The Mist in the Trees

The brisk breeze tingles my skin and hands as I step out onto my front porch this chilly October morning. It’s a quiet morning, only the gentle sway of the trees that surround my house to keep me company with the sun barely peeking over the horizon. I can barely see them from the mist that sticks and covers them like swirling cotton. A shiver runs down my spine as my body adjusts to the sudden temperature change stepping out of the comfortable confines of my one story bungalow. It’s cold enough that I can see my breath. I bring up my favorite owl coffee cup to my face and let the aroma and steam warm my face before taking a long sip of my morning java. It’s a small ritual I do every morning before I go to work, just some quiet time, alone with my thoughts; before I have to hop in the car and head to the office.

                I moved out to the woods as a way to clear my head. I tired of city life, and saved enough money to purchase a house and escape the noise, the lights, and the people. I wasn’t the young, night-life seeking party girl of my twenties. No, it was time to find a place to settle down in a place of my own, etch out my own little corner in the world, and one day maybe get married if the right guy came along. What better way to get started than to plant yourself smack dab in the middle of nature? The thought of severing most of my ties with the world filled me with excitement. I even bought books on North American wildlife, binoculars, and even a nice camera. I admit I went a tad overboard, but I couldn’t be happier with my decision.

                I take another sip of my Sumatran blend, savoring the splash of almond milk and stevia mixed within the coffee, sniffling back a runny nose. Since moving in a few months ago, I’ve spent a lot of time here on my porch. When I first moved in, I thought I found paradise. The place was a steal, hardly had to negotiate the price down at all. Sure, the house needed some updating, but I saw it as an opportunity for molding the house into my dream castle. This place would be my own.

               

                When I met with my realtor and she handed me the keys to the place, she told me something I found a bit strange at the time. “Don’t go into the woods. It may look pretty, but it’s full of life.” At the time, I thought she was just offering some advice, thinking I’m some sort of naïve city girl. I brushed it off and got to work painting and cleaning before my possessions arrived later that week.

                On the day before my big move, I stayed longer than I expected, until late into the evening. I stepped outside to cool down when something occurred to me. I lived in the middle of the woods, but I couldn’t hear a single noise: no bird calls, no howling dogs, no hooting owls, insect cries, or anything. Thinking back, I didn’t remember hearing any animals during the course of the week. I only heard the rustling of leaves in the wind. I closed my eyes in anticipation of the breeze, but none came to relieve me from the still night air. To this day, I have yet to hear the cry of a single animal around my house.

                Now and again when driving to or from home, I’ll see a vehicle on the side of the road to the woods. They build up over time before the city comes and tows them away. The officers don’t even bother to give the offending cars tickets anymore, a waste of valuable paper I guess.  

                There’s also the shoes. I’ll often find pairs of shoes flung haphazardly on the side of the road. Sneakers, running shoes, dress shoes, high heels, I’ve seen them all, each covered in a filmy slime that eats away the outer layer. Sometimes there’s a purse, or a briefcase, but I always see the shoes. I’d be upset about the litter, but they dissolve in about a week.

                My mug is empty now. I should probably get ready for work now. I take one more glance at the woods and the mist that covers them.  I have to be fast, there hasn’t been an abandoned vehicle in a week, and I know they’re hungry, and that’ll make them desperate. As I turn to head back inside, my eyes fall on the woods from the other side of the field. There is no mist there. I sigh, watching the breath from my mouth dissipate into nothingness. I wish I was back in the city, surrounded by concrete, steel, and glass, instead of swaying, breathing, and ravenous trees. 

This Is Why I Don't Buy Pre-Owned Furniture

by Gregory Meyer

For as long as I can remember, my mother has enjoyed collecting antiques in her spare time. If money hadn’t been an issue, she probably would’ve furnished our entire home with the precious items that caught her fancy at mom-and-pop antique shops, decorated with little wooden chairs, tables, and china cats in the windows. She first developed an interest in antiques when my sister, Dawn, and I were still young children. The two of us shared a cramped bedroom, and my mother placed porcelain dolls on our dressers and shelves as decoration. We hated it, always thinking that at a moments notice, the dolls would twist their necks around and stare at us with their cold, empty eyes. On a few occasions, I swear we saw them move when they thought no one was looking.

Forgive me, I’m getting off track. I only bring this up as an example; because this wouldn’t be the last time my mother brought something seemingly harmless into the house that would prove to be anything but peaceful.

After my mother’s doll phase, she spruced up the living room, replacing their outdated furniture set for something classical styled. She tossed the dusty rinky-dink lamps in favor of looming floor lamps with elegant ceramic light covers. Wobbly end tables and bookshelves went to the second hand store as old, dark wood replacements took their places. After mom trashed the old couch in favor of a newer, floral style couch, we thought her sweeping living room renovations were over, but oh, how wrong we were.

My great-grandmother had passed away a few years previous. She was a wonderful woman, and I consider myself lucky that I had a chance to know her while she was still alive. My mother had been very close to her grandmother, and while she was at peace with her passing, she wanted to do something to carry on her legacy. My great-grandmother quilted as a hobby when she was younger, and my mother inherited some of the quilts and patterns that she had in her collection. Simply having the quilts in her possession brought my mother genuine comfort and peace, but she wanted more.

