Horror

Just a Nightmare

Kenneth Huynh

This story was inspired by a true nightmare I experience.  Also, this is a spooky story, and, I mean, who doesn’t enjoy a good spooky story?

Just a Nightmare

The hallways were filled with books, papers, and clothes.  But where were the supposed bodies that I was told to be wary of? They were supposed to be scattered everywhere lining the halls. Thoughts were racing through my mind when I saw a blood smear leading into a door labeled “faculty lounge”. There was a staff board next to it with four notes on them - one on each corner. The top left note read, ”free donut day-10/8/1995”.  This one really didn’t mean much since it was from six years ago, although I could go for a donut right about now. The top right note was a “days without accident” sign.  Apparently they hadn’t had an accident for 147 days which beat out my record of 65 days. The note on the bottom left hand side had scribbles all over it.  Although most of it was indecipherable, I could make out two words which were “regulate” and “plan”.  How riveting. The last note was really eerie as it read, ”New staff member-6/23/2001”.  I was weirded out by this.

After that confounding conundrum, I realized that the date of today was 6/24/2001, but this factory closed down in 1999 for vague and ominous reasons.  This note was dated at 6/23/2001, which was the date my mate George went missing.  After all that reading I heard noises of a machine starting up in the faculty lounge. I crept towards the door, and, as I opened it, I saw the most horrifying thing. I saw three mannequins with their heads turned toward me with their lifeless wooden faces and their creaky metallic joints. Each one of them had a cup of coffee in his or her hand and coarse coffee stained files as if they worked here. I quickly shut the door and ran out as I heard a familiar strident voice in one of the rooms.

“Good lord, somebody get me out of here! I can hear you out there - or is it those god damned mannequins again?” George yelled as he rattled on the room’s doorknob.

“I’m here, mate! Don’t worry, I got you!” I said as I tried kicking down the old decaying wooden door. Finally after three or four heavy kicks I managed to knock it down.  As I rushed in the room, George was there walking around stroking his beard and mumbling to himself.

“Hey George! What happened, chap? Did someone lock you in here?”

“Yes and no…I did get locked in here by something, not someone.”

“Are you sure it was something?”

“Yes it was my bloody worst nightmare.”

“Spit it out then.”

“Mannequins snuck up on me and apparently knocked me down, but then, when I awoke, I was in the faculty room or wherever with three of them sitting on the table looking down at me as though they were the superior one in the room,” George said shivering.  “Then it happened all so fast - they beat me to a pulp took me by the arm, and dragged me into this room.”

“So the blood trail wasn’t going in the faculty room but it was going out into here?  Interesting.”

After our little chat, we decided to get out of here and report our findings back to HQ, but we didn’t know where the exit was. Before we could even breath the door to the lounge flew straight past us with a thundering clang. We ran as loud metallic footsteps trailed us.

As we ran, a spark of angelic hope appeared as a pair of doors materialized. We entered the room where the blistering light flooded our eyes, effectively blinding us for a few moments. We stumbled across the slippery floors when we finally regained our vision and saw the abhorrent mess in front of us. Human parts were hung beside meats like pork and beef on rusty metallic hooks, seemingly sending a message that humans are animals to these people. I realized my hand was resting on a snapped bone revealing the stiffened bone marrow. Gelatinous blood oozed from stained rusty buckets as flies created a whirlwind around them, their young popping in and out of the rotting flesh like prairie dogs popping in and out of their runnels.

“Bloody hell!  What is this place?  Why did HQ send us here, unless they wanted us to rot in this hell hole?”  George yelled  “Unless that is what they wanted”

“We will discuss that with HQ later.  Right now we need to-”

The metallic doors behind us slammed open and collided with the wall creating a concave dent of sort. We bolted into the fly swarm luckily the squeamish flies recklessly fluttered out of the way as we ran. We ran into the cooler as the footsteps approached, but this was a different sound - a sort of thud unlike the sound the mannequins’ metallic peg legs would make. Realizing this a little too late, we were horrified to see the door fly open and a humanoid figure appear. We frantically hid behind some boxes that had a jeering pig with a crimson apple in his broad mouth (most likely symbolizing us as a meal for these monsters). The frost covered our mouths with a frozen seal blocking our way of communication. As the cold set in, my body went into hibernation mode as my eyes fell like a stone in water. Everything went white as my body went limp.

When I opened my eyes I could see that I was in a movie theater. I felt something in my hand.  It was a piece of paper - no wait - a ticket. But a ticket for what? I was unable to investigate this since I couldn’t move anything. As the movie played I saw me and George lying there.  George dragged me into the vents next to us. All of a sudden the movie stopped, and a miffed voice yelled in my ear.  “Rewind it now you hopeless mutt!”

