The Machine That Brought The Dead Back To Life - Part 1

List 5 things that make you happy, then put this in the askbox for the last 10 people who liked or reblogged something from you! Get to know your mutuals and followers :3

Cats

Metal music

Hiking in nature

Horror Stories/movies/games

Doing something creative

The book

A short horror story I wrote.

Word count: 1504

TW: blood & grief

I look up from my phone as I hear the noise of falling books.

It seems that Camilla has pushed Emily again.

My shy classmate is lying on the floor with eyes red from crying, though she certainly isn't the only one.

It's the funeral of another classmate after all, Jane, now the dead girl, used to be quite popular at school.

Always running around and helping others in need, even with her status, she never forgot about others.

Yes, she did break the rules more times than anyone could count, yelled back at teachers and was overall never afraid to speak her mind.

She was hard to dislike and everyone seemed to want to be close to her.

Unfortunately this means she had few 'real' friends, very few, but I digress.

The once so joyful girl, now lays weirdly calm and quiet in the open coffin.

I can't stop myself to wonder if underneath that layer of make-up our friend really is.

Would her lips be blue?

Would her skin be cold?

I too have bawled my eyes out when I got the news, Jane was dead and yet no one seemed to know or care what had caused it.

Like it was some kind of secret, would it be bad if it came out?

As her class, we were taken to be at her wake to show our respects, but I'm pretty sure the teachers would want to hang another lesson on this.

Perhaps they might have us write an essay on death or learn from our former friend to not become like her.

It sucks.

They suck.

But from all the people here, I hate myself the most.

The last time I spoke to Jane was last week, the day before she had passed.

If I had said something different, if I could go back, if I had known.... Would I have been able to change the outcome?

Would we be in school? Would she pass me by with a smile? Would she talk back to another teacher again?

But there won't be anything like that again and honestly it is difficult to believe.

I just... I can't accept it... not yet.

As the other girls leave I walk over to Emily: "Hey, are you okay?" I ask her, while helping her gather the books.

She responds in a sad nod, though in my heart I know she's not okay.

She looked up to Jane as an older sister, the two had always been close even before high school.

I look at one of the books I help her stack up and notice how well-made they are.

"T-these are pretty." I say, my head starts hurting again from the amount I've cried, I don't think there are any more tears left.

"Thanks" Emily sniffles and then she takes one from the pile: "Here, take one... you were one of her real friends too, I can tell." A sad smile crosses her face.

"Thank you."

I carefully take the book from her hand and help her back onto her feet, after that we quickly part ways again.

I look at my phone, it seems that I still have some time before my dad comes to pick me up.

I don't feel like talking to anyone and on my phone there only seem to be posts about Jane, so I don't really feel like being on it either.

I walk to a corner where I can be alone and take a seat on the couch.

I tuck my phone in one of my pockets and open the book.

I'm pretty sure Emily has made this herself, she's very creative and this looks like her style.

Like usual she has turned it into a sort of scrapbook with fitting pictures.

When I first held it I had already noticed it being pretty heavy.

It seems to be filled with pictures.

On the first page it says: 'Goodbye Jane, our dear friend, our dear daughter', with a recent picture from the girl in question smiling brightly, the birth- and death dates are noted underneath.

She didn't get much older than sixteen.

Did her parents commission Emily to make this?

I turn the page.

So... so this is what she looked like as a baby, huh...

I wonder... are all her pictures here?

I flip through it and it seems like that might be the case, though mostly the good ones.

There are some bad ones, but even so they are more light-hearted and funny, showing all her sides.

"Only Emily could have made something like this." I mumble to myself, she was probably the closest friend after all.

I stop at a random page, here the pictures seem more recent. They are from one of her social media accounts.

Jane had always wanted to be a photographer, so there are really a ton of them. Mostly herself though, with a few pictures of scenery in between.

I flip to the next page.

Is it just my imagination... or did she just move?

I look closely at the picture.

I'm... right?

It's a picture from about four years ago, taken in a theme park.

Both Emily and Jane are in this picture.

The Ferris wheel behind them, it seems to glow... like really glow!

I hold my hand slightly above it only to see the light reflecting back at my hand.

Suddenly the sweet scents of popcorn and cotton candy enter my nose just as the sound of cheerful music enters my ears.

From the page, Jane looks at me, turning her head and smiling at me.

Quickly I slam the book shut.

I'm just imagining things right?

Weary, I look around, but it seems like no one has noticed me at all.

So, too curious, I open the book again on a random page.

This time it's a picture from four months ago.

Jane seems to be alone in a garden filled with butterflies, not only in the picture itself, but also in the scrapbook around her.

Though this time nothing seems to move.

I sigh, a bit disappointed and look up from the heavy book watching the world outside the window.

Unlike what I expected, it suddenly seemed to have turned into the butterfly garden.

I can even see Jane standing by the plants with a camera in her hands.

Without thinking I walk towards the window, still no one seemed to have noticed me, neither me nor her.

I can see some of the butterflies walking on the glass and with each breeze the dark green plants sway gently.

I place my hand on the glass and Jane notices me.

With a familiar laugh she turns to me and waves.

Then she slowly raises her camera and takes a picture of me.

As the flash ends, I'm back on the couch.

Did I not move?

Not at all?

The book is still on my lap, I haven't even closed it.

I look down at the garden picture again, but it doesn't move.

I look out of the window and am only greeted by the parking lot. Yeah, there are a few plants, but not as many as in the garden.

Jane is also nowhere to be seen.

I turn back to the book and flip it to another random page.

This time it's from four weeks ago.

Jane is standing outside, watching the sun go down on the beach.

Only her dark outline is visible at the center of the slowly darkening sky.

Still, it's a good picture.

It feels mystical and mysterious.

As nothing happens I start looking around again.

Then I notice a white wall slowly turning yellow and shortly after purple.

The lights in the room turn into stars and if I listen closely, I swear I can hear the sea.

I can smell the salt water and feel the warm sand underneath my feet.

Jane's silhouette seems to welcome me, inviting me to join her.

Suddenly a loud noise or at least louder than my thoughts, takes me out of it.

It's her family, her parents are crying.

I feel horrible and I can't even bring myself to go up to them, to tell them about how wonderful their daughter was.

How she took me, as many others, out of the darkness and back into the light.

That it's okay to make mistakes, that it's okay to cry.

But I can do nothing.

I can only go back to the book, pretending I didn't notice a thing.

I open the book again, this time on the final page.

The last picture.

It's not a picture of Jane.

It's a picture of the city at night.

Is this the final picture she made?

I look at the date.

Four days ago...

That's the last day she's been alive.

Was this the night in which she had passed?

It had to be.

The picture starts to move again.

Jane seems to be holding whatever took the photo.

She is walking, from the way she takes each step, I notice that she's anxious about something.

There aren't many lights on.

Just a single street lantern, casting shadows around itself.

