Penny's Tales

Horror stories, narrations and illustrations by Penny Tailsup
Penny's Tales
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    • [Short Horror Story] A Proposal from Daddy Prince

      Posted at 12:00 am by Penny Tailsup, on August 19, 2019
      Short on time? Listen to the narration!

      When I told Blake I was pregnant, he handed me a blank check and told me to ‘take care of the problem’. He wasn’t the prince I’d thought he was. I took the check but didn’t follow his implied instructions. Instead, I moved to a quiet town in Texas to start a new life with my daughter Sarina.

      Life wasn’t the fairy tale I’d been hoping for. Reality doesn’t pull punches. Romances end, and daughters don’t always know their fathers. Although I tried to pretend everything was rosy, deep down I knew it wasn’t. Life leaves a mark.

      Even so, I was determined to live happily ever after. My heartbreak was secondary. Sarina became my world. Years passed, and I threw myself into the role of a single mother. The money dried up fast, but we got by.

      I never told her about her father, that truth was too painful for a child. I wouldn’t let one cruel “prince” stain my worldview, or hers. I tried to spare her… that was my mistake. She was young enough to believe the fairy tale, young enough that she didn’t need to know anything else.

      The first time she mentioned Daddy Prince, I was curling her hair. Sarina loved curls, she called them ‘princess hairs’— and I was happy to indulge her. I was sitting on her bed, wrapping her long, dark hair into foam rollers. As I snapped the final curler into place, she sighed and hung her head.

      “What’s the matter, Sarina?” I pulled back the covers so she could slip under them, walking over to the bookshelf to choose a bedtime story. As my fingers brushed across bent spines of well-loved books, she sighed again.

      “When are we going to live with Daddy Prince?” I froze in surprise and turned to look at her. I wasn’t prepared to hear her say ‘daddy’. My throat tightened and my eyes started to burn, but I forced a smile.

      “Who is …  Daddy Prince?” hesitation came with every syllable. Sarina didn’t seem to notice; her hazel eyes were shining bright.

      “He’s my daddy of course. He wants us to live with him in his castle.” she pointed towards her wardrobe; it was castle shaped with a crenelated parapet and engraved doors. The closet was the crown jewel of her princess-themed room. I’d found it on the curb, abandoned in one of the wealthier neighborhoods.

      “Mommy, why don’t we live with Daddy?”

      I knew a day would come where my daughter would need answers. Unfortunately, I wasn’t ready to give them to her. Not yet. My internal prayer smoldered in my chest, but I pushed the thought away.

      Instead of facing what might have been a pivotal moment in our relationship, I changed the subject:

      “Which story should I read?”

      Her sour face told me that she knew exactly what I was up to. She flung herself back into her pillows, crossing her arms stiffly. Redness flared across her forehead as a tantrum brewed, barely restrained.

      “How about Aladdin?” I suggested. Princess Jasmine was her favorite, but this wasn’t enough to cool her temper; she shook her head.

      “… Go to bed, Mommy. I want Daddy to tell me a story instead.”  Her lips quivered, but she kept her eyes fixed on the castle closet instead of looking at me.

      The rejection stung. I leaned over to give her forehead a kiss, which she sullenly accepted. When I made it back to my bedroom, I broke down in tears and let the mascara run into my pillow. As I calmed down and began to drift off to sleep, I heard my daughter laugh and incoherent bits of one-sided conversation.

      “Daddy… why … castle… when… mommy…”

      I woke up to Sarina’s grinning face, her hands behind her back. “Good morning, mommy!” she sounded so cheerful. Groggy, I returned the greeting and offered a sleepy smile as I threw off the covers and swooped down to hug her.

      My hands met something cold and wet. Reflexively, I let go and looked at her closely. The little girl grinned sheepishly and showed me what she was holding. A handful of small, purple flowers; a large clump of wet dirt clinging to the roots.

      “A present from Daddy!” she declared proudly, holding them out to me. I didn’t recognize the flowers, spiky and wet, but it looked like she’d dug them out of someone’s garden.

      “Sweetie, did you go outside before I woke up?” I asked.

      “Not me, the prince.” Sarina immediately corrected. “To cheer you up. You seemed sad.”

      “I see.” I didn’t. “Well, make sure he asks the neighbors permission before going into someone else’s garden, and let me know so I don’t worry.” I didn’t believe her, but I felt so guilty from the night before that I couldn’t bring myself to call her out on her lie.

      “Okay!” she agreed immediately. I took the flowers, they were in bad shape; soggy, sad little things. I decided to let them air out by the kitchen window and told her to wash up. My little girl had mud up to her elbows! She skipped off while I busied myself making waffles. I pulled the rollers out of her hair when she returned, mud-free, before we sat down to enjoy breakfast.