As if I was a puppet, my hands flung straight up and leveled.  I spotted a ghastly, rusted, friable antique movie projector that seemed like it hadn’t been touched since pompeii exploded as dust seemed to materialize out of nowhere and amass on the rusted frame. As my hand made contact with it, the dust slowly withdrew from the now green and brown projector. My right hand reached for the rewind switch as my left hand wilted and was slouched on the wooden table under the projector. My finger landed on the switch, and a loud creaking was heard - there was no oil in the joints. The belt started moving as the erratic and rigid joints pulled the tape back scratching some of the tape in the process. After that was done, my impaired left hand was given new life, and it reached for a button that had the almost translucent words on it reading “play”.

A chair appeared behind me as my bosom was forced down. I sat down as a monochrome film played, and a familiar face appeared running along with an old woman. Everything was fine until a rainstorm came and the small woman and child ran into the feeble brick house hoping to get away from the raucous bombardment of amorphous rain drops. The dark hut was a quiet and isolated escape but today was an exception with a lanky, drab man. As the lady saw him she told the boy to go hide since as she said it was “grownup talk”. The boy then hid under the bed with a flurry of perplexed thoughts running through his mind as the door opened. The man greeted the old woman with respect, but everything took an atrocious turn when she invited him in. His expression turned ghastly as his mouth expanded to reveal an abhorrent set of sharp barbed teeth and his hands turned into shaggy pairs of sharped claws.  He plunged them into the old woman creating a vast pool of tepid blood as his teeth sank into her supple nape creating a blood splatter on the solid brick wall. She muttered to the child, her last words as she gasped for air, “run.”  The creature split the old woman's stomach, and her intestines spilled out with a fleshy splat. The child knocked out the brick leading to the outside in turn breaking his ankle.  He crawled out of there and rolled down the hill. The film abruptly stopped as a voice beckoned me to come back. That same miffed voice returned yet again - this time a bit more levelheaded.

“You may return back now if you wish.  Your bonds are cut”

A bright light flashed in front of me as a door appeared. It was blue with markings over it as though a serrated knife was dragged on the door, but that wasn’t important to me as I opened it. I swiftly stood up as George paced around the room.

“Are you up?  Good.  You have been out for a while.  You were starting to worry me there.”

“Yeah, I’m fine.  So, what is our plan for escape?”

“Out the window, and we will be home free.”

I was relieved to hear that because my claustrophobia had started to kick in. George climbed up to the window and booted the glass pane with the sole of his foot breaking the window. As he hopped out, I could hear footsteps. I then climbed out with my heart piercing through my chest as I dropped down. The fresh air flooded my senses as the city lights were in the distance as the moon shone down it’s benevolent light. As I was relishing in the magnificent surroundings I heard a scream. As I looked over, I saw George laying on the ground.

“George-mate are you alright?”

I ran over to George’s lifeless body and tried to revive him.

“George hang in there!”

As I tried to block the blood flow, my hands on George’s chest, I felt a sharp pain as a spike drove through my back.

“That was my nightmare, doctor.”

“Don’t worry - your nightmare is over, and I assure you, you are in safe hands now.”

“Thanks, I will see you next week.”

“No, stay here for a moment.”

“Wait.  What?  Exactly why do you want me to stay?”

I was a tad bit suspicious as he never told me about this extended therapy session.

“I have things to...discuss with you.”

“What is it?”

He leaned in and whispered in my ear words that I will never forget, since I will never remember

“Do you still remember when I killed your mother?  Was that a nightmare”

“Wait wait wha-”

His teeth grew to fangs, his nails sprouted to claws, his hair ousted his normal appearance as he slowly and excruciatingly approached each step a song of death.

Une tragédie de l'esprit humain

By: Tana Perdue

I wrote this because I felt like I had to go outside my comfort zone and write something outside of my norm. I had never written a tragedy/suspense story before, so I decided to write about something that hadn't been written about previously. I really enjoyed writing this because it was new for me and I got to go a little darker than I’m used to going.

Une tragédie de l'esprit humain

Tana Perdue

The workshop was dark and empty. The only light seeping into the room was that of a lamp hanging from a pub door across the way. The cobblestone road outside the shop was dark and shadowy. Despite the room appearing vacant, it housed some very active residents. The voices bounced around the wood walls of the modest workspace.

The persecutor cannot come back. The composer will erase us. He cannot erase us. He cannot delete us. He cannot burn us.

The angry animations hissed out these perturbed words, innuendos of cloudy and hapless endings. The papers on the owner's desk fluttered as the surreal inhabitants whispered the dark tidings.