Suddenly she stops.

Something is moving close to the lantern.

"W-who's there?" I hear Jane say, fear clear in her voice.

No answer.

Something is moving closer.

And then it moves faster.

Jane drops the camera, or perhaps she fell.

A loud slashing noise can be heard, followed by a couple of horrid screams.

I can't move my eyes away from it.

Blood enters the picture.

But it won't stop at the picture.

It starts to consume the book.

And it doesn't stop.

Floods and floods of blood leave the pages.

I drop it, but my hands are already stained.

It just won't stop flooding. 

White hell

Here's another short story I wrote.

I hope you like it:)

TW: Gore & psychological horror

It's all white...

The room I'm in and the rest of this building is probably also all white.

I don't know where I am.

This cold blinding white, everything is this pale color, every object, all the furniture, every.... Everything.

I'm all alone, in this unending place with only one color.

At first, I didn't see it as much of a problem, I am quite introverted after all. Put other people in this room and I would find it all the more terrifying.

But now, I've been here for hours, there are no windows or exits. Or at least I haven't found any.

I have no idea how late it is or what part of the day it could be.

It might be in the middle of the night or perhaps in the middle of a warm sunny day. Of course I wouldn't know, I'm stuck in this building. This building that's completely white on the inside.

There is barely even any shadow.

There is constant white light.

I wonder what would happen if I stay here for too long.

Will I go crazy?

Some time later...

It has been long... or at least I think so.

How long? I don't know.

I think probably a couple of weeks, maybe a month, but I could be very wrong, so maybe just a couple of hours?

I've no clue.

The white light makes me feel cold, not that I'm-in-danger kind of cold. But just an inside kind of cold.

Like my heart froze or it's just pumping cold fluid throughout my body.

I wonder if I'm still alive.

My hands are still warm though, so I might be.

I noticed that sometimes when I close a door and quickly open it again, that it wasn't the same room as before. On a couple occasions, the furniture will be on a wall or even the ceiling.

I've tried breaking through walls, but it doesn't matter, I'm not strong enough.

An unidentified amount of time later...

I found something!

Not an exit unfortunately, but something with color.

It's a pool, a swimming pool in this boring white building.

The water is a calm, light blue.

So I jumped in...

And got out disappointed, it had all turned white under water. Just as white as the rest.

The blue was just an illusion, a dream. Just a small wish for normality in this one color hell.

The white hell, huh... sounds pretty funny, also quite fitting.

Later...

I've made a friend!

My first friend in forever!

The most beautiful friend one could ask for.

It's a small blue butterfly and this time, the color is no illusion.

The one thing that totally made my day.

My friend is stuck here too, so we work together to find a way out.

It is a very good listener and goes with me wherever I go.

I still don't know what name I would give my friend, but is it really necessary? Who am I to decide the name of a creature so beautiful. I'm terrible at naming things.

Its wings are a warm kind of blue, like an ocean during summer looked at by the bright sun.

We eat together and I talk to it, I need someone to talk to anyway. I will definitely go insane if I don't.

More time passed

I don't know what to do.

I hate myself.

I killed my friend.

My one and only true friend in this white hell.

Poor little butterfly.

He didn't want to come with me anymore, so we got into an argument. He said some really nasty things to me and... and I ended up hitting him.

Oh God, what have I done...

With one small thump of my hand, he was no longer...

I cried.

I cried for, I don't know how long.

I mourned him.

And as I wanted to give him a proper burial in the white sand, I noticed something.

My friend had given me one last gift. Did he forgive me?

A new color.

Red.

It came out of him, just a little bit.

Just a small drop.

A beautiful crimson red.

I am so lucky to have had a friend like that.

Date unknown:

I have found more red.

More than before, now when I enter a room there is red splashed on the walls. Maybe even on the ceiling and floor. I don't know what up or down is anymore. I just move from box to box. Everything is the same. Same old. Same old.

The red gives me warmth, it's the same crimson color like my dear friend gave to me.

And when I stay too long it starts turning brown. That's pretty cool!

I didn't know it could do that!

It's pretty.

I open my eyes, I still haven't escaped the white room. I'm still here, trapped by cloth so I can't move. Still alone.

There is nothing else then this white hell.

The tree

The most recent short horror story I wrote:)

Word count: 722

TW: Psychological horror

Rain mixed salt with fresh water.

It's quite cold for a spring day, I think to myself as I close my coat to protect my body against the harsh weather.

I wander around outside and I suddenly find myself by an old tree, one that is rather famous around here.

None of the locals are sure if it is even still alive or dead.

Its bark looks so dark on the outside, as if it had been burned long ago and for one reason or another it never blossomed. It feels cold to the touch.

The place where it stands is rather strange too, it has the endless sea as its background.

Like I always do when I pass by, I stop for a bit, just to watch. Even without leaves it seems to immerse the place around it in shadow.

I've heard people talk about how it might have been a place where people were hung. But those stories have never been more than whispers, there's simply nothing to prove it. If you were to search the local archive you wouldn't find anything about it either.

I look towards the sea, for some reason the tree makes it look almost melancholy or sad.

This rain doesn't help a lot either, but even when the sun is shining, it's this tree that causes all to look depressing.

Happy families playing in the sea won't make it look any happier, not even weddings that take place on the warm sand.

As long as this tree is here, it will never make this a happy place.

There have been times in the past that people wanted to remove it, but it never seemed to go down.

Perhaps the whispers are true, that it's cursed, but I am not one for such superstitions.

In a way, I believe that this tree does also hold something beautiful and mysterious, like a long forgotten memory from which it is uncertain if it's a good or bad one. Perhaps it's neither of those, but never a dull one.

I watch as the raindrops fall down from the branches and darken the sandy ground beneath it.

It's just straight ahead if I wanted to go to the beach, I might go there if I feel like it, but I'm not sure yet.

Suddenly I hear a voice coming from behind the tree, at first it was the wind or the sound of the waves, but it really is a voice. I can't catch the words, they sound muffled by the rain.

I look to see and find a trembling girl behind me.

She's barefoot and looks dirty.

Her eyes are red from crying.

I estimate her age to be around 14.

Without a second thought I take off my coat and wrap it around her.

"Are you okay?" I ask, glancing around to see if I can see any other sign of life around us, but finding none.

She nods, still trembling.

I take a step back and take out my phone, ready to call whoever.

As I finally dialled 911, I look back to where the girl had stood...

She's not there anymore, like she had vanished into thin air.

Swiftly I look around, but she's nowhere to be seen.

I call out for her a couple of times, but no one calls back.

A 911 operator picks up and I try my best to explain what just happened and I don't get the feeling she believes me, telling me to just go home and not stay out in this weather.

I return home and close the door behind me.

As I sneeze I notice that I've already caught a cold, I should probably go take a hot shower.

But before I can even remove my soaked clothes I hear a knock at the door.

