Penny's Tales

Horror stories, narrations and illustrations by Penny Tailsup
Penny's Tales
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    • [Short Horror Story] My Boss’s Latest MLM Really Changed Me

      Posted at 2:17 pm by Penny Tailsup, on October 1, 2019

      “Are you going to the Butterfly Party tonight, Kari? I must have missed your RSVP.” Shannon was shameless, as usual. “You are coming, right? It’s going to change your life.”

      “Oh!” I straightened in my seat, internally screaming.  “Of course I’m coming! I’m sorry, I thought I responded already.” I hadn’t thought that. I’d just hoped she wouldn’t notice. All of Shannon’s parties were a sales pitch to some sort of Multi-Level Marketing Pyramid scheme. The company and products changed every few months, but the sales pitch stayed the same: these products will change your life!

      There’s nothing worse than an #bossbabe who is also your boss. No matter what ridiculous program Shannon got wrapped up in, she had subordinates who couldn’t tell her no. I was no exception. The mass text she’d sent last week had been a barely-decipherable block of emojis and buzz words. I couldn’t even tell what the product was, but it didn’t really matter. Technically, she couldn’t force us to go… but people who didn’t tended to work Saturdays. 

      “Great! Don’t forget to bring a swimsuit!”  I had a feeling she knew exactly how unenthusiastic everyone was, she just didn’t care. Julie and I exchanged mutual looks of amusement and defeat as Shannon flounced on by.

      Once the boss was out of earshot, Richie walked over to my desk, delighted to announce that he hadn’t been invited. “Looks like this one is ladies only.” he said sympathetically. At least, he was trying to look sympathetic. He was too giddy, having dodged the bullet himself!

      “You weren’t invited?” I asked. “I mean, even if it’s makeup or something she’s usually like ‘oh, pick something out for your girlfriend’!”

      “I mean, I’m not going to ask why not. She’d probably invite me.” he laughed, unable to help himself. 

      “I’ll ask her then!” I threatened, though we both knew I wouldn’t. He raised his hands in mock surrender. I was annoyed, but not at him. 

      “Oh no please don’t–”

      “.. Oh no.” Julie interrupted, covering her face. She’d gone beet red. It took me a moment to realize why. 

      “Oh no.” I echoed. 

      “What?” Richie asked, not catching on. I turned red too. If men weren’t invited, that probably meant this was going to be a sales pitch of an intimate nature. Not again!  I still couldn’t look at Agnes the same way after hearing her happily endorse her vibrating purchase. No thank you. Agnes had always been an irredeemable brown noser but she’d hit new lows that day.

      “Now I kind of want to come.” Richie admitted, grinning. “Especially since I heard the part about the swimsuits.”

      “Ugh, shut up.” I groaned, horrified. He gave a salute before going to bother someone else. The rest of that shift was a dreadful blur; I hated my job, but hated the idea of Shannon’s party even more. There had to be a better way to spend a Friday night, but Shannon couldn’t be blown off without serious professional repercussions. 

      Her parties usually took place in her living room, the Butterfly Party was no exception. When I walked in with Julie, our fears were confirmed: the windows were covered and the lights were dimmed. The furniture was covered in plastic.

       On the coffee table, I saw the usual vegetable tray and a selection of gas station wines. It didn’t look like enough wine. Agnes was already on her second glass… if the wine stain on her blouse was any indication.

      Our host was arranging things on a small covered table, little bottles and purple pouches of whatever product she was peddling. The room smelled like flowers, probably an essential oil from her last “business” venture. 

      “I’m glad everyone could make it.” Shannon said, “I know I say this every time, but… this product is going to change your life.”  There were four of us sitting on the sectional in silence; Julie, Agnes, Cindy, and myself. Only Agnes clapped her hands together, somehow managing to muster up the enthusiasm everyone else lacked.

      “So, you might have noticed that this party is ladies only.” she continued. Julie and I exchanged looks again. Yes, we’d noticed. The plastic-covered furniture, blocked windows and dark room hadn’t exactly been reassuring. 

      “It’s not what you think, I promise. I learned my lesson.” our boss laughed. “I wanted to give all the ladies in the office a spa day to show my appreciation. The first time is free! I have enough product for everyone to try before buying. Plus, I thought it would be a good team-building experience. Did everyone remember to bring a swimsuit? I have a couple extras if anyone needs to borrow one.” 