For a short period of time, my mother attempted to continue her great-grandmother’s legacy by taking up quilting, but the combined demands on her time from both our family and work made a swift end to that endeavor. In response, my mother commissioned people she trusted to finish up some of the incomplete quilts so they wouldn’t sit around the house unfinished. This left my family with five ornate quilts worthy to pass down in our family for generations, and absolutely no place to store them.

  Not wanting the quilts to end up as fancy cat beds, mom took matters into her own hands one Saturday morning after I left for work. When I came home that afternoon after a long, monotonous day scanning groceries, I found my mother admiring an old rectangular box sitting against the living room wall, as if it was a legendary treasure chest holding some long forgotten artifact.

My mother looked so pleased. Finally, she had a place to store her quilts without the fear of bugs eating holes through them, or our cat Cocoa ripping them to shreds with her claws. My dad, who had brought the cedar chest in with his friend Jack, drank a soda at the table, teasing my mother about, what was in his eyes, another unnecessary purchase.  My mom ignored his ribbing, she had what she wanted.

I left the two of them as I went upstairs to change out of my work clothes. Reaching the landing, I found Dawn waiting for me in front of her room, the same room that we once shared as children. She had an annoyed expression plastered on her face; and I didn’t have to wait long to find out what was bugging her.

“Did you see it?” asked Dawn. “She bought another piece of furniture to hog the living room when it’s cramped as it is. Where are my friends supposed to sit when I have them over?”

Over the years, I found it best to let my sister rant when she gets angry until she cooled down. So I let her vent, hoping it would expel itself from her system. It wasn’t the first time she let something miniscule blow up into the world’s biggest problem.

“I don’t know,” I shrugged. “It looks nice enough.”

Dawn arched an eyebrow, then crossed her arms and leaned against her open bedroom doorway. She lowered the tone of her voice, not wanting to get the attention of our parents.

“I don’t like it,” she confided.  “Has a weird smell, too. They can’t smell it, but I do.”

“What kind of smell?” I inquired. I didn’t recall smelling anything out of the ordinary, but I had only been downstairs for about a minute. Dawn shrugged her shoulders, the most helpful of all answers.

“Dunno, but whatever it is it reeks.”

Opening the door to my room, I flashed a smirk to her as I took a step inside to take an afternoon nap.

                “Well, with all those quilts out of your room, I’m sure mom’ll be happy to put the dolls back to keep you company,” I joked. “She knows how much you like them.” I ducked inside my room and locked my bedroom door before she could slap my arm.

                Later that afternoon, I took a better look at the cedar chest. Mom and dad were out grocery shopping, so I could investigate without the two of them wondering what I was doing. At first glance, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The rectangular chest had a deep brown color with a tan stripe lining that decorated the trim around the lid. The wood had a smooth finish, slick to the touch due to a thorough polishing with Old English from my mother.

I steadied the lid against the wall so the wooden slab wouldn’t fall and crack my skull while I peered inside. As I leaned over the box my nose wrinkled as a foul smell wafted to my nostrils. Dawn couldn’t identify the stench, I could. It reminded me of the time a friend of mine who fancied herself as a pyro burned a stray hair with our gas oven burner. The detestable burning stench etched itself in the memory section of my olfactory. Other less distinct odors mingled with the burnt hair smell, like herbs or spices from my mother’s kitchen seasonings, but with a repugnant, spoiled quality to it.

I dug through the quilts trying to find the stench’s source, pulling them out one at a time. I figured Dawn must’ve had the same idea, based on the disheveled condition of the top quilt. As I grabbed and sniffed each sheet, my hand brushed against something underneath the crumpled fabric. I dropped the quilt and drew back my hand, like touching a hot surface. I felt it for only a passing moment, but whatever it was felt unmistakably solid, like something had been wrapped inside of the blanket. If it hadn’t seemed so preposterous, I could’ve sworn I touched an arm. Yet when I pressed down on the fabric again, I felt nothing. Even after I dumped each quilt out of the cedar chest and shook them, I couldn’t account for what I touched.  With some hesitation I folded the blankets back in the cedar chest, unsatisfied, but unable to do much else.

The next few days were relatively calm. Most of it was spent out of the house at school or my part time job. When I was home, I’d casually ask my sister questions about the cedar chest as to not cause any unnecessary alarm, but she thought I was making fun of her, so she wouldn’t answer. Dawn was an internet addict, so she never spent much time downstairs unless eating with my family, or while watching her favorite anime shows. Now, with the chest in the living room, Dawn looked for reasons to completely avoid being near it.

Midway through the week I decided to watch some old VHS movies while working on my homework. The work was mindless, as with most high school busywork, so I didn’t have to pay much attention to it. As Luke was training with Yoda in Empire Strikes Back, I had that feeling where you know you’re being watched by someone. I grabbed the TV remote and muted it, but as soon as I did I heard the lid to the cedar chest thump against the rest of the box. Confused, I stared at it for a moment, wondering if I was just imagining things, before resuming my work. Not a minute later I heard shifting and rustling coming from inside the cedar chest. I muted the VHS, but again the sound stopped. Frustrated, I got up from the couch and opened the cedar chest. Pulling out the quilts once again, I found the chest completely empty. Whatever was causing this mischief was really getting on my nerves.