I'm surprised that someone would want to visit me in this weather.

Quickly, as to not get the unknown guest get soaked as well, I rush towards the door and open it.

"Good afternoon." A local cop greets me: "Does this coat belong to you?"

In his hand he's holding the coat I was wearing earlier.

I nod: "Yes it is.", but before I can take it back he retrieves it again, showing that another cop is behind him as well.

"We just got word of a disturbed piece of land and found a body there." He continues with a cold gaze that never leaves me: "This was found at the scene, hanging on one of the branches of the tree."

The not-so-genius detective

I recently decided to challenge myself to write a non-horror short story.

This is my first time attempting to write a story that is supposed to be funny.

When I told my family about this they asked me if I was sick...

Without any further ado, I would love to hear what people think of this attempt at a comedic story:)

Word count: 2076

TW: Profanity (Doesn't go much further than 'shit' though)

“And this is detective Jayden Falkenstein.”

My boss has his hand on one of the shoulders of some kid, while looking like a proud father.

“That’s your nephew isn’t it?” I remark.

The chief looks astonished: “Oh my, you’re already familiar with him?”

“No.” I answer honestly: “But I feel like there’s something you too have in common.”

The man laughs as if I was giving him a compliment: “Oh well, he’s actually a lot brighter than me.”

“You wouldn’t say.” I scan the child before me with my eyes, there’s just something… terribly annoying about him. His clothes are made of many bright colours that don’t go well together, making me believe that he might be color blind. He looks unprofessional and attracts way too much attention.

His face bears the expression of a terrified child trying to hide his fear, with a look of fake confidence that is way too easily shattered.

There’s just no way that he’s a detective.

“So, sir, is he going to work here with us? Like an intern or something?” Or is he here to be baby-sitted by one of us? I secretly add.

“Oh, no, no, no. We need my dear nephew here to help us solve something.”

“Is he good with computers?” The chief is old, maybe that’s the problem? Was an IT-guy too expensive?

“I told you before, he’s a detective.” The man’s face turns serious, he must have noticed that I’ve been having difficulty with believing him.

His nephew must really want to play detective, there’s no way he went to school for it. Let alone leave with diploma in hand.

“You two are about the same age, so I expect you two to get along.”

“Around the same age?” I ask dumbfounded. I know the chief is getting old, but does he really have such difficulty with discerning 15-year olds with those in their twenties? It’s just impossible, he doesn’t even look close. And his terrible sense of fashion…

That and I don’t believe he would even be allowed to take his first driving lessons, let alone be allowed to step inside a bar.

The kid smiles at me: “I’m twenty-five, you know. I heard that you’re two years older.”

What…?!

I shake my head: “You’re not allowed to lie to a police officer, show me your ID.” I gesture to him to hand it over.

“Officer Coldon!” The chief calls out to me in frustration.

But the ‘detective’ hands me something “Here.” he says in a kind tone.

I take the object not really taking it seriously, until the picture and text reaches my sight.

…

…

He really is…

I feel utterly flabbergasted and it takes me a bit to finally find my composure again. While double checking if the ID is real or not.

I cough: “So chief, what’s the plan?”

The man in question looks at me still slightly annoyed: “Well, we got a message from the art gallery asking for help. Someone is threatening to take down the building.”

“I see, have they had the thread on paper or via mail?”

“Paper. The author of the note mentioned something like ‘sneaking inside like a snake’.”

“Can I see it?” I unconsciously reach out, hoping for him to give it to me.

Instead the older man shakes his head: “It’s being analysed by the lab right now. And it’s almost time to go.”

“Already?” The detective asks pouting.

That really can’t be an adult…

Both me and Jaiden get sent back home to change into more formal wear.

I’m lucky that I live quite close by to the gallery itself, I can head straight to the building.

After quickly finding something I believe to be fitting for a guest, I leave my apartment behind and walk to the place the chief wants us to meet up.

It’s in a park close by, I see they were able to get a normal looking van.

Then the other thing that I notice…

As if someone had eaten rainbows and puked them back out…

I frown and try to look away from the almost glowing thing standing before me: “Hell no, you’re not getting in there dressed like that!”

Surprise, surprise… It’s Jaiden standing before me, dressed in a manner even a freezing and naked hobo wouldn’t want. That hobo would most likely prefer to die.

Unconventional, torture to the eye itself. That describes it at best. I can feel the shame… Yet he does not seem to show that at all.

He’s comfortable in that?!

Detective Falkenstein looks at me with a smirk: “Well you’re dressed way too fancy for someone just visiting a museum.”

The audacity.

Suddenly the chief pulls both of us by our collars: “Damnit, both of you, get changed!!”

Both are forced to change on the spot for more casual looking clothes.

As we enter the building I glare at my colleague that did get his way by secretly keeping his God awful looking shirt underneath, slightly better looking clothing.

The chief had decided that the two of us have to partner up. There are others that are doing the same, but are given different routes to walk.

“So, one ticket for an adult and one for a child?” The lady behind the counter asks, taking my thoughts of annoyance to another place.

“I-I’m sorry ma’am, could you repeat that?” I’m pretty sure I heard something wrong.

“One adult.” She nods towards me, speaking almost in slow motion: “And one child.” She nods to Jaiden.

Immediately I shake my head: “That’s a grown man.”

A mischievous smile crosses my colleagues face, one I don’t like the look of.

“Sorry ma’am, my dad is only joking.” He takes my arm and I do my best to resist the urge to slap it away.

The lady behind the counter smiles a little, though clearly with murderous intent when her eyes rest on me.

Then she turns back to Jaiden, a soft smile crosses her face: “Would you like to participate in the scavenger hunt?”

The idiot smiles brightly: “Yes please.”

We get the tickets and I hear the lady whisper to one of her colleagues: “He’s so polite, he really did not get that from his dad.”

The other nods, “Yeah, he probably has a much better mother.”

When we’re finally out of hearing range, I pull the detective closer to me in anger: “That’s illegal!” I whisper-yell: “With our job we need to set a good example!”

Jaiden smiles carefree: “We also aren’t allowed to stand out.”

I hate to admit it, but in a way, just a tiny bit, he has a point. I better talk it out with him later.

Or perhaps I should set him the good example.

Engrossed in the piece of paper that was handed to him earlier, he mumbles: “Hmmm… where should we go next?”

It really isn’t the time to go on a scavenger hunt.

We soon find ourselves inside a long hallway, the walls are neatly lined with many paintings each in slightly different colours and moods.

I can understand why people calls this true art, the way the emotions are showing, the dreams and ideas of their creators all come together in one-

“That one looks super ugly!” My colleague bursts out in a loud laughter.

I look at him threateningly, but he doesn’t seem to notice at all.

“That…” He points at it: “Is truly the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen. No one would want it on a t-shirt. They did call this art right? Is this the collection of the ugliest man-made squirts?”