      I was wearing a bikini under my clothes, though it was definitely out of season and I was feeling bloated and fat. Still, like everyone else, I went along with whatever Shannon said. Body issues aside, I felt relieved. I didn’t really mind trying out new beauty or skincare products. Usually I’d buy whatever was cheapest out of the catalog and call it a day.

      “Alright, suit up and pair up!” Shannon smiled, excited. “It’s easier to apply the product with a partner. This is a full-body treatment.” Naturally, Julie and I were a team since we were already friends. Everyone stripped down to their swimsuits awkwardly. I was horrified to be the only one in a bikini. I don’t know what I’d been thinking.

       “It’s a bit messy, but don’t worry. That’s what the plastic is for! Don’t worry about the floors either, I’ll mop up after.”  Shannon assured us. “We’re going to do Chrysalis Beauty Wraps by Butterfly Beauty and transform ourselves. I hope you’re excited, I know I am. The first step? Exfoliation!” 

      A large tub of what looked like dirty sugar went around the room. Each of us were instructed to scoop up generous handfuls of the stuff to ‘prime’ our skin, rubbing ourselves raw with the coarse scrub. 

      “This is a nourishing sugar scrub made with organic fair trade sugar crystals.” Shannon explained. “This one has a lovely hibiscus-rose scent. What do you think, Kari?” 

      “… It’s nice.” I answered awkwardly, though to me it seemed like a sticky, smelly mess. I knew better than to be honest. “Does this have coconut oil in it?” I pretended I was interested, and she nodded enthusiastically before moving on to Cindy. 

      “Don’t forget your elbows, hon.” Shannon chirped, “Get under the suit too. No need to be shy. It’s just us ladies today!” she prowled around the room, giving tips in a syrupy voice. “Scrub in a circular motion.” 

      Once she was satisfied with our scrubbing, she brought out a bottle of amber gel. “This is Butterfly Beauty’s Hot Honey Activating Gel. It stimulates your metabolism, tightens your skin, and encourages sweating. The best part is that it also prevents fat buildup in the subcutaneous layers of your skin. This product makes your beach body goals attainable all year long!” 

      We were each handed our own “deluxe” sample. I didn’t believe the sales pitch but dutifully began smearing it all over. It was greasy rather than sticky. I’d expected it to be honey thanks to the color, but it wasn’t. Shannon was talking about the ingredients, but I wasn’t really listening. As I smudged the stuff over my arms… it stung, and began to burn! 

      “The tingle only lasts a moment.” Shannon assured us. “Push through it, hon! It will be SO worth it.”

      Tingle my ass! It hurt! I glanced around the room, the pale faces contorted in pain confirmed that I wasn’t the only one who was suffering. I was starting to sweat too; an itchy sensation prickling everywhere the product made contact. I opted not to lather up under my bikini, despite Shannon’s urging. Fortunately, she was too busy paying attention to everyone else to notice I hadn’t. 

      It was an awkward dance of coworkers shimmying around on the floor and furniture, sticking their hands down their suits and trying to maneuver while maintaining some shred of modesty. Julie and I rubbed the stuff on each other’s back reluctantly, that persistent burning itch instantly flaring.

      This was not the relaxing spa day Shannon had promised. I noticed that she wasn’t participating either, just passing the products around and making sure we used them. I glared at her, but when she caught my gaze I quickly looked away.

      “Relief is coming, ladies!” she assured us. “Two more steps, but this will probably be your favorite part.” she picked up a bundle of purple silk pouches, passing one to each of us. Inside was a sweet-smelling mix of dried flowers, shredded coconut, and some sort of shimmery powder. It was iridescent and pretty, like it belonged in a bowl on the mantle. 

      “Press this into your skin. Every inch! The activating gel will make it stick.” I scooped some up in my palm, feeling an instant cooling relief. The pain stopped, though a numb tingle remained. “This is Butterfly Beauty’s Butterfly Wing Potpourri Powder.” she explained, “This nourishing mix will not only perfect your skin, it also has stress-relieving properties.” 

      To be fair, the pain going away did in fact relieve my stress. A ripple of sighs filled the room. 