      “Did you like the flowers?” she asked, looking attentively at her waffle as I poured the syrup; she wasn’t satisfied until every square was filled.

      “Of course, sweetie. Any gift from you is special to me.”  I didn’t like the flowers, but I appreciated the gesture. You aren’t supposed to be completely honest with children.

      Sarina nodded with satisfaction. “He said you would! Now can we go live with him?” I nearly choked, setting down my fork and looking at her. Apparently, this conversation was going to happen, whether I was ready or not.

      “I’m sorry honey. We’re going to stay here; this is our home. We can’t move in with him.”

      “Why?” I paused. Like most parents, I was accustomed to the whys of children; that single syllable was the epitome of frustration and dread, but… I’d do my best to answer, as gently as I could.

      “Because I’m not married to him.” I tried to keep it simple. My little girl nodded but was undeterred. Her smile came back.

      “Okay. Well, then get married to him.” in her eyes, this was an easy fix. I shook my head.

      “He never asked me to marry him.” I admitted, “But that’s okay, sweetie. We have everything we need here. I have you, and you have me.”

      “He just has to ask?” the hopeful look on her face broke my heart. It wasn’t that simple. Blake didn’t want kids; he’d made that abundantly clear. I wasn’t about to reach out to him after all these years.

      “Maybe,” I said. Saying ‘no’ seemed too harsh. “But I like things the way they are right now.”

      “He told me he wants to already.” she insisted, “and he gave you a present.” my stomach twisted with a weird flutter of discomfort. Her insistence was genuine, and I found the fantasy disturbing. Do little girls typically dream up princes for their mothers?

      Well, maybe the ones without fathers do.

      “Sweetie, he didn’t propose.” suddenly, I was tired again. I wanted to go back to my room and hide under the covers. I couldn’t deal with any more questions, not even one. As though she sensed this, my daughter went back to her room. I could hear her playing, leaving me to scrub syrup off the table.

      When I went to check on her later, she was standing in the dark and lightly knocking on the castle wardrobe. Tap tap tap, then pausing as if she waited for an answer. Naturally, she didn’t get one. Sarina saw me looking and smiled bashfully.

      “He said he sleeps during the day.” she explained, “but I wanted to tell him the good news.” I assumed she meant ‘Daddy Prince’.

      “What good news?”

      Sarina didn’t say anything, staring so intently at the closet doors that I thought she must not have heard me. I flicked on her bedroom light, which got her attention.

      “Don’t! He doesn’t like the light on.” I decided to humor her and turned it back off. I was a little concerned about the prince character she was concocting. What sort of prince preferred the dark? Then again, she’d said he was sleeping. Kid logic is irrefutable at that age, so I let it go. You learn to pick your battles as a parent.

      Leaving her to her to play, I sat at the kitchen table to pay bills and balance my checkbook. I lived paycheck to paycheck and had to pay things strategically. I could afford to pay late on some bills, but not on others. How nice it would be, if there really was a prince ready to sweep in and take care of my problems. If only.

      Sarina kept to her room. When I went to get her for lunch, she was still sitting in the dark. She’d changed into one of her costume dresses; mint green satin and tulle, with a plastic crown and ribbon-wrapped scepter. Her subjects were strewn about the room, face down: barbies, mostly, but also a few stuffed animals. Normally, I wouldn’t think twice about a scene like this… but it was a little odd when the lights were off with the curtains closed.

      “It’s dark in here, honey. Are you sure you don’t want it on?” The only light came from the hallway, a yellow square of light that fell across my daughter’s small form. She beamed at me, clearly having a blast with her game.

      “I don’t want the lights.” she said, “Can I eat in my room? I’m not done playing.”

      “Alright. Come get it. Don’t forget to rinse your plate when you’re done.”  Sarina was usually a bit more energetic, ripping through the house and demanding near constant attention. I was a little unnerved, but also relieved to have a small break. Her preoccupation would enable me to finish my errands and get the house in order, no small feat with a young daughter.

      Sarina skipped into the dining room, grabbed her plate, then paused suddenly. Her dark eyes fixed on the table for a moment, before she looked at me in confusion.

      “Where are the flowers? You said you liked them.”

      “They’re drying out, princess.” I smiled at her, gesturing towards the window. “They were a little wet.”

      “Oh.” she looked disappointed but didn’t say anything else. Plate in hand, she went back to her room. I heard the door close behind her. For some reason, I wanted to cry. I ate my lunch alone at the table, then went to retrieve the flowers. I brought them to the sink; the stems were tangled. Carefully, I worked them apart and rinsed away the clump of dirt holding them together.