Later that night, I finished my evening ritual of loading the dishes in the dishwasher while listening to music. Some teenagers despise chores like this, but I always found it relaxing. Just a simple task that allows you time alone to your thoughts, and I’d often use this time to work through personal issues with my friends or family. After starting the cycle and turning the kitchen lights off, I headed towards the front door to check if it was locked before heading upstairs. I’d often leave the living room lights off, as the upstairs hallway light could illuminate my path. As I made my way to the door, I felt Cocoa brush up against my right leg, most likely heading towards the kitchen for a late night snack. After glancing at the door, satisfied that the door was indeed locked, I headed upstairs for bed.

The ceiling fan light in Dawn’s room burned through the slight crack in the door she left open so Cocoa could come in and out as she pleased. I stuck my head inside and spied her typing away in a chatroom. I wished her goodnight, and she swiveled around in her computer chair and wished me goodnight as well, with Cocoa passed out purring in her lap. It took me a few seconds for the realization to wash over me, but when it did, my blood turned ice cold.

“How long has Cocoa been sleeping on your lap?” I asked with trepidation. Dawn smiled and scratched under Cocoa’s chin, purring in pure bliss.

“This lazy girl’s been on my lap all evening,” sighed Dawn. “I’ve been trying to get her to leave for the last fifteen minutes, but she doesn’t want to go.”

My face drained in color, which didn’t go unnoticed.

“What? You can’t just say nothing if you’re acting like that,” she demanded, before I could slip away. With some slight hesitation, I recounted what happened only a few minutes before, and Dawn didn’t exactly take the news well. “That’s it; I’m not going through the living room alone at night.”

I didn’t blame her.

Mom and dad never had an inkling about what went on with the cedar chest. They rolled their eyes at our stories, asking if it was the doll situation all over again. It’s not that they were stupid or blind of our problem, like stereotypical parents you’d see on TV. The chest possessed some kind of knowledge, and stopped its antics whenever they were in the vicinity. The bumps ceased, and the burnt hair odor cleared away. Yet the moment they left the house, the chest made its presence known once again. Even our friends felt uneasy around the chest when they’d come over. One of my friends even described the box as “nasty”, and gagged when he lifted the lid and sniffed inside.

At this point, we both began having strange dreams—no, more like vivid nightmares—that made us dread sleep and stole our rest. The dreams always repeated, and the two of us would recount them over breakfast out of earshot of our mother. In my dreams, I’d hold onto a long rectangular Jack-in-the-box on the shape of the cedar chest; winding the crank as some strange, unfamiliar melody played in an out of tune, metallic tone. I’d wind the crank for what seemed like hours, feeling the pressure build I felt the sides expand until I thought it would break. I’d wake up every time mere moments before the box exploded, stomach tightened in anticipation for the oncoming blast.

 Dawn dreamt of digging through the cedar chest for a quilt to sleep with for the night. She always chose one embroidered with stars and unfamiliar symbols that reminded her of webdings. When Dawn would spread it over her bed and try sleeping, she’d bump her foot into another foot with long, jagged toenails, or turn over onto a wriggling arm. Every time she’d jump out of bed and tear off the covers off, only to discover the bed completely empty. As soon as she’d climb back into bed they’d start right where they left off, never giving her a moment’s rest. The limbs would never attack; just continually make their presence known, causing Dawn to toss and turn restlessly all night. Just before morning, she’d feel a leathery hand with twisted nails grip her wrist like a vice and yank her forward, snapping her awake to the safety of her room.

The exhaustion from our lack of sleep and paranoia took its toll on us in the passing weeks it stayed in our living room. Our grades took a turn for the worse, which I couldn’t afford as a junior in high school. I looked for any reason to get out of the house, taking extra shifts at my job or spending the night at a friend’s house. I relished the break, as the dreams never bothered me out of the house. Dawn didn’t have a job, considering she was fourteen at the time. Worse, she didn’t have many reliable friends she could count on to stay with. She resorted to barricading herself in her room, only coming out when absolutely necessary. No longer did we sit together every afternoon enjoying cartoons and company. We were becoming strangers living under one roof. Not even a concerned lecture from our parents could change the diverging paths we were taking.

 One early Thursday evening, I came home from a particularly long day of school to grab a change of clothes so I could spend the night at a friend’s house. School was winding down, so I made up an excuse that we were working on an important final project for class. When I pulled into the street that I lived on, I saw something that made my heart sink like a stone. Two squad cars with flashing lights sat outside the front of my house, with my parents talking to a police officer. Panicked, I pulled into the driveway and ran as fast as I could to my parents.