      “Don’t crush it, use a gentle pressure.” Shannon instructed, pacing around the room. I sprinkled it on my arms, my stomach, my chest, my legs… pressed the gritty, soft mix onto the greasy mess, and let the relief wash over me. Agnes had abandoned her swimsuit altogether, though she was covered in too much product for the look to be explicitly offensive.

      “I could roll in this stuff!” Julie told me. We got each other’s backs. Of course, the relieving effect only mattered in the places I’d put the gel. It felt dry and crunchy otherwise! I couldn’t wait to take a shower and get the messy slop off of me. Whatever this product was, I wasn’t buying it. 

      While everyone ooh’d and ah’d from relief and started going for their wine glasses, our boss prepared green sheets to complete the wrap. She called them Butterfly Beauty’s Cocoon Complexion Caressing Sheets. After downing more wine, we took turns wrapping each other in the chalky, clay-like squares.  I wrapped Julia in the stuff and she wrapped me. Shannon said it was some kind of organic dead sea kelp saran wrap, which didn’t even make sense. I wasn’t in the business of arguing with her though, I was just relieved we were almost done.

      We were instructed to get comfortable, and we spread out on the furniture while Shannon turned on what she claimed were infrared lights. The room was colored with red light, and we all began to sweat again under the wraps.

      Weirdly, the sheets seemed to tighten up and harden. It began to get a little hard to move. The longer we sat, the tighter and harder it became. Getting nervous, I flexed my muscles and twisted in my body in an attempt to loosen the wrap… It didn’t work. 

      “Just relax, Kari. Even a worm like you can be a butterfly.” Shannon purred, her voice still syrupy sweet.

      “Excuse me?”

      “You heard me. You think I don’t know the way you bitches complain about me. The looks you give each other when I invite you to my parties? I don’t even need to sell products. I make good money already. I just wanted to experience … sisterhood! Friendship! To live my best life. All of you…” she pointed a finger at each of us in turn. “All of you want to be miserable. Well, I’m not going to let you.” 

      I tried to stand up, but nearly toppled over. I couldn’t move my joints at all. The only parts of us not covered were our heads!

      “I’m  a good boss. I’m your friend.” Shannon continued, “I found this company. This transformative product… and they promised it would change everything. That you’d all thank me, and mean it.”

      “Shannon, I can’t move….” Agnes whined. “I’ve always liked your parties, but maybe I’m allergic to something in this?” 

      “No, that just means it’s working. It’s organic! You can’t be allergic.” Shannon said dismissively. “Sit tight, ladies! It’ll take a few hours, please try to relax. I rented some good movies to watch while we wait.” she popped in some romcom, but I was far too busy freaking out to even notice what it was. 

      I struggled to get up; my knees couldn’t bend but I was still able to shift my weight and flail to my feet somehow. It didn’t matter because I couldn’t keep my balance– I fell forward, crashing into the coffee table. Wine bottles shattered, vegetables went rolling to the floor, and I was left groaning. I wasn’t seriously hurt. I felt like I was wearing a full-body helmet!

      “See what you did? Ugh. Good thing you’re thin or I’d make you stay there…” Shannon yanked me off the table, inelegantly shoving me back onto the couch. “Now stay put. Hopefully it still works, but I’m not responsible if it doesn’t!”

      “Don’t touch me you Stepfordwife-looking bitch!” I screamed back, though my voice came off a little more shrill than intended. Shannon smiled at me, apparently deciding I was all bark and no bite. Probably because I couldn’t move.

      “Hold on, let me get you fixed up, hon.” 

      There were cracks in the hardened shell that encased my arms, but it wasn’t enough to break free. I still couldn’t bend my limbs, but now I had a glimpse of mottled skin through the splits; I was blistered and discolored, that burning itch erupting visibly, a screaming red rash that even made my follicles quiver.

      The pain faded when my boss brought over a fresh Cocoon sheet, wrapping my arm  and covering the cracks. She patted my shoulder, then pulled away from me. I heard her take a few deep breaths, count slowly back from ten… then fix the smile back on her face as she turned back towards us.

      “Sorry, I’m not sure where the outbursts came from. I’m not trying to scare you or anything. This is a good product, it’s just not like anything you’ve ever tried before. It’s a little uncomfortable now, but it’ll be worth it.”

      “… Have you used it?” Julie asked, her breathing was a little strained.