      A metallic clink caught my attention. Something had come loose from the dirt and fallen into the sink… a ring? A muddy, tarnished ring. I picked it up, then held it under running water. It was missing a stone, and the filigree band was slightly bent… with a little love it could be beautiful again.

      It looked very old; I didn’t know if it was valuable or not, but it was probably important to someone. I slipped the ring onto my right ring finger so I wouldn’t lose it, intending to find the owner later. I couldn’t help but think about the conversation I’d had during breakfast.

      “Looks like he proposed after all.” I laughed, amused by the coincidence. Of course, my daughter found the flowers with a ring tangled in their roots. I dropped the flowers in a bowl on the table, making a sad excuse for a centerpiece. I didn’t add water; they were wet enough already. Apparently, Sarina’s Prince Charming lived in a swamp.

      Sarina stayed in her room until dinner. By then, the house was tidy, and my errands were done. When I went to get Sarina, the door was closed, and the lights were off. I knocked lightly on the door before opening it, to find my daughter standing at the castle wardrobe. The double doors were open, and she was leaning forward, peering inside.

      I turned on the light, causing her to glare at me. “Turn the lights OFF, mommy!” I didn’t, not liking the tone she was taking with me.

      “Go wash up for dinner. Now.” when she didn’t start marching, I began to count. “1….” she crossed her arms, “2…” she stomped her foot, but before I could get to three the stormed past me– slamming the door behind her.

      The wardrobe was still open, so I walked over to close it. The carpet was wet, soaking through my slippers, squishing with every step. As I moved to close the closet, I saw something. A pale face, crowned with golden curls and forget-me-not eyes.

      “Blake?”

      But my ex was not crouching in his daughter’s closet. There was nothing there, except a selection of dress up clothes and plastic jewelry. The face was gone almost as soon as I’d seen it, leaving a hollow ache in my chest. I closed the doors and stood there for a long moment in silence.

      Dinner was cold by the time I ladled it onto our plates. I didn’t even remember walking back to the kitchen. Sarina pushed noodles around with her fork but didn’t eat them. We didn’t talk. I felt like some part of me had checked out.

      “Mommy?” her voice pulled me back. I looked up to see her smiling at me. Relieved that the storm had passed, I smiled back.

      “What is it, sweetheart?”

      “You’re wearing the ring.” I looked down at my hands, and suddenly remembered the sorry little thing I was wearing on my right hand.

      “Oh, only for safekeeping.” I answered, “I need to find the owner. I didn’t want to lose it.”

      Sarina giggled. “You’re the owner, silly!”

      “I’ll hold onto it, for now.” I answered, reaching over to tousle her dark curls. Her hair was damp, which gave me pause.

      “Why is your hair wet?” I asked. Sarina slouched in her chair and went back to moving food around her plate. “The carpet was wet too.” I added softly, keeping my voice quiet and non-confrontational. My little girl didn’t look up, keeping her head down.

      “Can you tell me why?” she pushed her plate away, getting up from the table and running down the hall. I heard her bedroom door slam moments later. I buried my head in my hands and took a few deep breaths, giving myself a moment before I stood and walked over to the sink to rinse off our barely touched plates. Once the kitchen was clean, I grabbed the rag towels from under the sink so I could blot Sarina’s wet carpet.

      Her door was closed, so I knocked before opening. Sarina was in bed, the blankets pulled up to her chin. The lights were off, the closet doors were ajar. My daughter was acting strange, with her eyes squeezed tightly shut. I could see her forehead furrowed from the effort as she pretended to be asleep.

      “You don’t want me to read you a bedtime story first?” I asked her softly as I dropped the towels on the floor. Brownish, reddish stains spread across the rags– like murky rust. The smell was bad too, like mildew and rot. “…I’ll rent a carpet cleaner tomorrow. Try not to track in any more mud, it’s hard to clean.” I did my best not to sound angry, but there was a quiver in my voice. I wanted to cry.

      I blotted up the mess as best I could, spraying down the area with carpet cleaner and ruining towels in the process. Muddy carpets shouldn’t have been a breaking point for me, but with my daughter feigning sleep only feet away… I was weak. Why was everything so hard? Every obstacle broke me. I was a bad mother; weak, broken and alone. As much as I pretended everything was alright, nothing was.

      “Mommy.” Sarina spoke softly, startling me back to attention. “I want you to be happy. You’re sad all the time.” I looked up; she was sitting up in bed now. She looked past me, at the closet. The doors were still open, but I didn’t see any phantom exes peering back at us.