To my relief, right as I asked what happened, I found Dawn sitting in our backyard, talking to two police officers, shaken, but otherwise unharmed. My parents told me that while Dawn was home, she heard someone breaking into the house. She got out as fast as she could and ran to a neighbor’s house where she dialed 911. There had to be more to the story beneath the surface, so I waited until after the officers assured us the house was clear before bugging Dawn with questions.

I found her in her room, once again chatting with her online friends. Cocoa napped on the edge of Dawn’s bed, content that the strangers were out of the house. I tapped on the door and inched inside.

“You alright?” I asked with a sympathetic voice. Now was not the time for teasing from big brother.  The question hung in the air for a brief moment, only the tapping of keys breaking the silence.

“So, now you’re going to check up on me?” snapped Dawn, not even bothering to turn around. “Or are you just going to run away again once you’re sure I’m fine?” I didn’t blame her for being angry with me. I hadn’t been around to check up on her. Clearing my throat, I tried again, but with a new tactic.

“Yeah, sorry about leaving you here,” I apologized as sincerely as I could. “I should’ve been here to protect you, but I haven’t. I promise I won’t leave you here alone again.” My sister typed out a few more sentences before pushing the slide out keyboard tray underneath the computer desk and swiveled around.

“Fine,” she sighed. Dawn wasn’t one to just accept an apology, so I took what I could get. With that out of the way, Dawn filled me in on what happened to her earlier that day.

Dawn arrived home from school in the afternoon with no one else at the house. Dad was usually home at this time, but he had errands to run after work. As Dawn began pulling books out of her backpack, she thought she heard scratching inside the cedar chest. Dawn jumped and almost ran out of the house that moment, but she thought she heard Cocoa meowing from inside the box.

Now, Cocoa constantly trapped herself by climbing in open drawers or closets for her naps; so it didn’t seem out of the ordinary that would’ve let Cocoa jump in the chest and fall asleep on the quilts until she wanted out. As Dawn gripped the lid to the cedar chest, Cocoa meowed again from inside the box. Dawn froze in her steps. That wasn’t Cocoa’s meow, but rather, a human changing their voice in an imitation of a cat’s cry. Dawn booked it out of the house and over to our neighbors without a second glance.

Dawn let out an exasperated sigh, exhausted from her lack of sleep. Apparently, since I had been out of the house, the thumps from inside the cedar chest were loud enough that she could hear them from the second floor. I extended an olive branch to her by offering to sleep in the living room for the night so I could keep an eye on the chest, which she immediately accepted. I could tell she was still mad at me for leaving her alone, but the gesture mended the tension a bit. As I headed downstairs with my blanket and pillow for the night, Dawn stuck her head out of her room and made me promise I’d come up if things got too out of control. I flashed a reassuring smile and told her everything was going to be alright.

We both knew I was lying.

That night was one of the absolute worst nights of my entire life. I spent the first half of the night with my eyes peeled at the lid of the cedar chest, just waiting for the first signs of movement. You know the old adage “a watched pot never boils”? That goes tenfold when you’re tired and need sleep. Eventually, tiredness must’ve won out, as I slipped in and out of consciousness; but, to be honest, I’m not quite sure where the line between dream and reality blurred. I was cognizant that I was lying flat on the couch, yet I couldn’t move a muscle for hours. My eyes, though, remained glued on that stupid chest. Unable to do anything, I’d glance back and forth between the chest and the room. One moment, all appeared as normal, like when I first came down for bed. The next moment, I’d notice the lid cracked open, with boney, wrinkled hands and twisted fingernails curled over the edge. From the blackness of the chest, I’d observe two beady, yellow eyes locked in my direction. The lid of the chest rose and fell, as if the box was alive and breathing. I wanted so desperately to close my eyes, throw the covers over my head and hope it went away, but my body refused to cooperate. The metaphorical crank had begun turning, and I was sure whatever lurked inside the box would pop out at any moment.

Eventually, the sun rose over the horizon, bringing warmth and familiarity to the room that had been my unwelcome prison all night. I suppose I fell asleep again at this point, because the next thing I knew my mother was waking me up for school. Part of me wanted to call in sick, but you couldn’t have paid me to stay home alone with that box. During a rushed breakfast, Dawn grilled me for new information, but I didn’t feel like recounting my ordeal. Before we left for school, I told her that I’d call in sick for work, and made her promise not to enter the house without me. I vowed that today would be the last day we’d ever see that box.

I couldn’t focus on my schoolwork the entire day. Thoughts of that awful cedar chest plagued my mind as I tried preparing for my final exams. My sleep deprived mind played tricks on my senses, as I thought I caught a whiff of burnt hair in chemistry class. I spent almost my entire study hall period roaming the library, trying to find the source of the jack-in-the-box melody piping in from some indiscernible location. Between classes, students ran from one room to the next, the rumbling floor reminding me of the jack-in-the-box in my dream, moments away from popping open and swallowing the floor whole.

My stomach twisted itself into continuous knots as I drove home, going over my plan again and again. Dawn and I would pack some clothes and drive to our grandparents until we forced our parents to get rid of the cedar chest. I knew Dawn wouldn’t be happy about staying at a house without the internet, but there was no way either of us were sleeping another night in that house with the cedar chest waiting to pull its next trick on us.