      “No.” Shannon admitted, “Not yet. The company said it was best to wait. Besides, it’s a two person job at least and I need to  get each of you through the transformation first.” 

      “What do you mean transformation? This doesn’t seem like any wrap I’ve ever had before. I don’t like it.” Julie replied. “It’s getting harder to breathe. Please get it off me.” 

      “This is a meditative beauty experience. Relax. Give into it; shed your cynicism. Let the Chrysalis Beauty Wrap by Butterfly Beauty pull out the toxins and rejuvenate your skin. You’ll have a flawless complexion and a new outlook in no time!” 

      The sales pitches never ended with Shannon, even when we were a captive audience. Yet she wondered why we didn’t like her? 

      “I don’t care, please take it off… please…I’ll work every Saturday for the next six months. Please.” Julie begged, her voice breaking off into sobs. We’d always hated MLM parties, but the Butterfly Party was on a whole new level. 

      “Julie, you’re not being a team player right now. I wish you’d give this a chance and stop lowering morale.” I never liked Shannon, but this was going too far even for her. Instead of admitting this party was yet another bust in a long line of failed ventures… she was doubling down. 

      My skin crawled. I wasn’t in pain, but I was sure I could feel a squirming and burrowing sensation everywhere the activating gel had touched. The itch started to come back, but as much as I wanted to… it was impossible to scratch. I couldn’t move my arms, let alone chip away the glistening jade chrysalis. I wanted to curl into a ball and claw at my screaming epidermis, but I was frozen. My whole body was an itch I couldn’t scratch… and that feeling didn’t go away for hours. It had to have been hours, right?

      A sensation like static filled my limbs. Unable to move, it was like my entire body fell asleep but my mind was awake. The sounds around me were muffled and indistinct; if my coworkers or boss were talking, I couldn’t hear them. The light of the room tunnelled into a tiny red pinprick in a field of black. 

      I screamed. Sharp pains erupted all over my body, like a needle probing every pore. My limbs tried to spasm, but I still couldn’t move.  By some miracle, tiny fissures rippled across the green… cracking the tough prison enough that I felt some of the pressure release. The wrappings began to crumble, falling away in gooey clumps.

      Freedom washed over me like a summer breeze, but the feeling didn’t last. My skin began to bubble, twitch and even… tickle. I looked down at my arms and saw fluttering flaps of skin. It took me a moment to realize they were wings; thousands of wings, red and fleshy things. Tiny butterflies. Too many to count.

      I watched with repulsed fascination and terror as they emerged from blister cocoons–  they chewed through my skin, widening my pores and leaving me full of holes. They seemed to erupt all at once, taking flight on glossy wet wings with a spray of my own blood.

      The pain was excruciating, but I was the only one who was screaming. There was something wrong about that; my bloodshot eyes swiveled around the room. Clouds of bloody butterflies were joining together, ripping out of their hosts. Out of Julie, Agnes, Cindy and I. 

      But my coworkers weren’t moving, they were perfectly still. They were smiling, though tears were in their eyes… they just stood there and let it happen– not that there was anything they could do to stop it. I understood then, in some unknowable way… the “transformation” hadn’t worked on me as intended. I still had control of my body and mind, but I sensed intrusive thoughts and impulses that weren’t mine.

      Shannon was crying. Whatever she’d expected, it wasn’t this. Life as we knew it was over. I should have been dead, but I wasn’t; I was riddled with holes and gushing blood, but that didn’t seem important anymore. 

      “I’m so sorry!” she sobbed, “I didn’t know!” blah blah blah, I stopped listening. I didn’t care what she had to say. I picked up my clothes from by the door; I wasn’t feeling confident enough to keep rocking the bloody bikini. Not until the holes healed up, at least.

      The cloud of butterflies split in two; one hung around me. I knew they were mine. The others started beating themselves against a window– at least until Agnes walked over and opened it for them. My coworkers weren’t themselves anymore, acting on the will of something else; a fate I was exempt from. It was a shame; though their mouths weren’t moving, I could feel their screams.

      Their bodies were moving, but they weren’t in control of them anymore. They were drones, but I was a Queen. I’m not sure if something went wrong or something went right, but I’m not going to argue with the results. Do you know how many MLMs promise you’ll be your own boss? I didn’t expect it to be true. Success is the exception, not the rule.