      “I know sweetie. I’m sorry, I’m doing my best.”

      “You’re wearing it on the wrong hand.” she answered, flopping back into her pillows and pulling the blankets up to her nose. I didn’t know what she meant, but she closed her eyes again. I stood up, kissing her on the forehead.

      “Goodnight.” my throat felt tight but having a breakdown in her room wasn’t the answer. I needed to get some rest. I was tired, that’s all. I moved to close the wardrobe, surprised to meet resistance. The doors didn’t close.

      “Leave it open. Daddy Prince likes to watch over me.”

      I was too tired to argue and left to take a long shower. The stink of the mud was sticking to me, even when I used my most fragrant soaps. After I was done, wrapped up in the only clean towel, I passed my daughter’s room on the way to mine. As I peered inside, something stopped me in my tracks.

      A white gloved hand, beckoning from the closet… and Sarina’s small hand reaching out to take it, before she was violently pulled into the wardrobe with a loud snap.

      “Sarina!”

      I ran into the bedroom just as the doors slammed shut. I pulled on the handles, alarmed by the deafening silence. My daughter didn’t answer my cries; she didn’t make a sound. When I managed to pry the doors open, the closet was empty. Even her dress-up clothes were gone.

      I screamed, but no one answered. I knocked, but no one answered. I begged, but no one answered. I even crawled into that tight space, closing myself in…but nothing happened.

      The prince in my daughter’s closet had stolen her away. I didn’t sleep, curling up on the wet carpet and waiting for something, anything, to happen. Then I realized something… and sat down to write my story. People will notice we’re missing soon; they’ll probably think I did something unspeakable because the truth is unbelievable.

      The ring was on the wrong hand. She told me this, before the prince took her away. Maybe he was impatient for my answer. He asked me to marry him, after all. We’re going to live together in his castle. Sarina is waiting for me there; she couldn’t wait any longer.

      I can hear her singing now, with a song that erases my every doubt:

       

      Skin as white as bone,

      Lips as red as blood.

      Sitting on a throne

      Made of sticks and mud.

       

      Daddy Prince loves you,

      Daddy Prince loves me.

      …and I’ll love you, too

      We’ll be family.

       

      Don’t look for us.

      But if you must… check the closet.

       

      Posted in Short Stories [Horror] | 0 Comments | Tagged creepy, creepypasta, daddy prince, dark, fiction, horror, nosleep, original, prince, prince charming, short story, writer, writing
    • I am so scared of the cats [Short Horror Story]

      Posted at 12:55 am by Penny Tailsup, on January 11, 2019
      I used to work for NOAH Research Group. The name NOAH stands for ‘NO Animals Harmed’, the guiding principle of the organization.  NOAH’s founder, Dr. Rose, was a devout Christian and an advocate for animal rights.

      The name NOAH was also a nod to a question she was famous for asking:  If Noah had two of every animal on the ark, why didn’t the predators eat the prey?
      The nonreligious scoffed at the question, but Dr. Rose felt that the story of Noah’s ark was proof that everyone, animals included, should be vegan.  Science could make her vision of a vegan world possible, while still enabling carnivores to co-exist in the new world.

      NOAH’s first project was to produce and test  the first nutritionally complete, 100% safe vegan cat food. No animals would be harmed, not by slaughterhouses or malnutrition. Vegans would no longer worry about the ethical implications of cat ownership. Although vegan cat foods already existed, most vets concluded that they were too risky. A vegan diet can kill a cat if you’re not careful, which was why the project was so important. Dr. Rose needed to prove it was possible for everyone to be vegan, even carnivores.

      I worked nights in NOAH’s Portland-based facility, mainly cleaning out litter boxes and playing with the test subjects. It was a minimum-wage gig, but I  liked it because I was able to work while enjoying the company of cats. I knew about the vegan cat food project, though I was skeptical of it. I’m not vegan. I don’t judge people who are, but it seemed weird to expect cats to live that way. In a word, it seemed… unnatural.

      Still, the cats were treated very well. The facility didn’t confine them to cages or kennels; instead, the cats lived comfortably in large habitats with plexiglass observation windows. Every couple weeks, a vet would come and do check ups. NOAH took their oath to never harm animals very seriously, going to great lengths to ensure that the cats weren’t mistreated.

      I was hired when Harold was fired. The security guard told me the story, a cautionary tale: Harold wasn’t vegan. He packed beef stew for dinner every night… and shared it with the cats when no one was looking. As a result, the research was compromised and had to be started over from scratch. NOAH fired him and enacted a ‘No Outside Food’ policy.