Must we speak to the composer?

Yes, the persecutor cannot do this to us. We are not yet finished, we must work through our creator. Speak to him.

Corrupt his mind.

Drive him mad.

The voices grew silent as a last piece of forlorn parchment floated to the floor.

. . .

When the delicate light of the predawn hours finally did find its way into the office, the owner was already at work. His night had been full of harsh thoughts and sleepless tossing and turning. He had found a safe haven in his work. Pencil in hand, he had been writing for a while now. His book was well nigh to being accomplished; his one true masterpiece. The old man of manifold harsh winters and sickening summers sat at his desk, busy with his writing. His peppery hair shot up at irregular angles, a harsh reflection of his sleepless evening. Then there was an unsettling ring at his bell. Two men of great stature strode into his humble workspace, their attitude that of kings. Yet, they were only meager egotistical businessmen. The old man wished to vomit at the sight of them. The tallest, and by far the more important of the two, smirked at the old writer from under the rim of his top hat. He was a rich man, styled by the economy and only having one care in the world; money.

"I stop by a third time, only to find you at it again. Your sickening book will be a failure, Vincent. How many times do I have to remind you, it’s all about the sales, and this grotesque piece of literature will never sell.”

“Just let me finish it. It doesn’t have to go to the press. Just let me finish it.” the old man whispered quietly to himself.

“Vincent, the publishing company will not wait much longer. We asked for you to start a new novel a month ago and you have failed to do so. We need something to put on the shelves!” the man in the top hat leaned over the old writer with a dire expression.

“It’s important to me, Nelson. I would like to finish it, it’s nearly concluded.” Robinston said.

“Old man, this isn’t the shakespearean era, this is the nineteenth century! Your tragedy will gain you nothing. Now, I will return here in three weeks time, and you better have disposed of this book you are so affixed too, and started on something that will skyrocket our profit. Good day.” and with that the two businessmen left the humble office. The old man, Monsieur Vincent, sat at his desk, his eyes riveted to his masterpiece. I must finish it...  was the only thought he could think at the moment.

Yes, you must.

At the sound of the voice, the old one straightened up. He was companionless in the workshop. Then he heard a laugh, a laugh that was as perverse as the hiss of a snake.

The persecutor, by the name Nelson, is trying to keep you from triumph. He is envious of your intelligence and artistry.

“Why do you continue to bother me, Greed?” the author said carefully.

There was a long silence.

I am the downfall of the human race, in your eyes, old man. I am entitled to be speaking to you, just as I speak to every other poor soul.

“Yet, in a less literal way.”

The vile character laughed again.

I suppose.

Another voice piped up.  This one was sweet like the ringing of bells, a woman's voice.

You don’t get to do all the talking.

“Elenora, you are beyond the edge of falling into madness. I don’t need your voice saying anything. Just stay inside the book.” the old man now held his head in his hands, wishing that the voices would go away. They were his creations, his characters, his representation of the darkness of the human mind, and now they were in his. They weren’t supposed to speak, they were only words on a page, yet they had found a way to become something of an essence of real.

That doesn’t matter, we are here, inside your writing, your mind. And we know what you know; the persecutor cannot stop you from finishing this work. It must be adjourned. Ignore his threatenings. Finish the book. Get rid of the persecutor.

Yes, get rid of the persecutor.

The old man nodded, and looked back down at his writing, taking up the pencil again in one shaky hand.

. . .

Vincent awoke the next morning, sunlight already draining in through the window of his flat, tired from yet another night without rest. The mutters of his creations had kept him from finding sleep. He lay curled up in the sheets, not wanting to get up. Finally he managed to push himself up and get dressed, he would be prepared to face yet another day. He slowly tromped down the stairs of his humble abode, and entered his beloved workshop, determined to get closer to finishing his book. Confidently, the old man sat down at his worn out writing desk, picked up his rough wooden pencil, and began to write on a fresh bit of parchment.

Elanora. A beautiful woman, she would capture the hearts of any man to lay eyes on her. But her husband had left her with two young daughters, and she had refused to love another ever again. She loved her daughters, Clementine and Viola, more than anything.... Well, not quite. Elanora was a gambler, and if she loved anything other than her two infant daughters, it was money.

That is where you are wrong, Vincent.

Eleanora's sing song voice broke his concentration again.

I loved nothing more than I loved them, they were my world. But their father wanted custody, and I wanted to keep them forever. So I made sure he wouldn’t want them after I was finished.

The man froze at Eleanora's words. And then erased what he had written.

“You disgust me.”

I am just an idea created by you. Whatever is in my mind, is also in yours.

