Penny's Tales

Horror stories, narrations and illustrations by Penny Tailsup
Penny's Tales
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    • [Short Horror Story] Don’t Eat In Your Dreams

      Posted at 9:40 pm by Penny Tailsup, on August 9, 2020

      Have you ever had a dream so vivid that you wondered if it actually happened? 

      You probably have… but shook it off, because of course it didn’t. Right?  A dream under scrutiny, illuminated by the dawn, is easily dismissed. Yet, if you’ve been where I’ve been… maybe a part of you wasn’t completely convinced.

      Maybe, in the course of a dream— you wandered a little too far from yourself, from your bed, body and world. Maybe you’ve been to the Dream District.

      If you ever find yourself in a place to wonder… ask. He’ll tell you; he will be beautiful, friendly and inviting. He will offer you hospitality, flattery and gifts. Anything you want. He’ll know what you want, somehow.

      Yet, a part of you will know, deep down: you can’t take it. Not unless you’re going to stay. But you can’t stay, it’s a dream. You don’t belong there. 

      If you find yourself in the Dream District, thank your host and leave. Start walking, and don’t stop until you find yourself back in the dream you were supposed to be having. Do that, and hope he doesn’t follow you.

      Trust me.

      …

      It started with sweet potato pie.

      If I had to describe it, I’d tell you it was richer than chocolate, smoother than cream and sinfully decadent. That description doesn’t do it justice. Other words come a little closer, like otherworldly or ambrosia.  I feel pretentious describing anything in such terms, but I still mean them. Suffice to say, I’d never had anything so good and never would again. 

      The dream started in the middle of a Safeway on Thanksgiving Day. I was on a diet; that part wasn’t a dream, but it followed me there. The frustration and cravings that came with diets were hard to shake, even in my dreams. 

      I didn’t know I was dreaming, not at first. 

      Pushing an empty cart through the bakery section, I made note of everything I couldn’t have. Cookies, cakes, and doughnuts. No, no and no. As I steered the cart round every display, I repeated my mantra: “No sugar, low carbs. No sugar, low carbs.” The words became the whirring of the wheels; quickening with my footsteps when I realized I wasn’t alone.

      Startled, I whirled to see a sales associate standing directly behind me. The nametag pinned to his chest said his name was Mor. Mor smiled, looking far too cheerful for someone working in customer service. 

      He was also surprisingly handsome, with skin clear as crystal, sleek gold hair and hypnotic emerald eyes. Everything about him reminded me of precious metals and stones. In fact, it was unnerving; like a living embodiment of photoshop: beautiful, but wrong. Beautiful, wrong, and staring intently at me. 

      It’s a trap, I thought. I don’t know why I thought that, but I did. I backed away, ready to abandon my cart and flee– yet the impulse didn’t make sense, and I second guessed my instincts. It would be rude to run away from a gentleman who was only doing his job. There were no other customers in the store, was it any wonder he was being so attentive?

      Wait. Was I really the only customer there? I looked around, uncomfortable with the sudden realization. Sure enough, it was just me, him, and all the delicious foods I couldn’t eat stacked neatly in every direction. 

      “Welcome.” Mor bowed in greeting, a strangely formal gesture. “There you are. Do you need help finding anything?” His voice sent a strange thrill through me, both pleasant and alarming. I shook my head. 

      Wait. What was I doing there?

      I was trying so hard not to indulge. Why was I torturing myself? Why did I feel nervous, and even… guilty? Like I’d been caught with my hand in the cookie jar. Caught on the verge of cheating on my diet! Not that Mor knew that. The word “diet” wasn’t stamped on my forehead, only on my mind. 

      “No, thank you.” I said, “I’m just browsing.” Browsing the baked goods, even knowing I couldn’t have them.  He looked past me, peering into my empty cart. Clicking his tongue, he glanced back up at me. 

      “If you don’t mind my recommendation, the sweet potato pies are fresh and perfect for the holiday season. Please let me know if you need help finding anything.” He backed off a few feet, but continued to watch me.

      “I’m on a diet, I can’t have that.” I admitted, “But I don’t see any diet-friendly options in here, so I’d better go.”

      “You’re on a diet?” his jaw quirked, but the smile remained fixed. “There’s no need to worry about that.”

      Annoyed, I gripped the handle of the shopping cart a little tighter. Holidays were the worst! No one wanted to think about dieting– so they’d go out of their way to sabotage me, giving me “permission” to indulge just because it was a special occasion. I didn’t want to hear it. “That’s not up to you.” I said. 

      “You misunderstand,” he said softly, “You’re in the Dream District. Whatever your worries are, you can leave them until you wake, if you ever do.”

      “What?” I looked around. At first, the scene seemed like an ordinary grocery store, with glossy cement floors and incandescent yellow lights. Yet, the second I questioned it– I could see beyond the bakery, the interior gradually shifting into cobblestone streets under a lavender sky. 

      “Yes, miss. As you can see, you’re dreaming, there’s no need to count calories or sacrifice your sense of taste. Of course, I have to wonder… why a lovely creature such as yourself thinks she needs to be on a diet, even outside this place. You’re beautiful as you are.”

      No I wasn’t. That was flattery, but I still blushed like an idiot. Of course, now that he said it… it made sense. This was my dream, and now that I knew it… I had nothing to fear. 

      “I’ve always wanted to lucid dream.”  I said, a wave of giddiness spreading through me. I thanked the man before turning my attention to all the displays with enthusiastic interest. “What was it you recommended?”

      “Ah, that would be the sweet potato pie.” He pointed to a table which suddenly appeared in front of me. Presented prettily in a glass display was a single pan of sweet potato pie. A beam of glittering light cast down upon it, like an endorsement from God. Mor stepped closer to the case, opening it and looking at me expectantly. 

      “Go on, don’t be shy. I know exactly what you need.” he inclined his head, but I never lost sight of his eyes; pale, unwavering emerald.  “I admire the willpower it’s taken to get where you are. Isn’t it time you rewarded yourself?” 

      In an instant, my hesitation evaporated, giving way to gluttonous desire. I reached into the case, marveling when I felt the coolness of the pan it was housed in– delight shivered through me, my knees weak with anticipation. The intoxicating aroma wafted towards me like a beckoning hand. 

      “There’s nothing like it,” Mor continued his sales pitch, as if I wasn’t already sold. “You can only get it here.”

      Why did that feel like a warning?

      “Maybe I shouldn’t.” I said slowly, “even if this is a dream… it’s a slippery slope for me. Dieting, I mean.” Why was I explaining myself to him? Whoever he was, he wasn’t real; just a manifestation of… something. My food cravings? Somehow I didn’t think I’d find the answer in a dream dictionary. 

      “Why not?” he asked, tilting his head slightly. “I prepared it just for you. This is everything you want, everything you’ve denied yourself. And for what? Certainly not your happiness, or you wouldn’t be here. This is your wish.”