      The vending machines were stocked with vegan options only: mixed nuts, fruit and vegetable sticks… so I ate before my shift. I usually felt compelled to eat the meatiest thing I could find, as if the mere thought of being vegan made me crave meat and cheese.

      All hell broke loose the night I broke the ‘no outside food’ rule. I was running late for work, so I went to a drive thru and grabbed a burger on the way over. I didn’t think about it when I ordered a triple cheeseburger, extra cheese, extra bacon. I shoved the greasy bag into my work duffel and forgot about it. When I got to work, security waved me through without checking. My nights there had long become routine.

      Once I reached the first habitat, the cats crowded the door. The clowder seemed smaller than usual, which was weird but not alarming. There were plenty of comfortable and secluded napping spots for the cats to laze about, though they were usually excited to see me– my arrival meant freshly cleaned litter boxes and playtime.

      I dropped my bag by the door, and got to work. As you can imagine, it was a lot of cat poop. Once I was done, I noticed the cats were still crowding the door. They were investigating my bag, sharpening their claws on the denim and even chewing on it. Sophie, a fluffy white cat, tried to drag it off with her. I was surprised that she’d managed to move it a few inches!

      That’s when I remembered the triple cheeseburger. Apparently, the smell had attracted the attention of the cats. I can only speculate that the smell of meat was extra tempting thanks to their strict vegan diet.

      “Sorry kitties, that’s against the rules.” I reached for my bag guiltily. When I tried to pick it up, Sophie started to growl and wouldn’t let go. Instead, she dug in deeper– her whole body rumbling with warning. I’d never seen that kind of aggression before, so I backed off.

      I didn’t want to lose my job, so I attempted to coax the cats away from the bag with a laser pointer. No dice. They completely ignored it. Their dilated pupils were focused entirely on my duffel, backs arched and tails pointing straight up. Tentatively, I reached for the bag again– this time, there was no warning.

      Sophie was the first to lunge, teeth and claws biting deep into my forearm! I screamed in pain and flung my arm out, flailing wildly until she let go. Undeterred, she came right back– tearing at my stomach, yanking and shaking her head from side to side… I was terrified that she’d rip me open!

      I stumbled towards the door as more sets of teeth and claws found their mark. I lost count as they attacked, feral shrieks mixing with my screams. I’d been bitten and scratched by cats before, but not like this. Cats don’t normally attack humans with the intent to kill, but the NOAH cats were an exception.

      Security came running, only to stare in horror– they did not enter the enclosure. Panicking, I stopped, dropped and rolled… as if I were on fire instead of covered in vicious, spitting cats. The tactic worked, they scattered to avoid being crushed. I didn’t give them a chance to move back in, running towards the door as the guards snapped out of their shock, flinging the door open and quickly slamming it behind me. A few of the more tenacious cats threw themselves bodily into the door, beating themselves against it several times before giving up.

      I was a bloody mess, my skin reduced to ribbons… but the pain didn’t catch up right away. I stared through the Plexiglass window, watching in horror when the cats descended on my duffel, pulling it apart. They found the burger and chewed straight through the paper, knocking one another aside in competition for it. They divided their ‘kill’, jealously guarding bits of burger and strips of bacon that quickly disappeared in their frenzy. Once the burger was gone, they licked the blood off the floor with eager, lapping tongues.

      The collective purr I heard was chilling.

      An ambulance was called, and I spent a night in the hospital. I wasn’t surprised when I was fired the following morning.  Fortunately, the severance pay was more like a settlement. On paper, NOAH blamed me for the incident… they said I provoked the attack, and that I’d violated company policy. To be honest, I didn’t care. I didn’t fight it because I was relieved I’d never have to go back. I don’t know what happened to the cats at the facility, I can only assume that the research has continued without me.

      I only recently learned what happened to Dr. Rose, but I can’t say I’m surprised. The vegan cat-enthusiast had fourteen cats… and she’d been feeding them the same cat food NOAH was testing. Although she cherished her cats, and they had reportedly been happy and well-fed…there wasn’t enough of Dr. Rose left to determine her cause of death.

      I don’t know what was in that cat food, but it might be in stores by now. Please research the food you buy for your pets very carefully, not only is it in their best interest… it might be in yours.

      NOAH is still operating without Dr. Rose. I don’t think their mission is the same.

       

      Posted in Short Stories [Horror] | 0 Comments | Tagged cat, cat food, cats, creepy, creepypasta, fiction, horror, NOAH, nosleep, nosleep takeover, research, short story, study, vegan, veganism
    • Pass It On – Short Horror Story

      Posted at 10:29 pm by Penny Tailsup, on July 14, 2018

      Let me get this out of the way:

      This is not a cursed internet chain letter. You will not be asked to forward this story; reading it or hearing it will not kill or curse you.