That's when the raspy voice came back into the dialogue.

It’s called greed monsieur, and we all feel it.

A pause.

Including the man in the top hat. He is consumed by greed.

“Yes, yes he is.” the author acknowledged the character.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if...

The world had...

One

Less

Greedy

Soul?

There was the hissing laugh, and then silence.

. . .

For days had now passed since Nelson’s threatening visit, and Monsieur Vincent was growing exhausted from the constant chatter of the characters in his head. He felt like an overworked slave, always writing, never resting. He was slumped over his work, hoping to find sleep in the afternoon light. Yet, the author had no such luck.

Hello old man. You didn’t expect to hear me, now did you?

“Frankly, I didn’t want to hear you.”

That’s a lie. You are just scared of me, because I’m the most like you.

The voice was that of a young man; lively and blithe, yet something hid behind it that bordered on delirium.

“That’s where you are wrong, Augustus, we are nothing alike.”

Ha. Just like Elanora said, you thought me up, and that means I must be some part of you. But that doesn’t matter, we have something more important to talk about.

“Oh?”

You need to finish your book, no? Well, it seems that the vile businessman, Charles William Nelson, is going to keep you from doing so. What are you going to do about that?

The author was about to speak when he was hindered by the voice.

Get rid of the problem. In this case, get rid of Charles William Nelson.

“What do you mean?”

Think about what I would do.

Get rid of the problem, Vincent.

“Are you suggesting I kill Nelson?”

Well, how else do you get rid of someone?

Monsieur Vincent was appalled.

Don’t be so shocked, I know you are capable.

“I would never commit such a horrendous crime.”

Oh, please, you know that’s not true. It’s really quite easy. You just wait for the perfect moment, and then you end it, clean and simple. I’ll help you.

“I don’t need your help, nor do I want it. I would never kill a man.”

Never say never, old man. You know it has to be done. We are your masterpieces, aren't we? You couldn’t get rid of us, now could you. We will help you find the right moment, and then you can end it, clean and simple.

Don’t let some greedy, selfish rich man stand in your way.

. . .

As the week went on, Monsieur Vincent couldn’t get any sleep. They were always speaking to him, non stop like the birds outside. Elanora, the insane women who had murdered her two beloved daughters in a last act to ensure they would remain with her. Augustus, a young man who had poisoned twelve different drivers, tramps, and bartenders in the backstreets of paris, killing them in cold blood. And last, Greed, who consumed and destroyed every poor soul he spoke to. They would not leave him be, and they were sure to convince him to murder Charles William Nelson, the haughty publisher. He knew he had to do something, soon, or his own creations would drive him to the brink of insanity. He thought long and hard; he would have to destroy his work, but it would save him from damnation. He knew it would take every ounce in him, but after he had pledged to himself to get rid of his tormentors, he found fitful sleep for the first time in six days.

. . .

The whole next day he wrote, waiting for the opportune moment. As the sun began to set in the west, he still listened to the chatter of the characters inside his head. He lit a fire in the hearth, and sat at his desk, gazing at the golden flames.

What are you thinking about, old man?

“How to end my book.”

It barely seems like time for an ending yet.

“Quite right, but it never hurts to look ahead.”there was a long pause, and then he said, “Ahh, I know just how to end it.” He stood and strode to his writing desk, gathering up all of the papers of his book, except one which he slid into the desk drawer, and walked to the fire.

What are you doing, Vincent.

Augustus spoke sharply, like metal on metal.

“Yes, I think this is quite a good ending.” Vincent smiled to himself, and tossed the book into the flames.

For a moment, the sound of hateful, painful screams was almost enough to make the old writer pull the papers from the flames, but the noise ceased as the papers turned to ash. He stared at the fire for a time before crumpling into his desk chair. He had actually, quite literally, done it. He had killed them, and rid his mind of their vile words. He sat looking out at the sunset, pink, orange, and purple hues blending together. But something was wrong.

The silence was deafening. Everything was hushed, still, undisturbed. He felt empty, like a shell of a man. He sunk lower in the chair, clawing at his temples. He tried to listen to the cackle of the fire, but it was quiet and steady, nothing to fill the empty space inside his brain. He opened the window, hoping the sounds of the city would heal him, but they were faint and far off. He fell to the floor, curling into a small, isolated being. He let the quiet consume him, and he felt his breathing becom shallow, his heart rate quicken. He had finally fallen over the edge, into the pit called madness. He sat in his small, balled up form, listening to the soundlessness, tearing his brain apart to find something that could fill the space. That is when Greed’s words echoed in his brain.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if...

The world had...

One

Less

Greedy

Soul?