“Jaiden!” I hiss his name at him to quiet him down, but it only seems to show him that I’m still here.

He turns to me, ignoring the emotions that I’m clearly showing and asks a question in an annoyingly casual way: “So, the scavenger hunt is asking me to give this one a name. I’m thinking of ‘barf in the barn’ or ‘shit cow exploding’…”

He’s asking me.

Damnit, how clueless can a person be?

I take a deep breath to calm myself down: “We should continue to the next.” I try to remind him. There’s no time to be loitering around here, we have a criminal to catch!

I cannot truly see what this painting means, but I bet it has something to do with the painter's hidden anger bursting out. I think to myself as we’ve entered another hallway and a painting has taken my attention.

“Ha, a six-year-old could do better.”

I’m a cop. I remind myself. Murder is a crime.

Though I need to repeat it multiple times in order for it really to seep into my mind.

Continuing on I suddenly notice someone in the crowd acting strange.

A man is staring at a painting, without moving or even blinking at all.

Is he even still breathing?

Carefully as to not get his attention I glance his way a couple of times.

Trying to concentrate, I think about what I should do.

Should I let my other colleagues in- and outside know?

Or should I-

Crunch…

Crunch……

The sound of someone eating right next to me takes me out of my train of thought.

Guess who it is…

Jaiden…

Again.

Yep. That’s right…

He’s eating a bag of chips.

I’m thinking of ripping the thing out of his hands, but he walks off just before I’m able to.

You’re not allowed to eat inside this part of the gallery! I want to yell, but he’s already stepping towards the man I’m suspicious of.

I can see him say something to the suspect and then hold up his bag of potato chips.

The suspect is taken out of his trance and smiles, accepting the offer and taking some of the chips from the bag.

The detective comes back to me: “You know officer Coldon, not everyone is a suspect. That man was simply entranced by the painting. It isn’t pretty, the painting, but to him it feels like something special.”

I would love to be allowed to hit this kid over the head.

I remain silent, trying to show in this way that I still don’t agree.

“We should go this way.”

“Why?” I ask.

Did he suddenly have a good idea?

“The scavenger hunt continues down that hall.”

I follow him, tired out by my own anger and frustration.

I want to be part of what saves this gallery, but now I’m unsure if I can really do it.

“This has to be it!” Jayden suddenly calls out.

“Please lower your voice…” I feel too tired to lecture him again.

He picks up a random looking, empty piece of paper.

“This piece of paper must have another message… like with invisible ink.”

I swear I’m done with this guy.

“There’s no way…” I say, knowing that it’s clearly bull.

Not paying attention, while taking a few steps back, he accidentally bumps into someone.

“Ah, I’m sorry.” He immediately apologizes.

I guess he does have basic manners.

“Don’t worry, it doesn't matter.” The man he walked into answers in a kind tone: “It still happens to me from time to time as well.”

“Still I’m really sorry.”

Are these two going to keep doing this or are they finally going to stop and move on?

We still have to catch someone.

“Oh right, sir, do you happen to have a lighter?” Jayden quickly asks: “I need it for the scavenger hunt.” He points at the piece of completely ordinary paper.

“Oh yeah, I have one.” The man starts digging through his pockets: “Please do return it to me.”

“Thank you.” My babysitting job answers politely.

Carefully he lets the small flame from the dark metal object lick the paper.

As his face turns sour he finally turns off the lighter.

The paper really was just a piece of random paper.

Before returning it, he takes a quick glance at the small object in his hand. For a moment it looks like something clicked inside his mind.

With a smile on his face he returns the lighter to its owner.

“Thank you for letting me borrow this. Unfortunately it seems like this isn’t part of the scavenger hunt.” He hangs his head down showing rather theatrically his frustration.

“I see, well kid, I hope you find it.” The man takes the lighter and calmly walks away.

As the man has gone around the corner, Jayden suddenly jumps and pulls my sleeve: “That’s him!” He stops himself just in time from yelling: “The snake mentioned in the letter, it’s on the lighter! His means of destroying this place is by fire.”

Too tired to struggle, I press against my hidden earpiece and call for backup, giving everyone the best description I can of the suspect.

As we’re finally called back, the chief tells us that our suspects fingerprints matched that of the letter that was sent.

But a better investigation and court will be held later to find out what really happened.

I glance at my colleague.

I guess he might have his charms, solving a case might not entirely be beyond him…

Though dumb luck did most of the job.

But I still can’t get over his horrible sense of fashion!

The old street musician

A short horror story I wrote.

TW: Short horror story, faeries I guess. they can be pretty creepy

The room is filled with the welcoming aroma of hot freshly made coffee. I'm sitting on one of the café tables, the one in the corner with the best view out of a big window.

The room is filled with the sounds of the coffee machines boiling, the soft sound of people whispering and my quick tapping on my laptop's keyboard.

I work as a translator and prefer to do my work in cozy places like this one, as do many others.

After a couple of hours a group of teenagers enter. They seem to change the atmosphere that was previously here, now instead of calm, working people, some of them get irritated.

The teens are quite loud and don't really seem to care about others, but I well, I honestly don't care. I'm more annoyed at the people hissing like cats and sighing like they are nearing their last day.

The group takes a table close to me and start talking in excited voices, mostly about school and friends.

Then suddenly the girl with pigtails points out of the window.

She is pointing across the street to an old street musician. I have seen him quite often here, I think he might always be sitting there. Whenever I give him some coins or just listen to him plays he always gives me this sad smile. It always makes me wonder how he got there. I have never even heard him uttering a single word, he is always silent, but plays wonderfully. It makes the city all the more livelier.

"Isn't that guy a bit creepy?" He just sits there all day and probably all night only making music."

A girl with a blue dress answers: "Yeah, I think so too. Why do you think that is?"

A boy with a green shirt cut's in: "Isn't it obvious, he is probably sitting there to ensure his alibi."

The boy in red laughs: "What? Do you mean to say that, this old man is secretly something like a serial killer?"

"That's so creepy..." Pigtails shares.

"Why else would he be there? Aren't most homeless criminals?" Green asks.

"What if he is waiting for his long lost family to finally return?" Blue says, seemingly unsure of her own answer.

"Nah, that's too good to be true, he has to have been at least a criminal at some point. Probably just a drunkard or a drug dealer." Red shares with confidence.

Then their conversation starts getting to a lot of other topics, I don't care about and try to continue my work.

Unfortunately, they only seem to get louder and I decide it's time to take a break and leave the café to wander off somewhere in the city.

Somewhere I buy a new agenda, the year is almost over anyway and I still don't have a new one.

After wandering around and browsing countless shops for hours, I notice it getting darker outside. It is of course almost winter, so I decide to walk to the bus stop to go home.

On my way back there I walk past the old musician, still playing beautifully on his old and beaten up accordion. His cold hands moving skillfully over the right keys.

I stop, search my pockets for some spare change. Yep, I still got some on me.