      This is a story about my childhood– a memory– one that just resurfaced, kicking and screaming to the forefront of my mind. I’d managed to forget about it, but the past always has a way of coming back around.

      Forgetting didn’t make it go away.

      …

      I was a kid when the internet was new and cell phones were an expensive novelty. I didn’t have as many distractions as modern children, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. Rather than pay attention in class, I’d create my own distractions. It didn’t take much; I was a daydreamer with a well-traveled imagination.

      As I got older, I became more interested in making new friends. Real friends, which were easily gained when I invented a game for the entire class to play. It wasn’t exactly imaginative, but it was fun. The game? Passing a single note around  without getting caught. Simple, right?

      The game didn’t have a name. We figured if we didn’t name it, it would be a lot harder to get caught. We didn’t even use the word ‘game’–we referred to it as ‘Taking Notes’, just in case anyone overheard. A lot of the fun came from the secrecy, and the ‘ninja moves’ we had to master in order to pass the note around unnoticed.

      There were three rules:

      1. Don’t get caught.
      2. Add something.
      3. Pass it on.

      We won when the note was passed around and came back to me. At recess, we’d read the note and have a good laugh. Sometimes we’d collectively make up one big story, or each share a joke. It all depended on what I wrote first. It was only a little bit of power… but it still went straight to my head. Suddenly, I was the most popular kid in class! I didn’t need the daydreams, not like I used to.

      We almost always won; I’m not sure if we really were master sneaks, or if Mrs. Knott didn’t care. In order to be stealthy enough to play, we were well-behaved and didn’t interrupt lessons. It was a harmless game; part of our camouflage required us to actually take notes for class. It was funny, I didn’t realize  the game inadvertently defeated the purpose…  Kids really aren’t as clever as they think they are. At least, I wasn’t!

      I remember when everything changed.

      The game started off like it always did: every time the teacher turned to write something on the whiteboard, the note changed hands. I could hear the scratching of pencils and pens on paper with the quiet monotony of the lesson.

      My thoughts were set adrift; I thought about how things had been different just the year before. Real friendship was a lot less frightening than the warped version my mind had made up. I didn’t miss any of my imaginary friends, they were all but erased as I started learning the social skills I’d lacked when I was younger.

      I was roused from my reverie  when Lydia jumped out of her seat, stumbling backwards and falling on her butt. Most of the class laughed at her expense, all of us immature enough to find it funny. No one disliked Lydia; she was a little chubby, but very sweet… but seeing anyone fall like that was bound to get a laugh.

      Every eye in the room watched the girl fumble and fret. Lydia was red-faced and sweaty as she quickly collected her papers off the floor and sat back down at her desk without a word. Her round cheeks quivered as she tried to compose herself, but the damage was already done.

      “I thought I saw a spider. A big one.” Lydia explained,  “I’m sorry for interrupting, Mrs. Knott…” Lydia hung her head, wringing her braids. Mrs. Knott nodded and turned back to the whiteboard without comment, either accepting her explanation as true or choosing not to question it.

      I turned my attention back to my note-taking, and before long… the note made its way back. I didn’t look at it right away; I liked to be surprised at recess. The bell rang, and I cheerfully shuffled out the door for lunch.

      The class seemed quieter than usual as we filed out and headed for the cafeteria. Lydia stopped me in the hallway, her face was still red and her eyes glossy with unshed tears.Lydia usually kept to herself– she participated in ‘Taking Notes’, but was shy and didn’t usually socialize unless she had to.

      “What’s the matter?” I asked, perplexed. We were alone in the hall, staff and students alike didn’t waste time going to lunch, especially on Pizza Day. I felt a flutter of annoyance, but given the look on Lydia’s face… I pushed it back.

      “Don’t show the note at recess.” her hands gripped her twin braids “Please…”

      “Why?” I asked, reaching for the note so I could see what the problem was. “Half the class already saw it since you passed it on.”

      “I wish I hadn’t!” she was pulling on her braids, I was worried she might pull them right off her head! “The ga– taking notes isn’t fun anymore. Not if it’s going to be like this!”

      “Like what?” my first thought was that someone drew boobs or wrote swears, either of those options would have been scandalous to our fourth-grade sensibilities. Lydia looked at the note I was unfolding, chewing on her bottom lip so hard  it started to swell.

      In an instant, I understood the problem.

      It was Lydia. A drawing of her; so well drawn there could be no mistake. It was almost like looking at a black and white photograph… if not for the horizontal blue lines faintly visible beneath the expert pencil strokes.