He sat up with a bolt, his pupils dilated, a madman prepared for the next task.

. . .

The streets were somber and vacant of life. Vincent’s face was covered by a black top hat, he breathed heavily as he hurried down the alleys of Paris. He was making his way to the most expensive collection of flats in that side of town. He knew the flat number, 139, and he knew that the window next to the door wouldn’t be locked. He walked like a criminal, hiding from all life besides the stray cats and rampant sewer rats. When he did finally find himself facing the back wall of the large, elegant building, he began to walk slower, and quieter, moving only where the light could not find him. He walked around the front of the building, glad that it lay on a generally unused road, and found the door labeled 139. Nervously the old man looked around, willing for no one to be watching him. No one was watching him, a clear sign for him to continue. The madman slowly pulled the unlocked window open, and slipped into the dark flat without a single rustle. Inside was black, and soundless. Vincent, or what was left of him, slowly stalked up the velvet lined stairs to where the bedroom of the resident would be. When he reached the top of the steps, he listened. There were two doors, one was silent, from the other a soft breathing could be heard. He stood outside the door for a long while, breathing carefully, his eyes closed, his silent mind whirring with thoughts. Then he reached for the brass knob, and turned it, shouldering the mahogany door open, to reveal the flats sleeping owner. The man looked much handsomer when he slept than when he was yelling at Vincent. For a moment, the writer almost turned back, abandoning his objectives, as he looked at the young man, peacefully sleeping. But then the madness, the silence, took over again, and the dark shadow that used to be called Louis Vincent mover closer to the sleeper. The old man was now bent over the dreaming Charles William Nelson, his publisher, and drew a small, glinting dirk from his over coat. Not pausing a moment he drove the weapon into Nelson’s chest, and the young man passed into the afterlife with a single, quiet, sigh.

. . .

Monsieur Vincent was now outside, sprinting towards the back of the tall building and stepping onto the fire escape. The crazed man ran up the iron stairway, his coattail jacket wrinkled and decrepit. His peppery hair was styled well, he wanted to look nice for this, he had his best silk top hat on his head. He reached the top of the old brick building, walking into the open air. The grubby city stretched on below him. In the distance the beginnings of Gustave Eiffel’s famous tower rose above the skyline. The street below was lantern lit, and empty, he could hear the rattle of carriages and ringing of laughter from far off, along the River Seine. He stood on the edge, looking out at his city.

“Nous mourrons tous. Le but est de ne pas vivre éternellement, L'objectif est de créer quelque chose qui va.” * his words were hushed, a tear fell from the corner of his iris.

Don’t do this, monsieur.

It was little Viola’s voice. He had saved one page, the page describing the angelic and sweet Viola. She was the only one left. Another tear ran down his cheek.

“La mort est facile, la vie est dure.” **

And then he leapt from the roof, falling down down down, and finally hitting the cobblestone with a soft fwump.

La mort est facile, la vie est dure.

* Meaning “We will all die. The goal is not to live forever, the goal is to create something that will.”

** Meaning “Death is easy, life is hard.”

The Darkness

A Short Story By Connor Burns

I took inspiration from several scenes from films such as “Suicide Squad” and The TV show “Luke Cage” to write this story. It is about an unstable cryptologist who attempts to escape from prison after being framed for the murder of his wife. It ends at a cliffhanger, mainly because I was in a rush to get it done. Despite this, I really do hope you enjoy it.

The Darkness

By Connor Burns

“Look at this ink blot. What do you see?” Said Mr. Silvester. He held up a portrait of a splatter of ink on a white background, in the shape of what seemed to be blood. It reminded me of something important. The reason I’m here.

“I see the darkness,” I said.

“Er… can you elaborate on that…?” Mr. Silvester asked me.

“It’s the darkness that burrows itself inside of all of us. The darkness that some let overwhelm them and take control. Those who let that small sliver of darkness take over, the darkness grows until it absorbs them. That’s what you think happened to me, right?” I said, giving him a dark smile and tilting my head to the left. Mr. Silvester began to tense up. He reached for the military grade taser that the institute had supplied him.

“If you use that thing on me, I promise you a world of pain.”

“But you’re in a straitjacket,” he said, chuckling.

“I know,” I said.

“Is that a threat?” He said.

“What do you think?” I asked him.

“I think you just threatened a member of staff,” he said, arrogantly, as he reached for his radio.

“We have a fresh one. Let’s teach him a lesson. Room C1047B,” he said into the radio. Several other staff members responded with a quick “copy”, as Mr. Silvester stood up and headed for the door.

“God I hate you,” I muttered. He closed the metal reinforced door.

“See you soon!” he yelled. I waited for about two minutes until I heard a knock at the door.