I turn around and gently put some coins in the basket. They make a small clinging sound as they all reach the bottom.

As I want to walk away, the man suddenly stops playing.

Then he speaks.

"Young lass, please listen. There is something important you need to hear."

I turn to face him: "Sure, I still have some time to kill, anyway."

His face seems slightly more panicked than normal.

"I know it's gonna sound like an old man's ramblings, but please. Spare me a bit of ye'r time."

I nod and take a step closer.

"I need ye to get away from here and never return. Ye've always been a very kind lass, when ye pass by you always pay attention and ye always seem to look out for others too."

He seems to be having a difficult time telling me. He's fidgeting and sweat appears on his forehead.

"Young lass, du'n listen to the faeries."

I'm kind of shocked, but I don't want to judge him either. I will let him talk, he clearly needs it of his mind. Not that I believe everything, but I won't let him know.

"I know I sound like a crazy old gee-"

"Don't worry, I'm be listening."

"Thanks"

There is that sad smile of his again.

"In a few days, maybe even tonight this place will cease to exist. Hundreds of years ago the people built this city on a faery village, ruined it, burned it to the ground. Then made this city with their ashes. Of course the faeries were angry at the people, war between the two raged for years till one day a musician came forward. He was able to play so bloody good that he could make the faeries sleep.

When he died his son took over and the son after and so on. I am the last musician, when my day comes, dear lass, this city will be gone. There won't be a musician anymore to keep the faeries asleep. And my day is approaching at great speed, since ye'r the kind soul that always sticks around, I want you to be save. So please lass, leave and never come back. Because when you do, you too will be taken."

I look at him, not sure what to say or do.

This short moment of silence feels like an eternity. "Alright, I won't return."

"Ye promise, lass?"

"I promise."

"Good, that makes this old man happy to hear."

I give a short nod. "Well, my bus could be here any second now, so I will be going. Goodbye sir. Take care."

"Farewell to ye too, lass. Thank you for listening and understanding!"

We wave, say our goodbyes and I leave for the bus stop, I'm there just in time and can hop on immediately.

After paying the driver I walk to sit in the back of the vehicle.

As the bus starts driving, I stare out of the window. Watching the illuminated city by the many yellow lighted lanterns.

Then when we pass the old musician, just before we take a right turn. I see it.

In a flash, I see what the man meant.

My blood freezes.

The old man is lying on the ground, arms and legs in horrifying, impossible positions. Broken most likely.

There is blood, a lot of it and... Something is standing next to him.

All I can say is, that's definitely not a human being.

The arms are too thin, almost branch-like.

It has glowing eyes.

Oh God...

It has seen me...

Writing for the lost

A short horror story I wrote a while ago.

Word count: 2096

I've always wanted to be a writer.

I've always so desperately tried, to then always fail.

I've written stories about dragons, stories about strange civilizations, and yet it seems to be that all my hard work has been for naught.

I grasp to every chance to write something, be it a competition or just for others.

And I always end up getting hurt, again and again and again and again and again.

Perhaps they've been right all along, I just don't have any talent.

That my stories are mere imitations of the great ones.

Well, they might be, for all I know they might all be damned.

Perhaps it would be better to stop, to call it quits, but I can't.

I can't.

I just can't.

As the thing I've been working towards my entire life, I can't let it go now or I will really have lost.

I work jobs I don't like in order for me to be able to purchase the things to write and to give myself time to read.

But a masterpiece is something I will never be able to write.

I remember once entering a competition just to be told that my writing lacks emotion and originality. Well I've been told worse before.

But still, I try and try again.

Probably until I can't anymore.

Until even breathing is something too difficult.

Recently I moved to a new house, it's old.

It's also difficult to keep clean, but the rent is dirt cheap.

I might be able to stay here for longer than half a year, so I'm pretty happy with it.

Perhaps it's time to hire a maid, though I would need to work even harder to afford one... Yeah, I should just do it myself.

Even though this house is in a bad shape, it feels almost as if it has a soul.

Like the house is a whole character in itself.

In a way it makes me feel less lonely.

The paint is slowly peeling from the walls and not all the lights work, but in a way it speaks to me.

Like something I've long lost or have yet to gain.

In all truth, there is something amiss with this house, something strange, but I dare not call it wrong.

The first night I sat by my mattress on the floor and took out one of my old notebooks.

"Alright, I think I'm going to write now." I said to the house, I said to myself.

Speaking aloud is something I do often when I'm alone, so I did not expect a response.

"What will you be writing?" a voice echoed through the house, entering my bedroom.

I was quiet for a moment, listening to the suddenly eerie atmosphere that had entered the room.

After a long while I finally mustered the courage to answered: "A story"

"What is this story about?" The house asked.

"I-I don't know yet..." I whispered.

I could feel my hand holding the pen tremble, but I didn't dare to run away, I didn't even dare to look behind me.

"How about you write a story about me?" The voice asked slowly.

"I-I can do that, please t-tell me." I hated the fact that I couldn't stop my voice from shaking.

"Hmmm..." The voice seemed deep in thought: "How about we write it together?"

I could feel a cold hand touch my shoulder, to then enter my body.

It was truly a strange sensation, nothing I had ever felt before.

But I guess I can say, I got possessed.

When I came to, I had written almost an entire book, my hands covered in blisters were sore as can be and I felt like I had had the strangest dream.

I dreamed that I was someone else.

I dreamed of the feelings they felt.

I dreamed of the pain they had to have endured.

As I looked at the pages written in a handwriting that wasn't mine, I could remember the dream more vividly.

I looked up to find an almost transparent man before me.

"Not enough." He mumbled: "Not enough."

"What do you mean?" I asked carefully.

"This is simply not enough..."

I let him think in silence for him, afraid of what would happen if I were to anger the spirit before me.

"It's not the whole story yet." He finally answered: "It has yet to be finished."

As I tried to get up, holding up my arms for him, wanting to tell him that he can try again, dark spots start appearing in my vision and before I know it I fall over.

"That must be the problem." I heard him say: "You are too weak."

The words sound harsh, but I also know that they spoke the truth.

I was weak... No I still am.

I can't do anything.

I have no talent for anything.

I am useless.

Somehow the ghost decided to take pity on me and sat next to me.

"You gotta eat something, my friend." He said in a kind voice.

I could feel an ice cold hand on my shoulder, so cold that it felt like it could freeze my body and turn it into solid ice.

Slowly I got up, my 'friend' following closely behind me, making sure I wouldn't fall over.

He helped me sit down at the table, where I reached for some of the fruit in the basket.

I took a bite and only then noticed that it had long spoiled, still I continued until I had finished it completely.

"What is it that made you so obsessive over writing a story?" My friend asked.

"Good writers live forever within their works, good writers never leave this earth."

"What caused you to think like that?"

"People disappear often, swiftly and without much noise. I don't want to go out like that."