      This wasn’t an ordinary dream. Even in that moment, I knew. My senses weren’t the clouded, hazy approximations I was accustomed to in other dreams. This was a dream that indulged all my senses. Dread drifted back in, but I shook it off. What was there to fear from a dream?

      “There’s no need to hold back.”

      My heart began beating loudly. I could hear it; feel the pulsing, disconcerting rhythm of it. I sucked in a staggered breath; my palms were hot but the dish was cold. 

      “I need a fork.” I said.

      “You already have one.” Mor replied. He was right. A plastic fork was already in my hand, though it hadn’t been before. I was startled, but when I looked up at Mor he merely smiled and said:

      “In a dream, anything you wish is merely a thought away.”

      I knew it was a dream, but there was still something unnerving in the logic of the place. I couldn’t put my finger on why, but something felt wrong. 

      “I should sit down.” 

      “As you wish.” in a dramatic sweeping motion, he pulled out a chair for me. It was suddenly there, along with the small round table. I sat down, setting the pie tin in front of me. Pressing the tines of the fork into the soft center, I scooped up a balanced bite: a perfect union of buttery, flaky crust and creamy sweet potato filling.

      I will never forget that first bite, like God forged the flavor of my deepest, darkest desires. The taste of everything I didn’t know I wanted. The end-all be-all of dessert. Of food. Of anything. The velvety dream of sweetness and spices sent a quivering thrill through me that had me moaning for more. Fortunately, there was more. As much as I wanted!

      “You can only get it here.”

      I took bites as fast as I could, leaning over the table to shorten the distance between myself and the pie. The fork felt like a pretense, but I didn’t lose myself enough to set it down– though the thought crossed my mind. When it was gone, I licked the plate, the fork, the table, my own lips for any stray crumbs.

      Then I remembered myself, and felt Mor’s eyes upon me; the glinting green gaze was half-lidded, yet predatory with the sharp curve of his smile. Unsettled and mildly embarrassed, I straightened my back and turned in my chair to face him. 

      “If this is my dream… why are you here?” Mor was unsettling. Why would I dream up someone who made me uncomfortable in a lucid dream? If my wishes were only a thought away, he’d be gone.

      “I said you were dreaming, I never said this was your dream.” 

      I laughed at the odd reply, but his expression didn’t change. The laughter stopped, sticking in my throat like a stone. I stood up from the table, and started to walk– I don’t know where I thought I was going, but I was done with Mor and his sweet potato pie. Yet, even with my clear refusal to take further part in this dream… I wanted more.

      For the first time in a long time, I was satisfied. I left the store, walking down the cobblestone path and merging in that hazy, dreamlike way into the next chapter of sleep… I could still feel Mor watching me,  a feeling I couldn’t shake until I was awake. 

      When I sat up in bed, I knew something was wrong. 

      The haze that filled me wasn’t a typical early-morning daze; it was heavier, colder and something else I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Sliding out from under the covers, my stomach shuddered with an audible growl. I was hungry. My stomach hadn’t been fooled by the dream, after all. Was that why I felt… off?

      Instead of racing to the kitchen for breakfast, I forced myself through my morning routine. That strange funk didn’t fade, but I didn’t have a fever. When I opened the fridge and peered inside, nothing looked appealing to me. If I’m being honest, that wasn’t unusual… my diet wasn’t exciting. I’d been low-carb no-sugar for a good six months. 

      I peppered a hard boiled egg, but despite the firm whites and crumbly yolk… sawdust. It was like eating sawdust, in both texture and taste! That didn’t make sense. Even if the eggs were spoiled, that wasn’t right. They looked okay, even smelled as expected– but the second the egg touched my tongue… it was wrong. All wrong! 

      A second bite confirmed it. Spitting it out and throwing all the eggs away, I rummaged for something else. Nothing sounded good, but I was starving! I tried the salad next, but the results were the same: sawdust. I choked, coughing the wilted greens into the sink before vomiting. 

      Nothing in the fridge or cupboards was edible. My hunger howled at me to find something, anything! But only one thing sounded good: sweet potato pie. 

      “You can only get it here.” Mor’s voice brought a little color into the room, quickly fading when I realized I’d imagined it. I was awake and alone, but I knew what I needed.

      Grabbing my car keys, I left the house. Rushing to the Safeway, I scoured the bakery. The pies weren’t housed in glass cases or bathed in sparkling pillars of light, but they were still easy to find. The pastries were imperfect, with crusts cracked and crumbling. The filling wasn’t the right color either. 

      It didn’t matter. I was drooling. I bought them all! I tore into a pie as soon as I got into my car. I couldn’t even wait to get home! I didn’t have a fork, but that didn’t stop me. I used my fingers! Scooping up a heaping mouthful and drawing it to my dry, eager mouth– only to start sobbing into the steering wheel. Like everything else I’d eaten that day… sawdust.

      “I know what you need. You know it, too.” 

      I needed to sleep.

      With the words came color, and a flash of taste… but it faded as soon as the thought did. After my tears, I threw the pies into the parking lot and took myself back home. Had a dream really destroyed my sense of taste? Would it come back?

      It was ridiculous. I knew it, but nothing seemed as good as it once was. Not just taste, but colors, textures and sounds– all seemed lacking in ways I’d never noticed before.

      I called the doctor and made an appointment, but I knew this wasn’t something medicine could fix. By noon, I crawled back into bed and prayed into my pillow for sleep to take me back to that place, to that dream. The Dream District.

      Hunger made it hard to sleep, but when I did… 

      “I knew you would be back.”

      Mor found me, a ray of light in an otherwise dark and colorless dream. The details around us didn’t matter, just the warmth of the hand he extended. I took it, and followed him from dream to dream until my bare feet touched sun-warmed cobblestone under a cool lavender sky.

      “I’m hungry.” I whimpered. “I need more.”

      “I know. I’m here. I’ll give you exactly what you need.”

      The knowing gleam in his green eyes should have infuriated or alarmed me, but I was too desperate to care. It was already too late for me. Now that I’d tasted that sweet potato pie, I couldn’t eat anything else. 

      “Now that you’ve proven it to yourself, there’s no reason for you to leave.” he held something out to me. Without even looking, I knew what it was. Sweet potato pie. The culmination of every craving I’d ever felt, every morsel I’d ever denied myself in every delectable mouthful. 

      I found myself on all fours, far too eager to bother with utensils or even my hands. I chewed wildly with abandon, even tearing through the tin with my teeth once I’d eaten my way through that dreamy, creamy filling. There was something about this pie that satisfied me more than anything else ever had. It wasn’t an indulgence, it was a need. 

      When I woke up, I cried. Consciousness felt like a curse.  I wanted to go back. The world outside of dreams was overrated, without color or flavor.