“You ready for hell-fire to rain down?” asked one of the guards.

“Till death do us part,” I said, As they kicked the door open and surrounded me. They were all wearing military grade armor plating with reinforced kevlar helmets. For one prisoner with a straight jacket on, they definitely expected a lot from me. I stood and glanced at the two burly guards in front of me, both with nightsticks. They advanced, attempting to seize me. I roundhouse kicked one in the temple and throat stomped him, crushing his neck before the other grabbed me by the shoulders from behind. I headbutted him and broke his nose. He fell and I kicked him in the side, breaking one or two of his ribs.

They were pulled away by a couple more guards. Three more approached. I tried charging into them, but they caught me. Two of them grabbed my arms, while the other began beating my stomach with a nightstick. After I began vomiting from the constant trauma to my gut, they let me go.

I was carried to my cell by two prison staff members. They dumped my beaten body onto the cold concrete floor of my cell. I vomited again. I tried standing, but was unsuccessful because of how weak and dizzy I was. I eventually found my way to the cell bed, a piece of wood hanging off the side of the wall by two rusty chains. I climbed my way onto the plank of wood just before falling unconscious.

I gain consciousness. I’m in front of a class of college students. They all stare attentively. This looks like one of my lectures. The projector in the room flickers on.

“Cryptology…” I say. “Is the study of codes. The study of writing and solving them. Now, I understand that most of you believe that cryptology is useless. You will most likely never have to write your own form of secret code,” I say. The students stare blankly. My cellular phone begins ringing. I turn toward the desk where it sits. I answer.

“Hello?” I say.

“Hey honey, you need to come home, it’s an emergency,” says Alice, my wife.

“Uh… okay. I’m on my way. Love you,” I tell her as I hang up the phone. I glance back at the attentive audience for my lecture.

“I will be here tomorrow at the same time for another lecture. Come back if you so wish,” I say as I pack up my suitcase and leave the room.

The drive home is daunting. There is a nervous tension growing and metastasizing in my gut. I feel scared. What kind of emergency? What did she mean? I get off the highway and make my way toward the small neighborhood street that we live on. I park in the driveway. All the lights inside the house are off. The tension and fear grow and grow as I slowly turn the knob and inch my way toward the light switch.  I flip the switch and watch as the lights to the living room, dining room and kitchen flicker on. I glance behind me. I have an ominous feeling that I’m not alone.

“Alice!?” I shout as I run up the stairs, kitchen knife in hand. I knew we weren’t alone and was ready to defend myself. I hear a thud from inside our bedroom. I attempt to open the door. It’s locked. I back up and run at the door, breaching it and falling on the floor.

I look up and see my wife’s bloody body sprawled out in front of me. There are multiple stab wounds in her neck and chest. She. Is. Dead. I hold her in my arms, loudly sobbing, as I hear police officers surround me. It isn’t until they begin seizing me that I realize I am being arrested. I am pulled away from Alice and shoved into a police car, no matter how hard I try to break free.

I was awoken by a loud banging on my cell door. I lifted my head up and began to regain my consciousness.

“Are you tired of being such a little scum?” asked Mr. Silvester. “I mean, if you’re gonna threaten me, knowing that you would take a beating because of it, then at least put up more of a fight when they come at you,” he said, a slight grin on his face.

“What do you want?” I asked tensely.

“I want for you to regain your hope in the world. Well, I don’t really want it. It’s just what I’m paid for. However, you are definitely different from the rest of your fellow inmates that I see. You have a certain way in how you say and do things. You just articulate your thoughts differently. Do you understand?” he asked. I look at him.

“Go away,” I told him. He closed the small slot that is used to communicating with prisoners without actually going into the cell. I rolled over on the plank of wood as darkness envelopes\d the inside of my cell. I started shaking my head.

“I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it…” I began saying to myself as I sobbed quietly.

In a few hours, we were all called into the prison yard. I spotted a short and skinny man that looked as if he was in his mid twenties. I approached him.

“Hey hey hey. Watch it,” He said in a Bostonian accent. “We wouldn’t want ‘ya to get hurt, now would we?” Back off.”

“Who are you?” I asked him.

“I’m your worst nightmare,” he responded, chuckling. “The name’s Zip,”

“No games. Just answer me. Do you think you could learn a code?”

“What, you gonna get me outta here?” He asked, grinning.

“I think I can manage something, but first I need you to help me. Rally up anyone you know. Big guys. Strong ones. Smart ones. People who could help us out,” I told him.

“What’s in it for me?” he asked, raising one eyebrow.

“I said I’d get us out of here right? We need to meet here regularly. We need to plan,” I told him, as I glanced left and right for any guards.