My friend hesitated and then answered: "I see." I think he said it because he didn't want to invade my privacy.

"So, why do you want to have your story written?"

He shrugged: "I guess it's almost the same reason as for you to write. I don't want my story to disappear. I came to my end in a way I don't wish upon my most feared enemies."

"Why not find someone stronger and more talented than me?" I asked out of curiosity.

"You're the first."

Just what does he mean with that?

"The first that was able to allow me to write to speak out my anguish."

As I have regained some of my energy I carefully stand up, this time not falling over nor seeing dark spots cloud my vision.

"Alright, let's work together." I offered and my friend nodded in agreement.

Days went by in which I took better care of myself and had a moment in which my friend could take up my pen.

Day after day, more empty pages got filled with a story, the story of him.

As the final day grew closer, I could feel his frustration slowly ebb away.

Then it came.

It arrived much too early for my taste to be completely honest.

After all, I made a friend, a good one at that, someone that only I could hear and see, someone that told me different from my dark lingering thoughts.

"May I request something?" He asked kindly like always.

"But of course, anything that may be of help to you."

His face turned serious.

"I would like it if you were to publish this, under your own name."

Shocked, I looked at him: "But this is your story, yours and yours alone, you can't leave it to me! If you want it published so badly, I can bring it to a publisher and say that you, my friend, are the writer of this masterpiece."

He looked down.

"But you wrote it." He silently protested.

I immediately shook my head: "No, you did, you did it, you wrote the story of your life."

Then he slammed his fist on the table.

"Dammit! I want you to take it, you have been nothing but kind to me. I have worn you out to have my last wish be granted through you. Most people would run away if they ever were to even lay eyes upon me. You are the only one to understand me, so please... just listen to me."

Shocked by his sudden burst of anger and frustration, he reminds me that his last day is coming closer.

This time I look down: "Fine." I mumbled: "I will publish it under my name, but I will tell everyone that I wrote it with the help of a friend."

A sad smile crossed his face: "You better do."

And thus I went to the publisher the very next day.

It was one of those that had refused me before a couple of times, but this was the closest one to my house.

As I knocked on the door, I was greeted by the man that owned the company.

"What the hell are you doing here so early in the morning?!" His voice was stern, perhaps angry even.

"I've come to show you something."

"Again?! You know I ain't reading anymore of that garbage that is written by you!"

"I wrote it with a friend."

"Oh, yeah, who ist?"

"He... he prefers to remain anonymous."

"Anonymous? Bah, the only thing I smell here is bullshit!"

"It's because it's his personal story."

A mailman walks by giving the owner a couple of letters.

At first I wasn't sure, but I noticed that one of them had something like 'EVICTION' written on it.

He then confirmed it to me.

"Look pal, there is no story big enough to save this company of mine. Rent is due and there are mouths to feed."

"Please..." I begged him: "Please just read, even if it's only the first page. No first half of the page is good enough."

He sighed.

"Fine then, but this is your last chance. If it's bad again, I will never allow you to enter this place anymore."

Thanking him, he let me inside.

Carefully I handed him my manuscript as he sat down on a chair.

"Half a page you said?"

"Yes." I nodded.

To my delight, as the owner started reading the story, he almost seemed to get absorbed in it.

He didn't read half a page at all like I had requested, page after page he read.

At some point I could see tears well up in his eyes, at another I could see the frustration in him like that of the protagonist of the story.

And then he closed the last page.

It had already gotten dark outside and he had read every word, not skipping anything.

With a satisfied sigh, he wiped his head and then looked at me.

"Well that certainly is how you do it, son."

I bowed and thanked him.

"I-it's truly almost something close to a miracle."

"Could you publish this for me?"

The man nodded: "Yes, yes. Of course."

It didn't take long before I could find my book in the local bookstores.

But I didn't take the time to celebrate this victory.

My best friend was gone after all, his place felt empty.

I couldn't care less about my income or the fact that I could finally live somewhere else that was cleaner or in better shape.

I visited his grave often, even talking to him, knowing full well he wasn't there to listen anymore.

Then one day another one came.

A spirit.

A lost soul.

Someone in need of my help.

Like before I wrote them a book, I wrote their story.

And in time they left me again too.

I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote and wrote.

Somehow in time I had become somewhat of a best-seller, people would even recognize me in the streets and ask me for an autograph. And I would always tell them that I never wrote a story alone.

I always told them that I shouldn't get all the praise.

Eventually I started noticing myself growing weak again.

Weaker than I had ever felt before.

Though some spirits would try to take care of me, I got sicker and sicker.

It wasn't something a doctor could cure.

It's my curse after all.

My curse is sucking away at my life force.

My unnatural talent is killing me!

Scared, I look up, dropping the pen from my trembling hands, spilling small drops of ink over the floor, my hands and on some of the pages.

"Are you okay?" The man, or rather ghost, before me looks worried.

"I...we..."

He looks down with eyes filled with regret: "Yes, you and I are the same. We both have the same curse, if you're not careful enough, death will come to get you earlier as well."

Book of the apocalypse - chapter 2

Chapter 2 - A place to rest

TW: Gore, psycological horror, spiders, depressing theme's

Word count: 801

Previous chapter:

"C'ome on! I even checked it for you, it should be safe enough."

"How can I... be sure of what... lies beyond if you... are... imaginary?"

Defeated, he sighs.

We have been arguing for a while now and the rain outside hasn't stopped at all.

"I'm going to...one of the stores... usually they have a room... in the back that can be... locked." Old words slowly enter my mind. I guess I didn't forget everything.

"But the clock tower has a better view, you can be certain of your surroundings and make better plans for when the rain stops!"

"Quiller... I am not going in there-!"

Quickly I place my hand in front of my mouth and stop talking.

I must have yelled too loud, because I hear something approaching us.

Something dragging.

Another walking faster.

Shit!

Taking out just one is already quite the feat, two might be impossible, especially in such a confined space.

I've lived like this for years, but only thanks to knowing when to run and when to fight.

After all... they aren't a lot like zombies from old moving pictures.

And it certainly wasn't a virus that caught them.

Not a virus any human or animal could have gotten.

Quickly and quietly I hide behind a corner.

I see the two- no... four!

There's four of them!

Goddammit!

They're still scanning their surroundings.

I just hope they don't-

The one that seems to be the leader looks straight at me, making a strange noise.

Quiller is standing by the door to the tower: "I think this really is our safest bet."

"You... you asshole, you knew didn't you?! You planned for this to happen!"

I don't look at his face, I don't want to look at it.

Wow, betrayed even by an imaginary fiend.

I hold my spear in a way to protect myself as one of them lunges at me.

Before I know it I'm surrounded.

Their half decaying flesh, half robotic faces look hungry at me.

"You assholes fight like... like bitches!" I yell at them, knowing full well the futility of it. The same strange words I recognize as curses leave my mouth one after another.