       It gets worse with every dream, a slow spiral into bleak madness. My only respite is dreams, even knowing I’m only dooming myself a little more with every bite.  Each day became a race to bedtime, with the window growing shorter and shorter– consequences be damned. I lost my job, my home, my everything… and I didn’t care, because I didn’t need any of that. I just needed a place to lay my head. A place to dream. I can do that anywhere.

      “Why should you  ever wake again?”

      I don’t eat anymore. Not when I’m awake. Though I tried to choke down the sawdust, knowing I’d die if I didn’t… I can’t. 

      There’s a tarnished silver lining though; I’ve lost a lot of weight. I look better than I ever have. I’m a real Sleeping Beauty, aren’t I? 

      I know how wrong it is. I promise I do, but recognizing the trap I’ve fallen into doesn’t save me from it. My fate is sealed, but at least I’m lucid enough to share my cautionary tale. Maybe, in the course of a dream– you’ll do what I couldn’t, and say no to Mor, and others like him.

      I’m going back to bed now, hopefully for the last time. I’m weak, I’m tired, but most of all…

       I’m hungry.

      Posted in Short Stories [Horror] | 0 Comments | Tagged creepy, dark, dreams, fiction, horror, horror story, Insomnia, Night terror, nosleep, original, scary, scary story, short stories, short story, sleep, story, weird, writer
    • [Short Horror Story] Wishes Don’t Belong in a Bottle

      Posted at 10:21 pm by Penny Tailsup, on October 3, 2019

      Originally posted to Reddit

      Spooktober Prompt # 3 – Shallow Seas

      “Wishes Don’t Belong in a Bottle”

       

      When I dropped the first letter into the sea, I didn’t expect a reply.

      I don’t even remember what it said, because it didn’t matter. I figured the bottle would break before anyone would find it; that I’d find myself picking up bits of broken glass when the tide came in. Imagine my surprise when the bottle came back.

      The next day I found it, unbroken and bobbing in the shallows. Empty, but perfectly intact; the lid was still screwed on tight, but my letter was gone. Of course, I could rationalize it at first. It could have been a different bottle. It was unlikely, but still more likely than the idea that someone found my letter and brought the bottle back.

      Anywhere else, an empty bottle on the beach wouldn’t prove anything. However, this bottle was the exact same kind my dad used for his bootlegging business. I found it hard to believe anyone (except me) would waste or lose one of Dad’s empties because my dad charged $10 per beer, and charged even more if he had to give you a new bottle. His customers would bring back the empties so he could refill them.

      That’s why I could believe it was the same bottle I’d dropped into the water, even when I knew it was impossible. I’d stolen the first bottle for my letter, both on a whim and as an act of rebellion. My dad spent his days making beer or drinking it, scraping together a living that way. The ferry would bring everything he needed; the import and sale of alcohol wasn’t allowed, but that didn’t stop him from ordering the ingredients. It was an open secret. Our village safety officer was probably his best customer.

      Most of the villagers would change jobs from boats, fisheries, and canneries as the seasons demanded– except for my dad. He was afraid of the water. Only sparingly would he take his old boat out to neighboring villages across the bay, but he’d never take me. He was afraid of losing me like he lost mom, but I guess he wasn’t scared of losing himself.

      Our relationship was rocky. I felt depressed, angry and trapped. I was tired of washing out the empties only so he could fill them again and again. I felt so alone. There was no one my age around and the only time I could try to make real friends was when I took the ferry to Kodiak without permission. My dad wouldn’t let me go, and everyone knew better than to let me on by then.

      I couldn’t explain why the bottle came back when the letter didn’t, so I tried again. I wrote a little note that said ‘Do you want to be friends?’ and tossed it underhand into the water. The first time might have been a fluke, or maybe someone else really did leave a bottle by accident. I wanted to see if it would happen a second time.

      Dad noticed the second time. Not that I’d thrown a bottle into the sea, but that it was missing.

      “Alex, one of my bottles is gone.” he said when I got home. “Do you know what happened to it?” he wasn’t angry, only annoyed. Getting anything imported took time and money so he hated having to buy new bottles.

      “I dropped it.” I said, which wasn’t a lie. I just didn’t tell him I dropped it into the sea. “Sorry dad. I can take the ferry and–”

      “No.” he cut me off immediately. “I’ll just order a couple cases with my next shipment. You don’t need to go anywhere. I could use more anyway.”

      A fight broke out after that, though it was nothing new. Dad never let me leave, and it wasn’t because I was some irresponsible kid. I was more responsible than he was! He knew it, too. Never denied it. Even so, he would still tell me no.

      After our screaming match, I went back out onto the rocky beach to cool off. I lay down and let the jagged stones bite into my back, staring at the stars and listening to the sea. Mom loved the ocean too. She was still out there, somewhere in the water. I liked to imagine she was still alive, enjoying her freedom. I knew it wasn’t true.

      Sometimes I’d lay there and fantasize about going out with the tide so I could join her. I never did, though it seemed like a good idea on my darkest days. I was young though; I knew this wasn’t going to be my life forever. One day I’d get on the ferry and I’d never come back. Dad had to know that, he could only stop me for so long.

      When it got too cold, I sat back up so I could head back to the house. That’s when I saw the bottle again, the wet glass reflected moonlight. I walked over, half expecting to find my letter still folded up inside… but once again, it was empty. The glass, by some miracle, didn’t have as much as a crack. The cap was still in place.

      No way.

      I pulled out my notebook, tearing out another square. Someone was getting my letters! They were sending the bottles back without replying, but they were definitely getting them. I wasn’t sure how it was possible, but I was excited!

      I wrote out a little note:

      ‘Who are you? Won’t you reply? My name is Alex.’

      I neatly folded it, sliding my message into the bottle with care. Of course, the possibility that it was all a coincidence remained–but I didn’t want that to be true. I wanted to feel less alone. Even though it was cold, I sat down on my favorite rock and watched my glass messenger float away. I sat there for a long time, as if the great mystery of it might be solved… if I only waited patiently enough.

      I was surprised when Dad came to get me. He was stubborn, like I was; he never admitted when he worried, though I knew he did. His rustbucket red truck creaked and groaned so loud that I knew he was coming before I even heard his voice.

      “Alex!” he called out to me. He wouldn’t get too close to the water, though I wasn’t sure if he was conscious of that. He stood out by his truck, hands cupped around his mouth like a makeshift megaphone. “Come on back!”

      I took one last look at the bay. I didn’t see the bottle anymore, though it’s easy to lose sight of something so small in a vast ocean.

      “Only if you let me drive!” I called back. My dad handled his alcohol well enough, but I don’t think he was ever sober enough to drive. As I walked up to greet him, he pressed the keys into my hand and climbed into the passenger’s seat. He never argued over the keys, he knew better.