“Alright… I’m pickin’ up what you’re puttin’ down,” he said, his face lighting up. I turned and walked away. Soon, a bell rang and we are led into the cafeteria. After eating my daily slop, I snuck the spoon I used under my sleeve before being escorted back to my cell. The guards pushed me into my cell and closed the door. I stumbled and got to my feet. Outside, it started raining. My cell had this window made of some sort of bulletproof glass. The size of the window was to narrow for me to get through and too high up for me to climb to. Raindrops pattered on the glass as I began pulling the spoon from under my sleeve. Thereafter, I started carving what could be our own code. I figured that the best way to communicate was through some sort of variation of Morse Code. Tap once for letters tap twice for numbers. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, and ten taps for the numbers one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, and zero. For letters, tap the number of times that corresponds with the letter’s order in the alphabet, such as once for the letter A and twenty six times for the letter Z. Wait five seconds before making another input and ten seconds when finished with your message.

We would have patterns to identify certain commands. Guards are coming would be the shave and a haircut knock. Considering how Zip and I would be the only ones communicating and he is near all of our members, they would have to cause a riot and then rendezvous before escaping through the prison yard. On our way, we would have to drop by the staff room and grab some weapons. Just some nightsticks and sub machine guns will work. Maybe a taser or two. We would also need some bolt cutters in order to get through the barbed wire fence. Then, we’d jump fifty feet from the edge of the cliff outside the yard into the ocean below. We’d have to swim forty yards in order to get to dry land. My sister ran a clothing shop on the boardwalk so that we could change and go incognito. There was a barber further uptown so that we could get some haircuts and maybe a shave. The more difficult it would be to recognize me, the better. I went to sleep that night happy. The next day, I talked to Zip in the prison yard.

“We ready?” he said to me.

“Yes. You and the others need to start a fight in the cafeteria and that’ll begin the riot. Rally everyone. I’ll escape and get the weapons,” I told him. We started getting escorted toward the cafeteria. As we sat down across the room from each other, I nodded at him and the others. They got up and started pushing around a guard. More of them rushed in from outside the cafeteria. More and more prisoners got up and joined the brawl. I used the chaos to blend in and get away. After a couple turns, I arrived outside the staff room. I ran at it and busted it open. I grabbed the duffel bag and stuffed it with three nightsticks and four sub-machine guns, as well as two pairs of bolt cutters. I managed to use the alternate exit into the prison yard. I dropped the bag as Zip and the three others made their way through the cafeteria exit. I unloaded the duffel bag and handed out the weapons equally and got out the bolt cutters.

“Hold the position! I’ll cut the fence!” I yelled at them. They all nodded and began open firing at the now approaching guards. I went as fast as I could, cutting up the mangled up fence. Soon, I had made a good opening for us all to get through.

“Come on, we’re gon
Mirror above

*Running sounds* *Heavy breathing*

“Jason where are you?”

“I’m right here”

“Where?”

“Behind you.”

“Where’d he go?”

“I don’t know just RU…”

“He’s looking right at us!!”

“RUNNNN.”

“Okay okay stop here.”

“Hes gone I think.”

“I want out, I wanna go home. Why'd I come, why'd I come,I wanna go home.”

“Listen we're not going home unless we run and get out of here.”

“Yeah okay, okay.”

As I walk past the rows of skulls against the wall I can see the souls of families who once were alive. Running my hands through the walls with signs stating “Stop, this is the empire of the dead.” We only had 5 hours left till sunrise. We had all these terrible memories that could effect if we could be coming out of these tunnels alive. The feeling of regret, the feeling of distrust with yourself, feeling like everything is pulling onto you, the feeling of not being able to possibly see your loving family once more.

“We have to get out here.” Emma desperately crying while choking on her tears.

“Just keep running, well find a way out.” Jason said trying not shout to cause attention to the demons.

“OH MY GOD!” what is that!!!!!!”Emma said with a trembling voice pointing her finger to the blank wall, but not empty.

“What, what is it.”Jason trembled

“Look.”

“Look at what?”

“There at that wall wall don't you see it?!”

“Em what are you looking at?”

“Oh my god he’s standing right there.”

“Who is.”

“Omg he's coming right at us….RUNNNNN!”

“What?! Run? From what?”

And then what emma was seeing jason could see the running object was about to attack him. Now they are both running away from something that could stop them from getting home. They're in big trouble now. They hit a dead end, they stop and turn around. The man they saw was no man, he had dark features, everything was black.

“When are we leaving.” Emma said with tired, questionable voice.

“Soon” Emma's friend said with irritated voice”

“Well it better be quick i’m tired of the ugly weather here.”