      “Kari, what happened? I don’t know what happened.”

      “Of course you know, Shannon. It’s exactly as you said.” she’d promised a transformation. She promised a lot of things, but this was the first time she’d delivered. I walked over to the bloodstained table and picked up the tub of Butterfly Beauty’s Softening Sweet Fair Trade Organic Sugar Scrub.

      I turned back to my former boss, smiling. I wouldn’t give her the sales pitch, but I’d treat her to a free demonstration of my new product line.

      “The first step? Exfoliation!”

      I’m going to throw a Butterfly Party just for her. What better way to start my own downline?

      Posted in Short Stories [Horror] | 0 Comments | Tagged antimlm, beauty, butterfly, dark, fiction, horror, mlm, original, scary, short stories, short story, writing
    • Tales From Solitude: Squirrel Holes — Short Horror Story

      Posted at 9:02 pm by Penny Tailsup, on January 29, 2019

      I am starting a new series based on my summers at my granddaddy’s hunting camp in Alaska in the 90s. I was a kid and I had some really creepy/weird experiences over the course of several summers. The stories are ranging from 80%-95% true, I’ll let you have fun guessing which ones are exaggerated. None are going to be 100% because I have to fill in a few of the blanks, I was an elementary-aged kid and I’m sure I don’t remember everything perfectly.

      Although this is going to be a multiple-part series, each installment will stand alone, though you should be able to see where some tie in together. There are a couple stories where I think I know what actually happened, but I’m telling the stories based on what Kid Me thought happened at the time. There are also a few stories where I’m not sure…

      I hope you enjoy Tales From Solitude. The first part, “Squirrel Holes”, will be going live on Nosleep tomorrow!


       

      Introduction

       

      What can I say about Solitude, Alaska?

      Summers there were all about ‘character building’, the kind of experience adults lament children don’t have today, complete with hard physical labor. When we weren’t doing chores  we enjoyed (relatively) unsupervised exploration of the wilderness near Wrangell-St. Elias National Park and Preserve. This was back in the 90s.

      Solitude was named for a small a creek that ran behind the log cabins. Granddaddy prided Solitude on its “no frills” accommodations—much to our chagrin. I can’t explain exactly where it is without outing myself, but I used to spend my summers there as a kid with my younger brother Nick.

      We hated it.

      As an adult, I realize how much money these summers away saved our mom. She was single and struggling to raise two wild kids… and summer daycare was (and is) ridiculously expensive. Summers with granddaddy gave her a much-needed break and enabled us to spend time with our extended family– mostly granddaddy. The rest of the year  he lived in a remote town and was rarely able to visit.

      Every year I begged not to go. Once we were there we had a good time, but granddaddy was a lot less lenient than mom and he often reminded us of that with weird punishments and scare tactics. I’m prefacing my stories with this fact not because he was abusive, but because I realize a couple of these weird stories could be explained by my brother or granddaddy messing with me. I’ll let you be the judge.

      Squirrel Holes

      Our mornings started with a huge breakfast in the lodge and two cups of black coffee (non-negotiable). After breakfast, we split firewood. After firewood was cut and stacked, granddaddy would have us pile into the back of a trailer hitched to a three-wheeler and drive us out towards the runway so we could hunt for squirrels.

      Granddaddy hated squirrels, but he had a good reason. Aside from snow machines in the winter, the only way to reach Solitude was by bush plane. The family maintained a clearing where the planes could land—an effort that the parky squirrels constantly thwarted by digging holes on the runway. The holes were a huge hazard that were known to cause wrecks—if the landing gear caught in one of the holes, the plane would flip onto its nose. The results could be fatal.

      The remains of an old red and white Cessna were a constant reminder of that fact– the wreckage was far too big to haul off the remote property, so the plane was moved off to the side of the runway where it was only partially obscured by trees. The plane had been there since my mom was a kid and had long been claimed by nature.

      Although Nick and I complained incessantly about our other chores, we never complained about squirrel hunting. We each were equipped with child-size .22 rifles and driven around the field looking for squirrels to shoot and holes to fill with heavy stones we collected from the creek.