      “I talked to your aunt,” he said, once the truck was moving again. “She’s coming for a visit. Quincy and Shasta are coming too.”

      “That’s nice.” I answered, but I knew this was just a distraction. He must have called her and asked her to come. He knew if I had visitors, I might stop thinking about leaving for awhile. Still, I’d take what company I could get. Auntie was Mom’s sister, she lived in Kodiak with most of my extended family. I’d be happy to see them.

      We got along well, even though I was never allowed to visit. I was closest to Auntie; she’d send me gifts on the ferry with Dad’s shipments; like notebooks, pens and colored pencils. Auntie knew I liked to write and draw, and that I didn’t have access to art supplies on my own. Dad couldn’t afford to get them for me because his margins were razor thin. I’d be more understanding if it wasn’t because he drank what he didn’t sell.

      “Tomorrow you should go out and pick some berries.” he continued. He hated silences, he was always trying to fill them. “We can make something nice to eat for her visit. I bet everyone would like that.”

      “Sure.” I answered. He didn’t want me anywhere near the ocean, but that’d be quite a feat to manage when we were living in a coastal village. He couldn’t keep me away from the beach, though I knew he’d like to.

      When we got back to the house, he gave me a one-armed hug and held me to him for a second. I pulled away quickly, looking up at him to see what had him so sentimental. Dad wasn’t usually a hugger.

      “You’re just like your mother,” he said. He was smiling, but his eyes were looking a little red. “It scares me sometimes.” he must have been drunker than I’d thought, since he wasn’t usually so forthright with how he was feeling.

      “Mom was a good person, I’m glad to be like her.”

      “I know. I love you both so much.” he refused to use past tense when he talked about her. I did. Not because I didn’t miss her too, but because I had long accepted she was gone.

      “… So, when’s Auntie coming?”

      “The three o’clock ferry. You’re going to have to share your room with your cousins.” it would be a tight fit, but we’d make it work. “I’ll take the couch, so your aunt can use my room.” he said, as if he ever made it off the couch. He always passed out there! Instead of saying so, I nodded. I didn’t feel like starting another fight that night.

      “Sounds good. I’m going to bed, then.” I said instead. “Goodnight.”

      “Goodnight.”

      I went to bed, but he didn’t. I listened to him drink; the soft clink of glass bottles with the occasional slurp-and-sigh. Sometimes he’d talk like mom was in the room with him, but of course she wasn’t. That night was no different. I listened for a little while, it was amusing to hear him talk about me. As if I couldn’t hear, but mom could.

      “I’m worried about Alex.”

      But I was more worried about Dad. He didn’t need to worry about me, but I knew he did. I knew because he said so, just not to my face. I fell asleep wondering what he was so worried about. What reason did I ever give him?

      Bright and early the next morning, I cleaned up the fresh empties arranged by the kitchen sink. I let them dry in the dish rack, listening to my dad snore on the couch. He’d probably wake up around noon.

      I decided to go to the beach. I’d be back before he even noticed. When I reached the shoreline, I found what I was looking for. There was the bottle again; this time it was caught on a cluster of rocks rather than in the water. I walked over, picking it up and examining it closely. It was empty, and the glass didn’t have so much as a crack.

      I pulled out my notebook, this time choosing one of my favorite poems. With care, I folded it into a little boat and carefully managed to feed it through the opening of the bottle. Sure, it bent a little…, but you could still tell what it was supposed to be. A ship in a bottle.

      I waded out into the cold water as far as I could safely go, getting soaked to the bone. I didn’t care. I let go of the bottle, watching it move at the whim of the waves as I slowly backed up towards the shore. I didn’t take my eyes off of it, but nothing unusual happened. I guess this was a “watched pot doesn’t boil” situation.

      Once I was back on the beach, I started to wring the water out of my clothes and shiver. This was Alaska, the ocean was always cold. Dad would probably be pissed if he saw me wet, so I didn’t linger too long. I knew I wouldn’t see anything even if I did. Apparently this message in a bottle was a secret of the sea.

      Part of me hoped that my mother was the one getting the messages, though I knew that was impossible. But was it really any more impossible than what was happening? Someone was reading my messages. Someone was sending the bottle back. Why couldn’t it be her?

      I walked back home. As expected, Dad was still snoring on the couch; he hadn’t missed me at all. I showered and changed into dry clothes, then got ready to go pick wild blueberries. I was looking forward to Auntie and my cousins visiting. To be a good host, I’d make blueberry pancakes for breakfast the next day!

      By the time noon rolled around, I had a bucket full. Dad was awake, and smiled with approval when he saw me with my haul and purple fingers. The ferry would arrive soon, and I’d go pick everyone up. I cleaned up what I could, though the house still smelled like a brewery.

      When the time came, Dad and I headed to the dock. I drove us of course, but Dad wanted to come help load up any luggage or shipments that might have come in. Auntie and Dad had a strained relationship these days, but he was always polite to her even when she wasn’t polite to him. She didn’t approve of his drinking. I didn’t either, so I didn’t really fault her when she criticized him for it.

      “Alex!” I saw her immediately, her salt-and-pepper braid was wind-tousled and frizzy from the trip across the water. It was a windy day. My cousins Shasta and Quincy were there too, looking a little chapped from the wind.

      “Hey guys!” I ran over to hug them. Dad was already grabbing everything he could carry and loading up the back of the truck. The cab only fit two people, so I’d walk back with Shasta and Quincy. Auntie could ride back with dad, so long as Auntie did the driving.

      Shasta was younger than me, and Quincy was a little older– but they were energetic boys. The ‘walk’ home turned into a race that Quincy won. He was in better shape than he had been the last time I saw him.

      “Mom let me start working at the lumber mill.” he told me when I asked. “She’s still too scared to let anyone on a fishing boat, but at least she lets us on the ferry.” he shot me a sympathetic look. He knew about my dad’s fear of the sea.

      “I don’t know why you want to work.” Shasta laughed, “I’m glad I don’t have to.”

      “You’ll want to. Especially when you see women all over me and not you!” Quincy laughed right back, giving his brother a good-natured jab. “Do you have a job, Alex?”

      I shook my head. “No, I just help dad with his business. He doesn’t want me to have a job until I graduate. Even over the summer and spring break, he said I should enjoy the breaks while I still get them.”

      “Makes sense.” Quincy answered, nodding.

      “I guess.”

      “Does your dad’s 3-Wheeler still work?” Shasta interrupted, pointing at the old thing. It was covered by a tarp that used to be blue.

      “Yeah, but the gas is expensive. It’s easier just to walk.” I replied, somewhat dismissive. Shasta looked excited though.

      “Do you think he’ll let us use it?”

      “You can ask?” I wasn’t sure. Dad wasn’t really opposed to using ATVs, just things that cost money or went on the ocean. Having guests over was rare though, so he might say yes. He’d always taught me the importance of being a good host. I watched Shasta run inside, yelling his question. A minute later, he was back with a huge grin.