“Here?, in california, you hate the “ugly” weather?.

“Haha, yeah.”

“You're crazy.”

Emma made her way into the main bedroom which was her room. She lifted her suitcase off the bed, then folding the clothes and shoving it in the bag. She jumped on her bed landing on her bottom legs crossed, face to faced with the love of her life(Jason).

“Are you packed up.” Jason said with a joyful smile he said.

“Yep.” Emma said”Are you?”

“Yep.”

“OKAY LEX WERE READY.” Emma shouted to her friend who happened to be across the house.

“Okay, our cab will be here in a few,”

“Okay.”

We are on our way to the airport, were going to paris. Theres family we have down there and we are on a visit. The first day we get here we go to a fancy little restaurant then home, the second day we go to to the art museum the third day we go go visit the Eiffel tower fourth day we go to a historical museum then on out last day on the trip we go to the catacombs of paris which holds the remains of 6 million people. Nobody knows the mysteries it holds.

Were under the tunnels of the millions of dead. We had a tour of the place, we didn't have much to see so me and jason decide to take a little tour of our own and wander off, didn't think of much of it. Until we took too many turns and found ourselves lost. We were like in the wild trying to survive when no one's here to help, we were saving each other from holes in the ground full of bones.

We Have made it to a mysterious door, I have a good grip on the nob I’m twisting it so slow scared to see what secrets it hide behind. I peak in with my eye and recognize a room with only a bottomless pit. I stand there and wonder why is there only a whole in the ground? I turn back around to find another way and see that the door that was once there, wasn't anymore.I hold Jason's hand and lift my feet of the ground and plunge into the pit and there were no more screams, voices, breathing, no more sounds.

na have to jump!” Zip said. I made sure everyone was through, and we jumped.

A Way Out

-Brynn West

“I was inspired to write this based based on an image of a pair of feet running down a dark street after a rain, and this is my favorite part of it.”

A Way Out

It's late.  I check the time. 12:57 blares back at me. Lets face it I'm lost.  The sky is pitch black, but the street lights make a path. I thought taking a short cut would help me get home faster, but it turns out it made me even more late. I can't even imagine how worried my mom is right now.

I turn into a narrow alley making my way to the street. I step in little puddles that fill the gaps in the stone walkway. My shoes become soaked and I find myself shivering. I look around, examining the buildings, and I see a vent with very faint green smoke coming out of it. It intrigues me, but I think it's best to stay away. The other building has a jagged wooden staircase leading to a back door. The buildings seem old and abandoned like they could topple over any second.

I pause, the silence broken by a rock hitting the pavement. I whip my head around. Nothing. I turn back and keep walking, but I pick up the pace, late night thoughts starting to fill my head. My walk turns into a jog and then into a sprint. Something just doesn’t feel right. I look back, not watching where I'm going, and I run into something. I stumble to the ground as I hold my head. I look up at the very tall skinny man staring down at me.

“Sorry. I wasn't watching where I was going.” I say.

“You need to be more careful,” The man says with a firm look on his face. I apologize once more and stand up. The world is spinning, I take one step then black out.

***

My eyes slowly open adjusting in time to the bright lights. I look around discovering I'm in a dark room with a light shining down on me. I start to squirm. Where am I? A thick scratchy rope rubs up against my ankles and wrists. I wiggle my hands out from the ropes and untie my feet. I make my way to what seems to be the exit and try to yank the door open - it's locked.

I run over to another door and go inside; it leads me to a dark hallway with an open window at the end. “Bingo!” I whisper. I slowly walk toward the window being as quiet as I can. The old hardwood floors creak in every step but I think I can make it.

I'm almost at the window, I can feel the gentle breeze as it sends chills down my spine. Then out of the corner of my eye a door swings open someone grabs my arm, pulls me inside, and the door slams behind me. I then realize that my one chance of getting out of this place was snatched away.

I'm trapped.

The Evil Clown

Eddie O’Sullivan

It was a dark and stormy night when I was sound  asleep having an amazing dream about unicorns and rainbows, when I woke up to the sound of a piercing scream coming from outside my room. The sound of a knife going into the wall after someone threw it pierced the silence. I started to feel terrified so went downstairs to check it out.  As I was walking down stairs, I saw blood oozing down the steps in front of me. My eyes, popping out of there sockets, settle on the sight of knives that look like they were chucked at the wall like a pitcher for a baseball team throwing a ball.  I kept walking, scared to death, wondering what had been making all of these  noises and horrific scenes in my house. I’m continued walking until I saw a big scary clown standing there with a big knife in his hand, giving me the most evil look.