Parking in the driveway, I found Dawn waiting for me on the front stairs. I explained my plan for staying at our grandparents, and while she wasn’t happy, she agreed it was our best option. Unlocking the front door, we darted straight to our rooms and grabbed a change of spare clothes, toothbrushes, and a few things to keep us occupied while waiting for our parents to give into our ultimatum. The burnt hair smell permeated the whole house, and we opened windows on the second floor just to stop the nausea.

Dawn waited for me in the hallway wearing her backpack, and after hefting my duffle bag up to my shoulder I followed her downstairs. Upon reaching the bottom step, we both noticed Cocoa perched on the corner of the cedar chest, wondering what we were up to as her tail flickered back and forth. Dawn reached over to her cat and snatched the black tabby up from her corner. I stopped in my tracks; the mental image of the jack-in-the-box crank turned another rotation.

“No, you can’t stay on that,” she scolded to Cocoa. “Off you go.”

Cocoa whined and leapt to the ground from Dawn’s arms. As Dawn stepped away from the cedar chest, she stopped and grabbed the side of her jeans. She gave it a quick tug, but the denim wouldn’t budge. The toy crank turned in my mind once again, ever so closer to reaching its crescendo.

“Dawn-,” I warned, urging her away from the chest.

“My leg’s stuck,” grumbled Dawn, giving her jeans another useless tug.

The whole scene played out in slow motion. Dawn grabbed the lid to the cedar chest and lifted it, freeing the side of her jeans from the splinter. The crank twists one last time, and I snap out of my trance right as the lid of the cedar chest flies open. A figure shrouded in grey leapt up from the chest straight from a nightmare and wrapped her arms around my sister as if embracing her in a tight hug. I dove towards Dawn with arms outstretched as the dusty, ragged figured dropped down, trying to pull my sister into the chest. Everything moved in a blur, the figure pulling with a hoarse laugh wheezing through the few teeth she had left, Dawn screaming, flailing her arms in the air helplessly, and me, grabbing hold of the handle on my sister’s backpack, pulling as hard as I could. As I held on, I felt Dawn’s bag coming loose from her back. I adjusted my hold and wrapped my arms around Dawn’s midsection, pulling with all of my might.

By now, Dawn had her upper body over the side of the chest, sinking into the quilts like a kind of fabric quicksand. The volume of my sister’s screams lessened, dampened by the encompassing blankets, but she only thrashed more. As I pulled, I heard the woman’s laughter deepening as she pulled my sister harder. The woman reached out with her other hand and raked her long, clawed fingernails across the top of my upper right arm and parts of Dawn’s exposed upper back and neck. I clenched my teeth in pain, but still held Dawn with all of my might. The figure and I were playing a twisted form of tug o’ war, with my sister as both the figurative rope and prize.

 I swore to myself that I wouldn’t let go, and if this creature pulled Dawn in, I’d allow myself to fall in as well. No way did I want my sister alone with this hideous abomination. Just the thought of my sister trapped with this creature made my blood boil, and a renewed strength and determination coursed through my veins. I lowered my weight towards the floor and pulled as hard as I could, attempting to free my sister and my arms from the pulling fabric. Inch-by-inch I felt the figure’s grip slip, and the feeling only energized my efforts as I tugged harder. Dawn, too, fought back, digging her feet into the hardwood floor and gripping the side of the cedar chest, trying desperately to pull herself out. With one last great effort, Dawn and I worked together as a team, and with tears in our eyes and cramping muscles we fell back onto the floor, free from the figure’s grasp.

For a moment we both laid sprawled out on the floor, chests heaving and sobs stuck in our throats. Slowly, we stood from the floor, blood trickling from our cuts, and knees trembling from shock. Keeping a cautious distance, we both looked over the edge of the cedar chest with trepidation. There, in the middle of the ruffled quilts, appeared the woman sinking into the linen around her as if someone was lowering her down. I didn’t get a good look at her during the fight, but now I could see her for who she was. Her face and skin were ashen and pocked with liver spots and splotches of hair. The eyes were as fierce and piercing as I had remembered from earlier that morning, yellow and thin, like cat’s eyes when exposed to full sunlight. She had wild, tarnished silver hair that draped over the tops of the quilts like the appendages of a giant octopus lurking in the depths of the ocean. The woman’s few remaining teeth were stained brown and bits of black. By far the most terrifying feature were her long, winding fingernails with sharpened edges, stained red from our blood. I don’t remember if she wore clothes, because I couldn’t tell where her skin ended and the cream colored quilts began, not to mention all of that straggly hair.

At first glance, she looked frail and weak with her emaciated arms, but all this was simply a façade, hiding a strength that could overpower any unsuspecting investigators like a trap door spider. Had either of us been alone, I have no doubt she would’ve snared us into her domain. We stood in silence as she sank into the quilts, unable and unwilling to look away. The woman glared at us with seething hatred, like a hunter whose prey slipped right from under their nose moments from the kill. She barred her teeth and uttered a low-pitched hiss as she sank deep beneath the quilts until the last wisps of hair slipped into the cracks and out of sight. I stepped to the side of the chest, and then, using my fingertips, nudged the lid until gravity took over and slammed it shut. The jack-in-the-box was now closed, with the hideous clown trapped inside once again.