      “Come on! I’m driving it!”

      I pulled off the tarp and made sure it still had gas in it. It wasn’t really big enough for the three of us, but we’d make it work.

      “…Ok. So… the beach?” I asked. The boys agreed, and we set out. Once we got there, they took turns driving up and down the strip. I left them to it, glad they were having fun but definitely distracted.

      It didn’t take me long to find what I was looking for.

      This time the bottle was sitting on top of a rock like someone had set it there. It was empty. I picked it up, rolling the cold glass between my hands in amazement. I unscrewed the cap, grabbed the neck of the bottle and then held it to my eye. Nope, nothing. Not even a grain of sand or a drop of water was inside.

      “Whoa! Your dad letting you drink now?” Shasta came running over when he saw me, recognizing one of dad’s beer bottles.

      “No, of course not.” when it came to me, Dad was very responsible. Too responsible. Smothering.

      “What’s with the bottle then?” Quincy hopped off the 3-wheeler and walked over. He was in a lot less of a rush than his younger brother. I debated telling them, but ran the risk of getting made fun of if I did. I was quiet, putting the lid back on and holding the glass carefully in front of me with both hands. Taking a deep breath, I decided… why not?

      “You might not believe this, but…I keep putting letters in this bottle. Then I drop them in the water, and the letters disappear… but the bottle comes back. I mean, it’s happened three times already.”

      “That’s creepy!” I blinked at Shasta’s reaction. I’d expected them not to believe me, or to think it was cool. Creepy? I didn’t feel like it was creepy at all. I felt heard.

      “You sure someone isn’t messing with you?” Quincy’s reaction was more in line with what I expected, but it was still hard not to be defensive.

      “It’d be an expensive way to mess with me, right? Dad charges $3 just for the bottle so that people won’t lose or break them.”

      “I guess.” Quincy said, squinting at the bottle. “Why, though?”

      “I don’t know.” I shrugged. I had a suspicion. I thought maybe it was Mom, but… that much I wasn’t willing to admit.

      “If it’s some kind of magic shit going on, you should try making a wish.” Shasta chimed in. “I mean, what’s the harm?”

      “It’s not magic.” Quincy interjected logically. “It’s a prank, or a coincidence, or someone dropped a whole crate of bottles in the water by accident and you keep finding them.”

      “I guess I’m making a wish then.” I laughed, trying to play it off and act cool. I took out my notebook again, scribbling down something that I really hoped might come true.

      ‘Hi, this is Alex again.

      My cousin said I should make a wish, so… here goes: I wish my dad would stop drinking, or at least let me on the ferry. Either would make me happy. I don’t know if you can grant my wish. I don’t think anyone can, but… thank you for hearing me out.’

      I folded it up carefully. Shasta wanted to read it, but I didn’t let him. Again, I set the bottle adrift on the water. I watched my wish, wondering if I was asking too much. Even if I believed that my one sided pen-pal could grant wishes, it didn’t seem possible that my dad could change.

      Regret hit me like a wave; like a physical blow, I actually staggered back. It wasn’t because I didn’t want my wish come true, it because I didn’t want Mom to see it. Mom would be sad if I told her what was going on with Dad. I had no proof she was even the one getting these messages, but my stomach still knotted up at the thought.

      Before I could pluck it out of the water, I heard my dad’s truck coming up the beach. Auntie had come over to get us.

      “I said an hour!” she called, but she wasn’t really mad. She wagged her finger at us, but we all grinned sheepishly.

      “Sorry!”

      I hadn’t realized so much time had passed already. It felt like it had only been five minutes, but sure enough… it had been an hour and a half.

      “Alex!” Auntie called. “Come ride with me!”

      “Sure!” I started jogging over, trusting my cousins to get the 3-wheeler back safely. I got into the passenger’s seat. Auntie watched me buckle in before starting the truck back up, but she didn’t start driving right away. Instead, she left the gear in park and looked at me with her familiar warm smile. Mom had the same smile.

      “I’ve really missed you, Alex. I’m sorry we don’t visit more.”

      “That’s OK.” I looked at my feet.

      “Well, I want to see you more. So… I’ve been talking to your dad and we decided…” she started tapping on the steering wheel, averting her gaze. I knew that when she said ‘talking’ she really meant ‘fighting’.

      “Well. I decided.” she corrected herself, straightening up in her seat. “I decided that next summer, you’re coming to Kodiak and staying with us. Just for the summer.” she added that last part quickly. “I’m not taking no for an answer. I’ll buy your ticket, and I’ll come get you if I have to.”

      “Really? Dad agreed to that?” the long silence answered the question before she did.

      “… No. But he will. If you act like it’s a sure thing, I’m sure he’ll cave by then. He loves you, he wants to protect you– but he knows he’s going to have to loosen the reigns a bit, especially if he wants to have a relationship with you when you grow up.”

      “I’m already grown up.”

      She laughed when I said that, and I pretended to be offended. Crossing my arms, I tried not to grin. A summer in Kodiak sounded great to me! It couldn’t come soon enough!

      The rest of the ride back was a blur, but I remember that the house smelled like pineapple and honey rather than beer when I walked through the door. Auntie had me sit down, and prepared a big slice of pineapple upside down cake for me. We had cake for dinner, celebrating a birthday she’d missed. She’d brought presents, new art supplies to refresh my collection. Everything was wrapped up with pretty paper and ribbons, too. It was surprising that she’d planned all of this so last minute!

      Unless… dad hadn’t been letting her come, and she’d had all of these things already. He didn’t say a word through dinner, I could tell he was angry even if he wasn’t saying so. At least, he didn’t say anything at first.

      “You excited about next summer?” Shasta asked. At least, I’m pretty sure that’s what he said. His mouth was still full of cake.

      “Yeah!” I answered with enthusiasm. That’s when Dad’s fist hit the table.

      “NO.”

      “Paul–” Auntie immediately touched his arm, surprised by his sudden outburst. Dad knocked her hand away.

      “I said no! It’s not happening! Alex, I’m sorry, but don’t get your hopes up. You’re not going.”

      “Maybe we should go have this conversation somewhere else.” Auntie said in as level a voice she could manage, but I could tell she was angry too.

      “Maybe you should leave.” Dad answered, “Get out. Get out NOW. Don’t you dare come over here and make decisions. You know what happened! Yet here you are, trying to be the parent. I’m the parent, not you.”

      I was stunned. The sweet taste in my mouth went sour. I became so angry I was shaking. Standing up from the table, I started walking out.

      “… Figure this out. I’ll come back… when I cool down.” I didn’t want to say anything I’d regret. I was already in tears.

      “Alex…” Auntie tried to stop me. She touched my shoulder, but I pulled away.