      The drawing was not at a fourth grade level, but that wasn’t what was alarming about it. In the picture, there was a horizontal cut across her stomach- her hand held the wound open, bloody fingers digging in to pry the apparently self-inflicted wound wider… her other hand unraveled intestines, pulling them to gore-smeared lips as though she were about to slurp them up like noodles.

      Her chubby arms were bloody up to the elbow, even in black and white I could tell what I was looking at; the rivulets were dark and glossy, even forming a reflective pool to display the gore from a different angle. Never in my life had I seen something like this … I wanted to throw up just looking at it– I couldn’t imagine how Lydia must have felt.

      Once the full impact of the drawing hit me, I came back to my senses and crumpled the paper into a tight ball. “I won’t show anyone.”

      Lydia nodded, shuffling from foot to foot in an awkward dance of nerves.The girl opened her mouth to say something else… then thought better of it, scurrying down the hall. I’d lost my appetite– no doubt Lydia did too. The air was thick with unasked questions… who had drawn that? When I’d started the note that drawing hadn’t been there. I really didn’t think anyone in the class would have (or could have) drawn it. There was no obvious explanation, but I didn’t want to think about it. For some reason, it felt wrong to even wonder.

      At recess, half the kids protested when I said I’d ‘lost’ the note… the other half was conspicuously quiet. No one mentioned the drawing. There seemed to be an unspoken rule– we couldn’t talk about it; we didn’t want to, it was unanimous.

      The next day, Lydia wasn’t in class. At first, I wasn’t going to play the game– but some of the kids kept looking at me expectantly. Only about half the class knew what happened, the other half expected we’d be ‘Taking Notes’ as usual. For some reason, pretending it didn’t happen seemed like the most sensible option.

      The game continued.

      I tore out a fresh sheet of notebook paper and stared down at it blankly, unsure of how to start this one. Any sense of mischief or fun was long gone for me, I didn’t want to play anymore. Why did it feel like I had to?

      I scribbled something down, I don’t even remember what. The game began, but I didn’t really pay attention until the dreaded note made its way back.I felt like a prisoner to the game; It was only a piece of paper, but it felt heavy to me. I didn’t know what I’d see, I couldn’t convince myself the game hadn’t changed in some fundamental way.

      I wasn’t the only one who felt that way. Just days before, we were all laughing and smiling… not anymore. Only about half the class waited eagerly for me at recess, the other half trickling in– heavy-footed with reluctance. It was as if they were here out of obligation. As I smoothed out the creased note, I almost wasn’t surprised to see the new drawing.

      This time it was Brian, a grisly scene sketched out with such realistic detail that my brain refused to register what I was looking at, at first. Bubbling, blistered and blackened skin might have left him indistinguishable, if not for the fact that his face was left untouched by the licking, angry flames– drawn out in color this time; red, orange, yellow and black.

      Brian’s dimpled smile and freckled nose were unmistakable; his body positioned in a crouch beside a wall of flames, as though he were merely warming himself by a campfire, arms extended  — hands rubbing together, charred skin flaking off with friction– peppering the fire with bits of blackened flesh.

      I pressed my hand over the drawing, covering it up… but it was too late, we’d already seen it. Even the drawing felt hot beneath my palm, words and bile competing in my throat as my eyes skimmed the rest of the note.

      Everything else was harmless, snippets of conversation and jokes– benign doodles… I recognized the handwriting, knew who wrote or doodled what. Everyone was accounted for, except for Lydia. The only addition I couldn’t explain was that drawing, it shouldn’t have been there.

      It was as though some malevolent presence had decided to include itself in our game, uninvited.

      No one spoke of it, but it was clear from the shock and tears… we’d all seen it this time. When I pulled my hand away from the drawing, it came away stained red and black. I buried the note, along with the one depicting Lydia by the sledding hill. A cluster of silent children; it felt like a funeral.

      Brian was the last to leave the mound, his skin was the color of sour milk which made his freckles seem dark in stark contrast. He didn’t cry, he didn’t ask questions, he just stared at the dirt with glassy eyes … even after the bell rang and everyone else went to class.

      When I began to trudge back to class reluctantly, I swear I heard a whisper:

      “Pass it on.”

      …

      Brian and Lydia were both absent the next day, their two empty desks an ominous reminder. No one wanted to play, but all of us felt strangely compelled to participate. I ripped a new page from my notebook, not caring when the paper ripped like jagged teeth along the side.