Regaining my composure, I took my sister by the shoulder and led her away from the box. She kept silent, until we sat in the patio of our backyard where she broke down and wept. I said nothing and just let her cry, unable to do much else.

 “I saw the other side,” she squeaked as she quieted down. “I- I could’ve become one of them!”

“One of who?” I asked, but she never answered.

About an hour later, our parents arrived home, finding us sitting in the backyard waiting for them. We gave them our ultimatum, stating that we wouldn’t go back inside until they got rid of the box. When they protested, we showed them our cuts, which finally got their attention. Dad’s friend Jack drove up to the house a short while later and the two of them carried the empty chest through the front door. I didn’t know why at the time, but dad looked spooked about the whole thing. He was relieved when the chest was out of the house and on the front lawn. Dawn and I reentered the house, where mom was bagging the quilts to store in my grandparent’s attic. She was disappointed about getting rid of the chest, but one look on our faces told her she had made the right decision.

As dad talked on the phone with the antique store about their return policy, Jack suddenly hailed us to the living room window in a hurry. We watched as a man and his teenage son loaded the chest onto the bed of their pickup truck before speeding off smiling, wheels screeching as they burned rubber. Mom looked pretty upset about losing the money she had invested in it, but dad looked worried as he muttered a curse word under his breath.

That night, I sat outside with my dad, and he asked me to recount every event that happened since the chest had been brought to the house. He sat in silence as I told him every event that came to memory. Unlike before, it seemed like he believed my story, never giving me a skeptical or questioning look. Once I finished, I asked him why he wanted to know, and it was his turn to explain.

After my sister and I refused to go back inside, my mother and father went in and emptied the quilts out of the cedar chest. As my mother searched the house for bags to store them in, my dad noticed that the floor of the chest appeared higher than the actual bottom of the box. He tapped the bottom and heard a hollow sound reverberating through the wood. Shifting the slab of wood around, he felt the board slide to one side, allowing someone to slip their fingers between the side wall of the chest and lift the board up, revealing a secret compartment.

Out of curiosity, he pulled up on the board to look inside the hidden compartment. He wished he hadn’t. Inside, he found a large circle drawn in what looked like dried blood, with odd symbols and shapes formed inside of it. The whole compartment had ashy dust coating every inch of the bottom, along with assorted fingernails, bits of teeth, and a knot of grey hair with burnt tips scattered about. Now, my dad’s normally a very stoic individual, but the whole scene rattled his nerves. He shut the compartment and the chest lid and immediately washed his hands with hot water for at least a minute.

“Whoever took that chest,” muttered my dad as he gazed out in our backyard, “they have no idea what they’re dealing with.” He paused for another sip of his soda. “But they will.”

It’s been more than a decade since these events transpired. Dawn and I don’t talk about it much. I only told my wife about the experience a year after we were married. Dawn and I still have nightmares about the incident, though they’ve been with less regularity over time. She never told me what she saw on the other side of the chest, and maybe it’s better it stays that way. At least the whole experience brought us closer together, and while we live in different states, we know we can always count on each other.

Still, there are two things that have bothered me since the chest left my parent’s house all those years ago. Every once and awhile, Dawn will send me news articles about events that happen in our town to keep me up-to-date. Since my last year of high school, up until a few weeks ago, there have been eight missing children cases in our small town, all between the ages of three to seventeen. In all instances, the parents and police have no leads as to what could’ve happened to them. It’s as if the children simply vanished out of thin air when the parents weren’t looking. I find this strange for a community as small as ours. I don’t have proof that this is the case, but I know the likely source of these disappearances. My guess is each family came into contact with a beautiful antique cedar chest that they couldn’t live without. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were additional cases reported in the neighborhoods bordering our town, but I haven’t done the research yet.

                The other part that’s bothered me occurred during the last visit to my parent’s house about a month ago. My dad and I were spending some time together, and for some reason the subject of the cedar chest came up in our conversation. He revealed something to me that he neglected to share the night the chest disappeared. While he was on the phone with the antique store, just before the chest was taken, the person on the other line knew exactly which chest he was talking about.

The cedar chest had been part of a bedroom set the antique store bought from an estate sale of a wealthy old widow that had passed away. Apparently this wasn’t the first piece of furniture from the set that someone wanted to return. There was something the antique store owner mentioned in an off-hand remark that disturbed my father, and it’s left me wondering about it ever since.

He said, “You’re lucky you didn’t buy the mirror,” and hung up the phone. 

The Wind Chime House

The Wind Chime House

By Gregory J. Meyer

“Stop that, you’ll break your neck if you’re not careful!” cried my mother before returning to the conversation she was having with my father.

With a leap I jumped from one parking lot concrete barrier to the next, wobbling on the landing with unsteady footing. I tried to regain my balance, but my foot slipped down the side of the barrier and onto the pavement and loose gravel that I imagined to be an endless pit. Game over.