      “I’ll be back, just leave me alone for awhile.” I didn’t want to hear them fight. I didn’t want them to fight because of me… but most of all, I wanted my dad to see reason. Couldn’t he see how out of control his fear was getting?

      Predictably, I went back to the beach. This time, I didn’t find the bottle. I didn’t find anything but a chilly wind and a black sea. I searched for an hour before coming back. Dad wasn’t at the house, but I saw the truck was already loaded up with luggage. They’d take the ferry back in the morning.

      “Sorry.” Shasta mouthed when he saw me, but I shook my head. It wasn’t his fault. The only person I really blamed here was my dad. He didn’t come back. In the morning, I dropped everyone off at the dock. I asked if they were really going, but unfortunately they were.

      “We’ll see you next summer.” Quincy told me, “Just work on wearing your old man down. Worst case scenario, we can come here. Don’t worry too much, OK?”

      “Yeah.” but I was going to worry about it. I saw them off and went home. Dad still wasn’t back. It wasn’t like him to storm off and disappear, but that fight had been a doozy. I’d never seen him so angry before. I didn’t look for him at first, figuring he must have really needed to cool off just like I had.

      I went to the beach again. Clearly, my wish hadn’t been granted. For a second in the truck with Auntie, I thought it had been. At least partially. But of course, it’s never that simple.

      I found the bottle, it was in the same place as last time– set on top of the rock I liked to sit on, like someone had put it there. It was empty.

      This time, I took the bottle home without sending a letter. I continued to wait for my dad to come back, but he didn’t. I knew he hadn’t been on the ferry, but he also wasn’t around town. No one had seen him.

      It took me longer than it should have to check his boat. It wasn’t in the shed where it should have been. He must have taken it out on the water, though I had no idea why he would. He had no reason to take it out to town in the dead of night, especially without telling me where he was going.

      I called Auntie, but I did my best not to scare her. Instead of asking if she’d seen Dad, I asked if she’d talked to him.

      She hadn’t.

      That’s when I finally reported him missing. The longer he was gone, the more I worried. I wanted him home. At this point, I didn’t even care about the fight– no matter how ridiculous it was, or how much I hated being stuck in the village… I loved my dad.

      I took the bottle out to the beach again, in a last-ditch effort… I decided to try making a wish again. I didn’t think it would work, but it felt better to do something. I couldn’t wait at home doing nothing.

      ‘Hi, this is Alex.

      I’m worried about my dad. We had a big fight, and I haven’t seen him. I wish he was home. Thank you for hearing me out. Sorry I stopped writing, it just felt weird while he was gone.’

      I didn’t watch my message float away. I knew I wouldn’t see where it went, or who took it. I went home and tried to sleep, but all I could think about was my dad lost at sea. When I closed my eyes, I saw his little white boat being tossed about dark waves. I saw him, terrified, as he was swallowed up by the sea.

      After the nightmare, I knew I couldn’t wait. I took Dad’s truck, foot heavy on the gas the whole way there. I jumped out, leaving the headlights on so they could illuminate my view in the dark.

      Right as I reached the beach, a wave came out of nowhere…I was knocked over and thrown onto my back as the dark water hit me like a punch. As I blindly tried to push myself back up, my hands came into contact with something smooth and icy cold.

      Blinking the saltwater out of my eyes, I knew before I could even see that I’d found the bottle. It was heavy in my hands; I hugged it to my chest so I wouldn’t drop it and scrambled over to my sitting rock.

      Eagerly, I looked down at the bottle. It seemed to have some rocks or something in it? No, that wasn’t right. They didn’t rattle around the glass like rocks would. Weird. I uncapped the bottle with numb fingers, tilting the bottle so I could pour the contents in my hands.

      Whatever it was, it got stuck. The neck of the bottle wasn’t wide enough. I brought it to my eye, looking inside. The glass shattered before I even registered dropping it. Fingers and toes rolled across the rocky beach. Severed and blue, but… unmistakable. I could see nails, and even little sprouts of dark hair. The cuts weren’t clean, they were jagged with loose bits of skin flapping at the ends.

      It looked like they hadn’t been cut off, but… torn. Chewed up, and spit back into this bottle. No. I was still back at home, having a nightmare.

      I had to be.

      Backing away from the grisly discovery, I noticed that more than just a bottle had washed up on the shore. I saw an elbow, an ear, and even a foot without it’s toes. I screamed until my throat was raw. I ran. I slipped and fell repeatedly on the wet rocks. I tripped on my father’s head, mouth agape and filled with water and foam.

      I found my way to town, still screaming and sobbing. I had his head in my hands; it felt like cold clay. Clammy. His eyes were gone, the sockets empty… like they’d been scooped out. I don’t remember what happened after that, I only know that I wouldn’t let go of his head. I wouldn’t stop screaming.

      State Troopers came to town the next day, combing the beach to find everything as it washed up. By then, I was numb. They took his body away in a dozen trash bags. I answered their questions, but I don’t remember what they asked or what I said.

      My aunt came to stay with me while the investigation went on. No one suspected foul play. It was ruled an accident; they said he must have fallen out of his boat. That he might have been run over by another boat. That the sea-life and rough water tore him up.

      I didn’t tell anyone about the bottle. I couldn’t.

      But on my last day in town, before I went to live with Auntie in Kodiak… I brought another bottle to the beach. There was one last message I needed to send. One last question I had to ask:

      ‘Mom? Is that you?

      Please answer me if it is.’

      That bottle never came back.

      Posted in Short Stories [Horror] | 0 Comments | Tagged alaska, alcoholism, art, bottle, creepy, dark, fiction, horror, nosleep, ocean, original, scary story, sea, short stories, short story, spooktober, story, village life, wishes, 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
    • A Sympathetic Mirror – Wholesome horror short story

      Posted at 10:18 pm by Penny Tailsup, on October 15, 2018

      [I previously posted this story on r/Nosleep  and removed it because I’d been feeling insecure about it. I had called it ‘Unforgiven’, but am renaming it because that technically isn’t a word.

      I recently found the story after thinking it was gone forever… and decided I’d go ahead and share it again!]


      I wish she’d die.

      That invasive thought came like it always did, as though it were set on a timer. It was finally morning, but I felt as though I’d been in a fist-fight with my nightmares. I was always tired, but I never wanted to sleep—the memories kept me up at night, then replayed while I slept. I had someone to blame—the woman who had hurt me. Even now that she was in prison, she managed to have some power over me. Justice hadn’t been served… if it had, I wouldn’t still be suffering… right?

      I wish she’d die.

      Maybe then I’d get the relief I needed. I stared up at the ceiling, internalizing that dark wish– one I’d never act on, because that would make me the villain. I had to pray instead that someone else would take care of it for me. That happened in prison all the time, didn’t it?