How strange... but it feels right.

Trying to give myself an escape route I slice off an arm from one of the creatures.

With a sloshy thud it falls onto the floor and rolls away.

Almost immediately a new arm starts to grow, one not made of flesh... but of some kind of metal.

A dark liquid spills onto the floor, smelling like a combination of something rotting and machine oil.

As I try to slice the new one off, I'm only able to dent it a little bit.

I feel my hope sink.

"I guess I have no choice but to use 'that'..."

I take a small machine from one of the pockets in my belt.

It's still a work in progress, but this is better than nothing.

Do I really have to use my piece of hard-work here?

Well... I guess it beats dying.

In a swift movement I press a button and make it stick to one of my attackers' heads.

I'm sorry...

The creature starts to scream.

A scream sounding more and more like that of a human it once was.

I'm sorry...

The others get alerted by the sound and start attacking their once fellow creature.

I hate to do this, but a better decoy doesn't exist.

Even if the creature had become fully human again, it would have died in an instant.

I haven't found anything against that yet.

Quickly and quietly I rush to Quiller.

I give him a glare, saying: 'Fine... I will do it your way asshole!' and get myself through the small door in the ceiling.

He seems to be slightly frightened by my cursing.

It's a good thing I've gotten used to doing parkour.

Jumping from one wall to the other and climbing up is nothing.

I breathe a sigh of relief as I notice that it doesn't end in a small space to crawl through.

I might have gone right back out if that was the case.

It's open.

I close the small door behind me, I really don't want those creatures getting up here and then I turn my flashlight on to look around.

The room is mostly empty, except for the layer of dust and an old couch.

The clock is the window, but it has gotten so dirty thanks to the dust, seeing through it is nearly impossible.

I scan through the room with the light in my hand, I really hope there is nothing up here.

There is a dusty, old couch in the middle and the only source of light is coming from the dirty clock, that's also somewhat of a window.

Luckily there is no one here.

"Hey, are you okay?" Quiller asks, looking rather worried: "You didn't get bit, right?"

I shake my head, I better not answer him right now.

Those creatures one floor below us, worry me.

I carefully walk over to the couch.

Maybe now is the best time to start reading that book.

I take the old object out of my bag and open it.

The confession

A short horror story I wrote.

TW: 920

Word count: blood, gore, murder, religion

It's quiet today, yes it is most of the time in a church, but not this kind of silence... I might even be able to call it eerie.

It's so quiet it feels like there is someone here with me, just one that is able to hold their breath for a very long time or never had a breath to begin with.

From the corner of my eye I notice a dark red curtain close.

Ah, it must be someone whom is here to confess.

I carefully close the book I was reading and whilst holding it close I walk over to the one who seeks the guidance and forgiveness of God.

I enter the small room on the opposite side and close the curtain behind me.

As I sense the person in the other room make a cross, he speaks in a shaking voice: "In the n-name of the F-father, the Son a-and the Holy Spirit..."

I recognize the man's voice, it's Benjamin, the kind farmer from the edge of town.

He comes here often and is very devoted to God.

Just what could it be that scared the poor lad this much?

Ben continues his prayer: "May last confession has been..." He takes a break, seemingly deep in thought.

"I'm sorry, I... I don't know. I have been here every Sunday though, I truly didn't have anything to confess at that time."

"That is alright, I know. Please tell me what happened Ben."

"So..." He swallows loudly "It all started a couple of days ago."

"Recently my crops have been dying, much, much faster than normal. All of them are now nothing more but dust. At first I thought it was divine punishment for something, but after asking even my youngest it seemed not to be the case. There was something killing them. It didn't take long for it to go over onto my life stock, all dead. My sheep, my cows, even the little donkey.

All had been more than healthy before then.

No blood, just dead.

Of course I went to ask around and seemingly I wasn't the only one with this horrible occurrence. My neighbors Peter and Hans had the same problem.

Something has been eating away at the land. It was something evil, father.

The others and me, decided to investigate and found out that something strange happens at night.

There was something wandering our fields when even the moon and stars hid behind clouds out of fear.

We all saw them.

It looked human, a human with long dark hair.

Each time it even just passed something alive it would quickly perish.

Last night, we decided to make our move.

Armed, we followed it.

It led us into the dark forest, everything decaying in its path.

When it finally halted, Peter attacked first.

But he was touched by it by accident and turned to ash.

It was a terrible sight father! I won't ever be able to forget.

So Hans, enraged by the sudden death of our friend, screamed at it, grabbing it by its hair and yanking it back.

He held a knife to its throat ready to slice it open, and yet... he too lost his life right there.

The monster turned to me and asked: "Are you going to kill me too, mister?"

I could finally see its eyes, its horrid eyes.

I think they might have glowed, but I'm not too sure.

When the moon finally showed itself, it had turned just as blood red as the monster's eyes.

It had to have been the devil's work.

It has to!"

"What did you do?" I ask, trying to get him to continue his story, he came here to confess after all.

A strange giggle escaped the man's lips, one I have only heard once before from a madman.

"Ben! What did you do?!"

He remains silent for a bit.

Is he even still there?

"Father... I killed a child. I killed the devil's child" Ben answers with insanity clearly audible in his voice.

"Ben... you killed a child?"

Another strange giggle: "Father... I did it to save everyone. I stabbed it and stabbed it and stabbed it and stabbed it... In the end the monster even smiled at me as I cut out its facial features, to make it look more like the monster it was."

A chill runs down my spine, what in the Lord's name is going on?

Probably sensing my silence, Ben starts to weep: "My Lord... Father... I killed a child... I'm going to hell... aren't I?"

Unsure what to answer, I open my bible looking for a way to guide the man.

Suddenly I start to hear scratching on the other side, softly at first, but before I know it, it gets louder and louder.

'Is he nervous?' Is my first thought, but quickly the scratching doesn't sound human anymore.

I can't help it: "What's wrong?" I ask desperately, trying to hide my own panic.

"Father, please help me. God, please forgive me!" The man starts begging in great distress.

If this goes on, he might hurt himself, I have to get him out!

"Ben! Please, let's take a breath of fresh air! Please calm down, I'm sure He will forgive you!"

I jump out of the confessional, rush to his side and open his curtains.

But instead of being greeted by the panicked man's face, I am to an empty seat.

Empty.

No one.

Have I been talking to myself all this time?

No... The scratches are there.

The scratches in the woodwork are deep and look more to be made by some kind of animal, than a human being.

It almost looks like there is dust inside them.

With an audible gasp I take a step back, gazing into the empty room.

Then I notice something else amiss.

The light entering the church...

It has turned blood red.

The mirror room

This is another short horror story I wrote a little while ago.

I hope you like it.

This time it's much more of a ghost story:)

Word count: 1495

TW: Ghosts

With the soft flickering light of my candle I look upon the dark oaken wood door in front of me, regretting my willingness to do something this stupid.