      Before you ask, granddaddy was all about gun safety and had us memorize the rules of gun ownership by heart. On the drives, he’d ask us to recite the rules and give us a spanking if we even jokingly aimed the guns anywhere we shouldn’t. To this day I still remember the cardinal rule– rule #1: all guns are always loaded.

      We were only trusted to shoot squirrels at first, but we got pretty good at it. It was quite an introduction to the messiness of death. When squirrels die, like most animals– they immediately shit themselves. After we did a few runs around the field, we’d head back to camp and skin the bodies… even grosser than the poop.

      While granddaddy hated squirrels, I started to fear them.

      At first, I was just grossed out. Squirrels are a lot less cute skinned and gutted… but granddaddy insisted we couldn’t be wasteful. This rule applied to any kill– from squirrels to bears, we had to use or give away any useable part. To do anything less was considered extremely disrespectful to the animal.

      One afternoon, after we got back from a squirrel hunt,  I reluctantly grabbed one of the dead squirrels. This parky squirrel had suffered a messy gut shot, it’s innards protruding. The stink was awful. Once I set it down on a stump and knelt down to skin it… it moved.

      I let out a shriek and jumped away while my little brother turned around to see what I was screaming about. The squirrel wasn’t dead; it jumped up to its feet and stared at me with beady black eyes– then lunged for an attack.

      I ran away while my brother jumped towards it and started stomping on it– in situations like that, younger or not, he was braver than I was. Nick stomped on the squirrel a few times, but even after he swore it was dead… I refused to go near it. He ended up skinning it for me.

      After that, I was more eager to fill in those squirrel holes… even more so after the tundra skiing accident. Tundra skiing was a very short-lived activity my brother and I invented that same summer. One of us would stand behind the trailer and grab onto it. Taking turns, we’d let the 3-wheeler drag us along with the trailer while trying to stay upright– it was fun at first, “skiing” on the slippery soles of our rain boots. We did it for a few afternoons before an accident inevitably happened.

      Granddaddy strongly believed in letting kids make mistakes, so when we started the game he went along with it. He drove pretty slow and kept an eye on us, so it could have been a lot worse. It was my turn, so I was being dragged along and having a grand time… until my foot caught in one of the squirrel holes.

      I didn’t react fast enough, so I was still holding onto the trailer when I fell. Unfortunately, no one saw the barbed wire hidden in the mossy overgrowth, my left leg raked across it right before granddaddy realized I was down and braked. It happened so fast– I didn’t even scream, just let out a whimpering yelp.

      My leg has a scar to this day because I refused to let granddaddy give me stitches (he was a trained paramedic). We were nowhere near a hospital; the cut was deep, but not life-threatening. I remember being hysterical, blood getting everywhere while my granddaddy used a pair of tweezers to pull moss and debris out of the open wound and did his best to sterilize it, despite the thrashing and screaming of his granddaughter. I was more scared than hurt, but in my defense… I was an elementary-school kid.

      After that, I was embarrassed and distracted by my injury… so I didn’t tell granddaddy that I’d felt something in the hole. When my foot caught, I felt the sensation of thick, cold fingers curl tightly around my ankle– they didn’t let go, the force of being dragged behind the 3-wheeler pulled me free.

      In that moment of fear, pain and adrenaline, that detail took a back seat. Even at that age, I tried to convince myself I’d imagined it… memory of the hand made sleep hard the rest of that summer.

      Even today, I can’t help but wonder if that squirrel hole was ever filled in. All I know for sure is… there were more than squirrels hiding in those holes.

      Posted in Short Stories [Horror], Tales From Solitude, True, or True-ish Stories | 1 Comment | Tagged alaska, camping, creepy, family, granddaddy, holes, horror, hunting, inspired by a true story, little brother, parky, short, short stories, squirrel, squirrels, story, tundra, wilderness
    • 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
    • Flower Girls – Short Story

      Posted at 11:04 pm by Penny Tailsup, on April 18, 2018

      I couldn’t sleep because of the crying.

      This wasn’t the first night I’d laid awake and listened to that horrible sound. For the past several weeks I’d suffered through the sound– no one else seemed to hear it. I’d asked Rupin, but he’d assured me I was only dreaming. I knew that couldn’t be true. There was nothing dreamlike about it, it was weighing on me. Every morning I bore the bloodshot eyes of someone who hadn’t slept… with a nightmare, wouldn’t I at least be rested?