      I closed my eyes, taking the prescribed deep breaths. I knew I was getting too worked up, and I hadn’t even gotten out of bed yet. I counted each breath… Like the doctor told me to do, even though it didn’t work. I was even told not to think about it, not what happened… or my condition, as though somehow it might just go away. I tried to follow their instructions, but I couldn’t stop the thoughts, or the nightmares.

      My bedside table was a chaotic display of fluorescent orange bottles and crunchy flowers. Prescriptions, and old bouquets from well-wishers who had long given up on me. People stop sending flowers when you take too long to get better… right around the time they stop caring. The dead flowers reminded me of that every day.

      I wish she’d die.

      I took my time getting out of bed, absently smoothing the sheets as though they weren’t ripped to shreds—evidence of the battles I fought even in my sleep. I grabbed my phone off the bedside table and skimmed through texts from my mother:

      “Elle?”

      “Call me.”

      “Please.”

      “Stop doing this.”

      I hadn’t called her in months. I’d call her later, but first I needed to take a shower. The film of nightmares left my skin sticky, the long t-shirt sheer to the point of indecency. I felt disgusting! Taking a shower used to be a cure-all, I would always feel better when I was clean. It wasn’t so simple now because I never felt clean.

      I gathered my towel, and a change of clothes before heading to the bathroom. I didn’t bother turning on the light, the high window in the room let the sun stream in just enough that I wasn’t stumbling around blind. As I brushed my teeth, I deliberately kept my eyes trained on the faucet so I wouldn’t have to see my face.

      My phone started to vibrate again, more texts punctuated with an occasional call. I didn’t pick up. I didn’t want to talk to her because I wasn’t better yet. I knew she’d just tell me to snap out of it, like it really was that simple. What would answering her calls really accomplish? I’d only give her more reasons to worry. She didn’t understand what I was going through, what that woman had done to me.

      I wish she’d die.

      The lights flashed brightly, as if in response to my dark thought. In the darkness, the sudden intensity burned into my ill-adjusted eyes. It only lasted for a moment before the light winked out, leaving only the square of sunlight from the window. My first instinct was to rationalize it, but doubt quickened my pulse. Maybe I was just imagining things? I made sure to double check the switch, flipping it on and back off for good measure. Lately, I’d been prone to hallucinations so it wasn’t completely out of the question that I’d imagined it.

      Trying to shake it off, I undressed and stepped into the shower. It didn’t take long before something strange happened—the shower curtain began to draw back. I caught it with my hand and tugged it back into place. Even though there was no one here, the thought of the curtain opening and letting anyone—even the mirror— see me, was enough to freak me out. I didn’t want to be seen; not by myself, not by anyone!

      I tried to be dismissive, but it didn’t last. My hands were shaking as I reached for the faucet, ready to retreat back into my room and hide. Before I could, the curtain was ripped down and left spreading on the floor like a dark, pooling stain. Startled, I couldn’t help but scream! As I ran for the door… a woman materialized from shadow, someone I’d never seen before.

      “Who–?” I shrieked, but before I could even finish the question she vanished, leaving me face to face with the mirror that I’d been avoiding.  It was so dirty, far dirtier than it should have been—to the point it couldn’t even reflect. On its surface, written in the grime—a message:

                      “Two graves”

      The words sent chills through me. I tore my eyes away, more convinced that I needed to get away from this place before my mind cooked up even darker delusions.

      “I’m having a nightmare.” I rarely spoke these days, to hear it under these circumstances was particularly jarring. I bolted, reaching for the door and cried out when I realized it was locked from the outside. At this point I was well beyond terror, throwing my shoulder against the door to break it down.

      “No! This isn’t happening!”

      I heard a sigh behind me; turning slowly, full of dread: there she was again, the woman I’d seen in front of the mirror. I knew she’d never left. Locking up with terror, I could only stare. There she stood, with dark hair that fell in the way that shadows do; her lips were violet, accentuated by bloodshot eyes. I could feel her contempt, judging this dark world of mine.

      “What do you want?” I managed to ask her. She turned away from me, looking into the old mirror—perhaps she could see something in it that I couldn’t.

      “Why won’t you look in the mirror?” the question she asked caught me off guard. “You’ve neglected it completely.” As if she sympathized, she touched the tarnished frame—not even glancing my way. It was like she wasn’t here for me— she was here for the mirror.

      I wish she’d die.

      “I know. That’s not what I asked.”  She’d heard the words I’d never spoken. I was caught off guard, leaning against the locked door.

      “Well…” I felt compelled to reply, though the question was hard to answer. “I know I’m not who I used to be. I don’t want to see that.” If she found my answer strange, she gave no indication.

      “I can make her die. You know the price.”

      I did.

      As she said so, the words sprang to mind: two graves– Hers… and mine. My grudge against the woman who ruined me had taken over my life. I had stopped living for anything else. In a sense, she had killed me. The person I was, and the person I could be—

      Did it really have to be this way?

      I didn’t know how I’d never asked that question. This fatal choice… I was being offered the revenge I’d wished for, but the price to pay was steep. I could choose that path, but was that what I really wanted?

      Yes, the darker part of my heart cried. It held so much power over me, and yet–

      “No… I won’t be her victim twice. I won’t follow her into Hell, she can go there herself.”

      The apparition finally looked at me, she was smiling– softening into something less ominous. The mockery and contempt she wore dropped away like pretense.

      “Yes… she will be judged, but not by you. If you continue down the path you’re on, you will be destroyed.” I knew she was right. My fixation on murder couldn’t possibly end well, I needed to move on with my life.

      Before I could even finish the thought, the woman was gone. So was the darkness and filth that once filled my house.

      I turned towards the mirror. For the first time… in a long time… I saw my reflection. I was still myself, there was no one who could have changed that— except for me. When the phone rang, I picked up and smiled into the receiver. The healing had begun, I knew I couldn’t shut myself away any longer.

      “Hi mom… I’ve missed you too.”

      Posted in Short Stories [Horror] | 2 Comments | Tagged forgiveness, grudge, horror, monster, PTSD, revenge, short story, story, wholesome
    • Neon Nylon Strings – Scary Short Story

      Posted at 4:08 am by Penny Tailsup, on September 8, 2018

      No time? Listen to my narration instead by clicking this link!

      I’ve always had an aversion to the cracks between things.

      You know– tiny, dark spaces where a hand barely fits, but often ventures—in search of something lost.  It’s always something important you lose in those places, isn’t it? Car keys, a watch, a cell phone—things that will have you groping the darkness without much thought.

      The worst for me was the cracks in the couch, those narrow pockets of darkness. It wasn’t a rational fear, but knowing that didn’t help. I took measures to avoid searching there, obsessively keeping track of my things so I wouldn’t lose them in the first place.