      I started the game with a plea: I don’t want to play anymore. The scrawled message almost illegible, as if even this violated some implicit rule. My hand kept moving across the page, before I even realized what I was doing– before I realized I wasn’t in control of my arm anymore– I’d written a reply:

      “Pass it on”

      Written in perfect cursive, handwriting that wasn’t my own. I’d lost feeling in my hand, looking down at it… it felt somehow separate from me; detached, as though I were looking at someone else’s hand.

      My hand — the hand — passed the note to William next, and so the game repeated. With each game, a new deadly prediction was pictured; although we didn’t know what happened to the students chosen by the note, we did know that they never came back to class.

      Tammy’s demise was drawn, a snarling pack of dogs tearing at her legs and snapping her bones between sharp, bloody teeth. The girl smiled in the picture, petting one of the dogs as though it weren’t tearing the flesh from her forearm.

      Calvin’s portrait painted his body at the bottom of nightmare stairs; his body contorted– bent and broken in every unnatural direction, his arms and legs resembled the very stairs he must have fallen from.

      No one wanted to play anymore, we were the ones being played. When I resisted, my arm would move on it’s own… I wasn’t the only one. We stopped looking at the drawings, but it didn’t matter. Someone would still be missing the next day.

      … Then we were caught.

      That day, there were seven empty desks.

      Lucy was about to finish the eighth deadly game when Mrs. Knott swivelled around from the whiteboard and caught her slim wrist. Without hesitating, the teacher took  the note out of her hand and began lecturing us about ‘disrupting our learning environment’.

      The lecture was worth it. By getting caught, Lucy had lost the game. Losing the game had freed us somehow, breaking whatever hold it had over us.

      We never played the game again.

      Seven students never returned to school.  As children, we were spared any sort of explanation … and no one asked.

      I spent the rest of that year, and every year after that…  as a serious student. I went back to being a loner with no friends or games of any kind. I didn’t even go to recess, opting to work on homework or read books in the quiet solitude of the library instead. I didn’t think about what happened for a long time, I moved on with my life.

      Until last night.

      I was drinking by myself at the bar into the early hours, hoping that liquor would lubricate my sleepless night. An old woman claimed the stool beside me, her body stooped with age — that didn’t stop her from swallowing several shots in quick succession.

      I didn’t pay her much mind, staring vacantly at the assortment of hard liquor as a drunken haze began to sweep over me like a warm blanket. I could feel the woman’s intent stare as she slid a piece of paper towards me, a soft rustle I somehow heard even over the loud music.

      I stared down at the note on the counter; dirty notebook paper, folded into a square with frayed edges. I looked up at the woman, her mouth was moving soundlessly– but I could tell she was saying the same thing, over and over again.

       

      Pass.

      It.

      On.

      I recognized the woman– it was Mrs. Knott. There was no doubt about it. She hadn’t aged well, her eyes dark and haunted, touched with madness; her  features were haggard and pale, her body frail– as though she were made of paper-mâché.

      I didn’t need to open the note to know what it was. For all  these years, that last game had gone unfinished… until Mrs. Knott finally passed it on… back to me. The game was won. I can’t begin to guess what happened to my old teacher, but it was enough to drive her to seek me out and deliver this note.

      I had to take it. Although my right hand felt like it was filled with pins and needles, it was my choice to reach out and take it. The game had been my idea, the lives lost were my burden to bear; the curse could only end with me.

      “Thank you, I’ll take it from here. You protected us… I’m so sorry.” it was clear my old teacher had been fighting this curse for so long– long enough that I had time to forget.

      Forgetting didn’t make it go away.

      “I’m sorry too…” she weakly whispered, terror and regret competing on her face. We both sat and drank for a while, before I sent her home in a cab and headed home to face my fate.

      I haven’t slept since; the note is on my desk, unopened. It doesn’t matter, even if I don’t look… the game is over. I don’t even need to wonder who this game will claim next. Although I live alone, I haven’t been alone since the note found its way back. From the corner of my eye, a dark, ungraspable shape asks:

      “Did you miss me?”

      I wrote my story knowing no one will believe it, there isn’t time to do anything else… Fortunately, there’s nothing to leave behind. No family, no friends, not even a pet; maybe I knew this would happen all along, somewhere deep down… I didn’t want anyone to miss me.

      Meeting this monster, I realized something I’d secretly suspected all along. Whatever this creature is, I know it. I’d called it my friend once, back in those daydreaming days. This nameless, shapeless thing… my imagination had taken credit for it, an innocent assumption.

      I’d turned my back on a lonely darkness, but it wouldn’t let me go.

      Posted in Short Stories [Horror] | 0 Comments | Tagged children's games, chills, classic horror, creepypasta, dark, horror, nosleep, note, scary, short stories
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