      Tonight I made the decision to get to the bottom of it. I knew that I couldn’t keep ignoring the voice, or it would never go away. The past few weeks were evidence of that!

      Determined, I slid out from beneath the covers— quiet to avoid waking Rupin. I edged out into the darkness, sensing my way down the narrow hallway. My feet felt out the floor, the cold slats creaking with each tentative step. The wailing and whimpering continued, leading me down the hall which stretched out, unfamiliar in the darkness.

      The only light came through the window. On this cloudy night, the shadows shifted at the whim of the clouds wrapped around the moon, choking out its light. The crying stopped with a sudden abruptness that made the silence seem deafening. Only my heartbeat could be heard as I sucked in a slow breath, staring straight ahead at my destination—Rupin’s home office.

      I’d never been inside. Rupin kept confidential client information in there, which we’d both agreed was none of my business. However, the sleepless nights were wearing on me—I’d been brought here. I needed to know why! I was sure he’d forgive me when I explained it!

      I tried to open the door, but it wouldn’t budge- It was locked. I was shocked, I knew he hadn’t wanted me in there but had he really needed to lock the door? What was in there that was really so important?

      Defeated, I drifted back to bed, falling into an uneasy half-sleep.

      In the morning, I was the first to wake up. I felt dead tired, but I didn’t want to disappoint Rupin so I put on make-up to cover up my exhaustion. My relationship with Rupin was a little unconventional. He was a cosmetic surgeon- good looks were his bread and butter!

      I’d actually met him through his work, but not due to any insecurity or vanity. I’d been in a terrible accident, losing my face in a brutal hit-and-run. By some miracle, Rupin had managed to reconstruct a face for me. In fact, my case had brought him a good deal of attention—no one had thought it was possible, other surgeons had turned me down because failure would ruin their success rates.

      Rupin wasn’t afraid of the challenge. In fact, he seemed to relish it! The recovery was long and painful, but it’d been worth it. The only catch was that I looked nothing like my old self, but I was still grateful. In fact, Rupin thought I looked even prettier than before! Sometimes I struggled with feeling like a stranger when I looked into the mirror, but I was grateful to him. So grateful in fact, that I’d asked him if there was anything I could do for him in return…

      He asked to marry me, and I accepted.

      “There.” I whispered once I finished fixing my face. I opened the closet so I could change, slipping into the first dress that caught my eye. I didn’t recognize it, but my fiancée was always buying clothes so this wasn’t unusual.

      Today’s dress was simple and feminine, cut just above the knee with a flowy skirt. Cream in color, the most notable feature was the print of bright flowers. I looked into the mirror resting a top the vanity… even now I wasn’t accustomed to my new face, but there was a certain familiarity in my reflection today.

      I felt energized as I headed into the kitchen to make breakfast. On the table I found a surprise. In a white vase upon the table was a fresh bouquet— flowers soft white and elegant. The petals were bathed in early morning sunlight, but they looked as though they were lit from within. I admired the arrangement for a long moment, my heart feeling lighter thanks to the romantic gesture.

      I didn’t want to eat breakfast alone, so I decided to wait and flipped through the newspaper instead. I instantly regretted my choice– on the front page there was terrible news, a body had been recovered at the bottom of Lake Zinnia. Foul play was suspected because several identifying features had been… removed, including the woman’s face. I decided I didn’t want to read anymore.

      That was when I heard the crying again.

      At first, the sound was subtle and soft- but it escalated into a scream, growing so loud that the whole room trembled—and so did I. Now it was going to happen in the daytime, too? Was there no escape?

      “The room is locked!” I sobbed, but the wailing only grew louder in reply. I tried covering my ears, but nothing could block it out. The vase on the table shattered from the piercing, vibrating scream– sending white porcelain scattering across the table in every direction. The flowers fell into a heap in the center of the table, dripping mud which spread across the white tablecloth and seeped onto the floor.

      I was sobbing in terror, tears leaving tracks on my cheeks as I stumbled back—but that was when I noticed a silver gleam in the muddy tangle of stems. Reluctantly, I moved closer and found something strange: a key. My hands were immediately stained with cold mud, but the key was pristine. There was only one locked door in this house, I didn’t have to wonder what it was for.