I sighed and looked around my surroundings for something to do. Being a kid that lived in the suburbs, my whole twelve years of existence was surrounded by concrete and generic one to two-story homes. The nature preserve was an all-new experience for me. Fresh clean air, countless trees, and not a television in sight. While the last bit was a disappointment, I knew I had enough imagination to keep myself entertained. Beyond the picnic table where my parents and I had enjoyed our lunch break from our six-hour yearly trip to my aunt’s house stood the entrance into the forest preserve along Cardinal Lake. With some time to waste before we packed up, I headed towards the entrance.

“I’m going to see where this trail goes,” I announced as I passed my parents.

“I don’t know son, we’ll be leaving soon,” said dad looking towards my mother.

“Just for a little bit?” I begged.

“You walk down it for a few minutes, but come right back,” sighed my mother.

In a flash I ran down the dirt path and into the dark and shady green world beyond the boring, flat, picnic area. The path snaked around the nature preserve, twisting left and turning right with interchanging intervals. I imagined I had entered into some imaginary place where trouble lurked around every corner, cowardly thieves needing to be pummeled, maidens that needed saving, and a treasure chest just waiting for a brave adventurer to claim its ancient contents.

After jumping over a tree trunk that had fallen over across the path like a certain Italian plumber, I noticed a clearing that lay up ahead. I jogged up towards it as the clearing revealed more of itself to me. As I exited the woods, I found myself on top of a mound looking out towards Cardinal Lake. This was the end of the trail. I stopped to marvel the sight, taking in that lake water smell that emanated from the water below. The lake surface was smooth as glass. Not a single boat could be seen on the deep greenish water. On the other side of the lake, I noticed some people were playing volleyball on the sandy beach, their laughs and cries barely audible to my ears. As I strained my ears to listen to their voices, I heard something else, the sound of a chime.

The sound of the chime broke my concentration, and I turned my head to the right in search of the source of the noise. There was another path that led to the mound, but a simple wooden fence blocked entrance down the path. As I walked towards it, I spotted in the distance a wind chime hanging from one of the branches. A small breeze passed by, and I heard the chime again, in addition to another one further down the path. Curious, I climbed over the wooden fence and followed the single dirt path to the chime. I didn’t know if I was trespassing on somebody’s property or not, but I figured I’d take my chances. I reached the oak tree that held the wind chime in its branches.

The chimes were made from old silverware, mainly forks and spoons, and they gave off a tinny sound as they clattered and clinked in the wind. As the wind grew stronger, I heard more chimes sing their songs to each other out of my field of vision. Continuing down, I encountered more chimes in the trees made from household items, wood, bamboo, and rusted metal. The further down the path, the more odd wind chimes the oak trees held. It was then that I saw the old one story house not more that a few hundred feet away. I hadn’t noticed it, as the curvy path obscured its appearance with the many trees of the wood.  As I drew closer, I could smell a change in the air. No longer did it smell of pine, but rather of moss and rotting wood.

The derelict house stood before me like the dead carcass of an insect long forgotten in a basement. The front door hung listless on just one hinge, waiting for a sneeze by the smallish and disgruntled wolf to topple it over. The warped wooden frame appeared faded from years of neglect, with some of the wall bending inwards, ready for an implosion. The shingles lay haphazard on the roof, ripped from their original resting places from previous storms. The windows lacked any sort of glass, and had nothing to protect the interior of the house from the elements. I doubt I would’ve given the house a second thought if it hadn’t been for the wind chimes. Wind chimes were situated on each sloping corners of the roof. They moved without a care in the world, swaying slightly with the gentle breaths of a northern breeze.

I should’ve run. I mean, I was twelve years old. There could’ve been a squatter inside waiting to hurt me. For all I knew, there could’ve been old used drug needles on the floor, waiting to prick me in my careless actions while exploring. Yet, it’s exactly this kind of danger that lures children into doing things they shouldn’t in the name of adventure. The only resemblance of a warning I recall years later was that the house reminded me of the story of Hansel and Gretel being lured into the trap of the witch’s candy house. If you ask me, I got the raw end of the deal. Hansel and Gretel at least got candy.

I crawled under the half-fallen wooden door and entered into the wind chime house. Now, you’d imagine a house like this would have garbage littered everywhere, beer bottles, graffiti, and maybe a dead animal. That wasn’t the case in the least. There were tangled cobwebs and dust, but everything else looked almost untouched. A wooden table sat in the middle of the main room covered with old tools, a few coins, and a metal cup. The chair next to it had fallen over on its side, as if waiting for someone to pick it up and sit down. The cupboards were all open to varying degrees; all empty except an old ceramic plate here, a dirty bowl there. A few newspapers were thrown about in the room, a few decades old by my guess. The walls had chipped and cracking paint, and the shadows of where pictures and frames had once hung in decoration.