It is already dark outside, so the only light in the whole mansion is that of time.

I'm staying over at my nieces place, she recently moved here in this old mansion. Our family is quite wealthy, so this isn't anything too strange for us.

I arrived this morning by carriage, the road was too rigid for an automobile. With a full suitcase in hand, I was greeted by my relatives. I am staying here for a week after all.

My niece and I spend the whole day looking at every nook and cranny of the old mansion. It was definitely built by some very rich people and most likely during the renaissance. Even so the condition it was in was immaculate like it was dust proof, or perhaps they just happen to have a witch or wizard as their cleaner.

I was shown around and told stories about each room, but there was one room my niece really wanted to show me. The room she said was magical.

The mirror room.

Carefully I open the old door with my still free hand, trying to not make any noise and accidentally wake up my uncle and aunt. They can be quite strict and if I get found out we will surely be punished, though my niece probably more than me. But still I don't want her to get into trouble and it was me who accepted her challenge.

When the door gently creaks open, a soft breeze blows out my candle.

That's strange.

The windows are supposed to be closed here, in fear of thieves and burglars.

I'm sure my uncle closed them before.

How did they open?

I enter the room and as I gently close the door behind me, it gives the same soft creek, although in reverse this time.

My niece was right, even at night this is the room with the most light, not by candle of course, but by the stars outside. They shine into the many mirrors, reflecting the tiny lights, creating this ghostly light. I know she said magical, but I find it somewhat unsettling, especially the fact that all the windows have been opened somehow.

As I cautiously walk towards the first window to close it, I look at the ceiling. It has been beautifully ornamented by a painting of the stars and small renaissance angels. With the soft echoing of my footsteps behind me on the black and white tiled floor I think to myself: this building is almost a half-palace.

During the day when my niece showed me this room, she was very excited and told me all sorts of stories about it. Way too fast, honestly, I could only understand the part of it that it may or may not have been a ballroom once and that many lavish parties have been thrown here. When she first told me that this was her favorite place in the whole mansion I honestly thought that it might be because she could see herself in the mirror. She is rather prideful of her appearance, taking ages to get ready.

She told me about the music she sometimes hears from this room and the talking of many merry people. Although when she enters the room, no one is there.

I don't get scared easily and am secretly also a bit curious, so she decided that it would be my job to investigate.

I look around.

I think I can see why now, the reason why this is her favorite room.

It is a clear night, the silver moon shines almost as bright as the sun and I can see thousands of stars sparkling the night sky with its colorful dust.

All of the sky's wonders let this silver, grey light into the room, creating a hauntingly beautiful place. Much, very much different from the one during the day.

The mirrors do their part, making the room look so much bigger than it actually is.

As I look around, the only other person I can see is my own reflections in the mirrors. Small, pale, almost dead because of the shadow the light creates on my face.

Carefully I walk towards the windows, all of them are wide open. Like they are inviting something in and the moon is inviting something out. Me?

Should I really be here?

At this time?

As quietly as possible I close the windows one by one.

When I am closing the last one... I hear something.

Whispering.

Footsteps.

It is behind me.

Quickly I turn around to see... no one.

Not my uncle or my aunt.

Not my niece trying to prank me.

Something is wrong, I am missing one other.

.

.

.

I am missing.

My reflection is not there.

It starts getting colder.

It turns my breath into small silver clouds.

I rub my hands together for warmth, but I can't get much out of it.

Since the last window is not completely closed yet, I turn around and close it fast with a soft THUD.

Again there is the sound of whispers behind me, closer this time. Like they are just a couple of steps away.

Swiftly I turn around again, just to be greeted by the empty mirrors again.

"Is someone there?" I ask, instantly regretting it.

There shouldn't be anyone.

I am alone.

I am really alone.

There is no one else.

Just me in this empty room.

Calming myself doesn't seem to work that well.

All of a sudden all the windows open and smash closed in unison.

Startled, I run towards the entrance, the old oak door.

I try to open the door, but it is locked.

As I panic I start pounding on the door and calling for my aunt and uncle like crazy.

No answer, everyone is asleep of course.

No one can hear me.

No one can help me.

The light in the room starts acting weird and I look up.

It is coming from the ceiling now, all the stars are glowing.

It is like it took the light from outside, since there is no light coming from outside anymore. Just pitch black darkness.

Even the moon has gone.

Those are not the only things that are wrong.

The angels on the ceiling.

They are watching me.

Following me with their eyes.

As I turn towards the mirrors, there is one with the moon still reflected in it.

Not knowing what to do I slowly walk towards it, preparing myself for anything that might jump at me.

Nothing seems to happen for a long time and I decide that it is safe enough for me to check the mirror.

Gently I place my palm against the cold surface.

It is getting even colder now, my own body feels like stone.

Then a shadow passes in the mirror... or did I just imagine it?

No I didn't.

They really are there. They are with many and I can't predict their next move. There is one for each mirror.

Wait, where is the rest of the room?

I am only surrounded by mirrors.

No windows.

No door.

Just me and the shadows from the mirrors.

The shadows have somewhat the shape of human beings, but just not right. All seem to be cloaked.

Then they float out of their mirrors.

I am surrounded.

As they get closer, my panic grows.

Closer.

Closer.

Closer.

Using my candle without a flame as a weapon I try to escape.

But they keep coming.

As I try to hit them it just goes right through.

I hit.

I kick.

I scream.

They won't let go.

One of them starts getting really close to my face.

I can see it.

The ash grey skin.

The holes for eyes and mouth are much too big.

The eyes and mouth are filled with an endless abyss.

Still I keep on fighting.

They take me by my arms and legs.

Then my throat.

I scream until I can't anymore.

Until it is so squeezed shut, I can't even breathe.

They lift me up and I can see more of their inhuman faces.

Closer.

Closer.

Without stopping.

What do they want from me?

My vision gets overrun with dark spots.

Is this the end?

The strength in my arms is gone, I can't hit anymore.

Help...

The strength in my legs is gone, fighting is impossible now.

Please, someone help me!

Then as if by magic a violin starts playing on the other side of the room.

Unlike before the shadows now gently place me on the cold floor.

I can breathe again.

Gasping for air and shivering from the cold and fear, I quickly get up.

My head is pounding and so is my heart.

The stars on the ceiling start shining brighter, chasing away the dark shadows and brightening up the room like a lamp would.

As I look at my surroundings, I see that the shadows from before are now gone.

Instead there are a lot of festively dressed people, all of them are wearing masks.

The violin is still playing.

The sound of the instrument is a bit more livelier than before.

One of the masked people approaches me.

A girl around the same age as me.

"I'm sorry, we don't get visitors that often. They aren't used to it." She says in a soft voice.

She smiles at me, but I can't see if her eyes do.

Slowly, as if trying not to scare me, the girl stretches out her hand to me.

"Would you like to dance with me?"