      My heart raced in fearful anticipation; I moved almost unwillingly towards Rupin’s office. The key fit! I felt both compelled to move forward… and too afraid. I had to put this cry to rest—

      I screamed.

      The first thing I saw was a mannequin. I froze! As if sensing my hesitation, the scream only grew louder! The mannequin was a life-sized version of a ‘perfect’ woman. Her nude form was marked up in black lines, like a surgery being mapped out. Worst of all was the missing face; there was just a gaping hole. Just looking at it made me feel a certain sense of wrongness.

      I threw my arm out in front of me like a shield, pushing past the figure. It fell to the floor into several pieces—a bizarre mound of limbs; they jutted up at odd angles as though they were reaching for me. My hands were sweating, my heart racing its own circles in my chest. Why wouldn’t the screaming stop?

      That was when Rupin came running in, wild-eyed. “Iris! What are you doing in here?” he was still wearing his pajamas, pale as a ghost. Suddenly, it was silent again. He stared straight ahead, straight passed me—and I turned to see what he was looking at.

      It was then I saw her: a woman with her back to me. She was slim and lovely, and… wearing the same dress I was, though it was much filthier– and wet. Her shoulders shook, wracked with now-silent sobs.

      “Miss?” I wanted answers, but my first impulse was to see if she was alright.

      “Iris… don’t”! Rupin cried as I reached towards her, but before I could touch her she spun to face me— she was wearing a mask. In fact, she was wearing the mannequin’s missing face! She pointed, towards the corkboard on the wall which was covered in different pictures. Before and after photos of the many surgeries he’d completed.

      “Who are you?” I asked her, the glassy eyes of the mannequin mask seemed to stare right through me. “Why are you wearing that mask?” The woman did not answer me, but she reached up to touch her painted-on expression… lowering it slowly.

      My breath caught, hands clapping over my mouth when I saw— she had no face! Her face was merely smooth, pale skin without any features. A blank canvas. Was this even real? Was I having a nightmare?

      Perhaps because she had no mouth, she did not speak—merely pointed back to that corkboard, patiently waiting for me to react. I looked at the pictures, finding nothing strange about them at first– merely a board of Rupin’s accomplishments… until I looked closer.

      On the bottom of the corkboard, lined up uniformly—there were different pictures that stood out. They weren’t before-and-after shots, just picture after picture of smiling women. One in particular caught my eye, a woman in a flower-print dress—with my face. I felt sick! The back of my throat burned with bile as everything began to click.

      The respectable doctor was not only an unethical surgeon, but a murderer. I knew the faceless ghost before me was the one in the picture. My mind immediately went back to the article I’d read in the newspaper this morning: all identifying features had been removed, to include… her face. Her face, which had become my face—it was what connected us. Only I could hear her crying, because I was the one wearing her lips!

      I had to be wrong. That couldn’t be true! With tears and trembling hands, I turned to look at Rupin. He seemed to see the ghost, but he wasn’t panicking like I was. He must have known she’d been in here all along!

      “Rupin… the pictures—why does the woman in this picture have my face?” I whispered.

      “Because it’s the same.” He replied, whispering excitedly without shame or regret. “It was wasted on her anyway, she was dead!” His eyes were filled with unfathomable madness. “You have to understand- I had to fix you!”

      I shrieked, unable to get any words out— reaching for the phone to call the police. Rupin made no move to stop me. In fact, he just seemed to admire me with a dreamlike smile settling across his features.

      “You’re beautiful.” He sighed, satisfied.

      It was only when the police arrived that the faceless ghost disappeared, leaving behind only a soaked dress and a pile of perfect white begonias. Rupin didn’t resist arrest; he stood by ‘his work’ and felt no guilt for his actions—offering a full confession without even being prompted.

      I’d later learn the woman’s name: Rose Thompson. Once her picture was circulated on the evening news, it didn’t take long for her family and friends to identify her. Her parents wanted to meet me, but I declined. It would be too strange, and crueler still to let them see her stolen face.

      I didn’t attend Rose’s funeral, but I always visit to leave flowers with messages of gratitude and guilt upon her grave.  I haven’t seen Rose since, except when I look into a mirror.

      Posted in Short Stories [Horror] | 0 Comments | Tagged horror, Penny Tailsup, short stories, story, Wordpress Exclusive Tale
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