      For example, my keys always hung in the same place, and my cell phone was either charging or clipped to my pants. The television remote took a little more ingenuity; even though I had a place for it, it always had a way of ending up between the cushions. I’d know exactly where it was, and go fishing in the cracks with a pair of tongs because I couldn’t bear sticking my hand down there.

      I was tired of living like that, I hated myself for being afraid of something so benign. I couldn’t help it though, I had an instinct that all the logic in the world couldn’t shake.

      I thought I’d found the perfect solution when I found the string.

      Braided neon nylon—I bought a spool of orange, the color of construction crews and traffic cones. I tied a string around the remote, leaving six feet of length to dangle and drape over the coffee table.

      It worked beautifully.

      The remote was always easy to find, that string was easy to see. When the remote inevitably found its way between couch cushions, I’d reel in the string at a strategic angle. It worked well, why wouldn’t I try it with other things too?

      I bought more neon nylon string, several spools in different colors: orange, yellow and green. I tied them to everything small and easily lost. My headphones, my charger, the kitchen scissors… even the salt and pepper shakers!

      It worked so well, I brought the strategy out of the house too. I tied the yellow strings to things that should always be on my person; my phone, my keys, my wallet…  if I ever saw yellow, I’d know I lost something. My pockets were always bulging with balls yellow string; for peace of mind, it was a small price to pay.

      At work, I tied green strings to things that fall in that space between the wall and the desk; the pens, tape and stapler. It was an orderly chaos, those neon nylon strings. There was a method to my madness, but no one else understood it.

      When my boss called me into the office about the complaints, I did my best to explain. He didn’t get it, but he couldn’t make me stop. I could do whatever I wanted, so long as the items were my personal property and I wasn’t tying them on company time.

      With time, my house resembled an art project rather than a living space. Bright orange strings draped across every surface, in every direction—carefully laid out, strategically placed. Walking around become an exercise in balance and flexibility, but still… it was worth it.

      Of course, there is no such thing as a perfect solution; the problems with this method of organization began to present themselves before long.

      The strings tangled; it became hard to tell which strings attached to what. I spent a lot of time maintaining, untangling everything and monitoring the cracks between things to see if any thread lead into the dark.

      I stopped inviting people over, it was too tiring to explain. No explanation I could give seemed adequate. I knew it was strange, but it made me feel safer. I was in complete control, the puppet master in this colorful world.

      There were other problems too; the slightest movement would cause a chain reaction, the strings constantly quivered and rustled softly with only the slightest touch—even a breeze through an open window was enough to cause constant motion. I always saw movement in my periphery, only to realize it was the string when I turned to check.

      At night, I’d wake up because several strands would swipe softly against my skin. Once I realized it was just the string, I’d relax and fall back asleep… but that initial moment, half asleep, when you feel an unexplained touch…? Terrifying.

      After a while, I got used to the poking and prodding of the strings and stopped noticing… until the night I woke up on the floor.

      I wasn’t sure why I’d woken up at first,  reaching for the blacklight on my nightstand… only to realize I was touching carpet. Unable to see in the dark, I waited for my eyes to adjust. Before long, the furniture around me took shape… only slightly darker than the blackness around me.

      Once I was better oriented, I was able to sit up to reach the nightstand; I felt resistance as I found the light, and realized with the neon illumination that I had somehow become tangled in the strings.

      Thick bundles of cord were coiled around my calves and left elbow, pulled taut. The strings stretched out the door and down the hall, vibrating and twisting—braiding together, as though to form a thick rope. I tried to reach down and untangle myself, but it was too difficult.

      Panic set in when my body unexpectedly moved, the knots tightened by a sharp pull—I slid across the carpet, towards the door… becoming more tangled as I struggled.  I caught the door frame with my free hand before I could be yanked out, the door frame creaking in protest as the wood strained and warped.

      I heard things breaking in another room, and the soft scrape of objects being dragged… all of the strings were moving in one direction— the persistent tug didn’t stop. My grip grew weaker as I held on for dear life, until my sweaty fingers slipped. Splinters of wood bit into my skin, and once again I was reeled into the deepening darkness, down the hall.

      I fumbled for furniture, anything I could catch onto… and found nothing. I felt like a fish on the end of a line, the catch of some unseen monstrosity in the dark. It was not a gentle current, knocking me into walls and the various objects that joined me on this harrowing journey.

      Raw terror almost sent me into a blind panic, but my survival instincts kicked in. Nature and genetics hadn’t bestowed me with sharp claws, but I still had teeth– and I used them, tearing like an animal at the strands that had twisted about my elbow. The friction tore at the corners of my mouth, but I ignored the pain and bit down as hard as I could, sawing at the threads until they frayed and snapped.

      It worked, though my mouth was burning and bloody– long, limp strands of string hung from the crook of my elbow… now I had control of both arms. I started ripping off my pajama bottoms— screaming in pain when I dislocated my ankle to slip free from the massive knot. I felt like a coyote in a trap, doing what I could to free myself even if it meant an injury.

      Free, I hobbled down the hall on one foot, it was easy enough to dodge the undulating strings as they began to converge into one thick mass. I turned on the hallway light, using the wall as support as I eased myself slowly towards the kitchen. I was in bad shape, covered in rug burn and blood. Adrenaline kept me moving even when I shouldn’t have been able to stand.

      Not much was left of the kitchen. Everything I’d tied had already been pulled into that tangled body… fortunately; the knife block hadn’t made it far. For practical reasons, I hadn’t tied strings to any of the knives. Although the block had been knocked to the floor, the knives were still safely housed inside. I grabbed the biggest one with my least injured hand.

      Armed, I limped after the strings into the living room– the source of the pull. When I turned on the lights I could see objects catching on things, getting stuck.  Everything was converging on the couch, in the gap between the left armrest and the cushions.

      Now that I was closer to the source, I could hear it… a sucking sound, wet and smacking, as though my couch were enjoying a plate of pasta, noodles of string being slurped into that cramped abyss.

      Pushing back the disbelief, I got to work with the knife—hacking inelegantly at the writhing neon vein, freeing what possessions I could before they were all sucked down that bottomless maw.

      I didn’t save much, but it was better than nothing. At sunrise, I paid the paperboy  $100.00 to dump the couch on the curb for me, and another $20.00 so he wouldn’t ask questions.

      Even at a distance, from the safety of my window… I could still see those neon nylon strings, a spray of orange twisted into the frayed ends of rope. It stuck out of the gap, only a few inches in length— as if to bait me to reach out, and reel the darkness in.

      I could reclaim all I’d lost, with just a pull of the strings. But no,  I wouldn’t take the bait. I knew something was waiting on the other side to pull me in. No… I’d let my lost things stay lost.

      For all my fear, I’d somehow neglected to remember that a string can be pulled from both ends.

      Posted in Short Stories [Horror] | 2 Comments | Tagged couch, creepy, dark, furniture, horror, neon, nylon, original, phobia, short story, story, string, strings, weird
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