished his first slice and folded a second. With a mouth full of pizza, he said “As soon as I get the strength, I promise I’m going to leave. I’m sorry I even came in the first place.” “No, I think it’s ok.” “Really?” “Yeah.” The ghost came closer and Steven braced his eye but the pressure didn’t rise. In fact, he didn’t even notice any pressure there at all. The ghost sat down on the edge of the bed. “I kind of would like a piece, if that’s still ok.” “Of course, dude. Take as much as you like.” Steven smiled at the ceiling and the two finished the rest of the pie. 
","September 15, 2023 17:53",[]