I noticed these items on my second pass through the room, as my immediate attention was drawn to the wind chimes that hung from the ceiling. There had to be fifteen different sets of wind chimes scattered through the main area of the house. They hung motionless and still, with some having a bit of webbing interwoven through the strings, chimes, and dirty yellowish clangers. As I inspected one, I noticed the extraordinary artwork on the chimes. I could discern what looked like a person, but figure was more abstract than human. It reminded me of that one painting I had seen in a textbook, The Scream by Edvard Munch. The person seemed as if they were in agony, with bright orange and red flames engulfing them and the rest of the chime. The other sections connected to this chime had similar figures writhing in agony in this apocalyptic scene. I moved to the next wind chime, one colored in blue, and the chimes all had similar figures drowning in a great sea. Each chime I glanced over had these terrible scenes of death or misery. One, colored in black, had figures in states of utter horror and fear, hopelessly lost in unrelenting darkness.  As disturbed as I was at the artwork, a part of me had a morbid curiosity in seeing all of the wind chimes.

I moved towards the back of the house. There were only two other rooms. One room was a small bathroom with perhaps the filthiest standing bathtub I had ever seen. It was filled with blackish and grimy water, and I had to cover my nose with my t-shirt. The bathroom only had one or two wind chimes in it. The room was dark, so I didn’t expect to see anything on them. However, the paint must’ve been reflective, because they each had painted eyes that glowed in the darkness. They glared at me from their dark world, and while I knew in my mind that they weren’t alive, I still had to keep my eyes on them as I shut the door again. I considered just getting out of there, but a noise from the unopened room piqued my curiosity.

ting-ting-ting-ting-ting-ting-ting

It was the by now the unmistakable sound of another wind chime. While all of the other chimes had been silent, this one in the other room sounded like it was calling to me to come find it. Without a moment of hesitation I opened the final door in the wind chime house, like a mouse taking another nibble on the bait to a spring-loaded trap.

The final room was a small bedroom, with one window fully intact and shut. An old mattress and collapsed metal bed frame sat in the right corner. A wooden floorboard was out of place in the middle of the room, with a rusty hacksaw placed by the edge of the hole. Much like the other rooms, the bedroom had multiple wind chimes decorating the ceiling. They formed a circle pattern, with the one in the middle clanging softly, making the ting-ting noise. The chimes seemed related to the ones in the bathroom, as they were painted to look like savage and grotesque creatures. Some appeared as hairy monsters with gaping mouths and sharp pointed teeth. Others looked like apparitions, mouths agape in the act of a dreadful wail.

Each one made my heart beat a little faster, but the one that concerned me the most was the middle chime, the one that moved. It had the appearance of a man, but I’d hesitate to call it such. It was gaunt, stringy, and had dreadful claws. The man wasn’t pale, but had a reddish tone to his painted skin. The unnerving part was that it wasn’t painted to look at me. Instead, the man, or thing, looked down into the hole in the floor. I swallowed hard and moved towards the hole in the floorboards. I needed to know why the chime was painted to look that way. I tiptoed to the precipice and got on my knees. Like the bathroom, I couldn’t see down the hole except for an object not too far out of reach. I bent lower and thrust my arm into the hole, extending my arm as far as it could reach. Feeling something hard and rough, I pulled it back up and took a good look at the object.

It was a bone. Not just any kind of bone, but a human arm bone. I let out a scream and dropped it, backing away from the hole. All of the knockers for the wind chimes I looked at had a similar color, had similar features. Were they finger bones? Longer bones sawed into smaller pieces? My chest heaved and as I attempted to keep myself from heaving, I heard it again.

ting-ting-ting-ting-ting-ting-ting

The middle chime was ringing again. That’s when I looked at the window and the realization dawned on me. The window, it was sealed shut. A chill ran down my spine, and I wanted to back away. I wanted to leave, but I was frozen in my spot. Then, in the middle of my panicked state, I heard a raspy voice whisper in the midst of the ringing.

“Would you like to sing with us?”

At that moment, all of the other wind chimes in the room began to stir to life, as if someone finished winding the horrendous key and brought to life the grotesque scene displayed in front of me.

ting-ting-ting-ting-ting-ting-ting

ting-ting-ting-ting-ting-ting-ting

ting-ting-ting-ting-ting-ting-ting

My knees shook and all the bones in my body felt like gelatin. No matter how hard I tried, I could not stand up and make my escape. My fear intensified as I witnessed the chimes whip around like an invisible whirlwind had come to life in this room.

TING-TING-TING-TING-TING-TING screamed the chimes.

I screamed, too. I yelled at the top of my lungs at being audience of this inhuman whirling dervish. I tripped over my legs and stumbled out of the room. I sprawled into the living room and into the wooden table, causing some of the tools to fall to the ground. The chimes here, too, were spinning and clanging louder and louder. I’m sure I yelled again, but I couldn’t hear myself in the din of noise and chaos. My ears hurt from the cacophony of crashing and clanging.

As I ran towards the door, I stood up too high and the bone clapper for one of the wind chimes slashed across my cheek. I hit the floor with a thud, seeing stars in my eyes. Tears welled up in my eyes as I tried to reorient my mind back to reality from all of the confusion. I felt something warm trickle down my cheek, but I didn’t bother checking it at the time. What was on my mind was that now the floor and walls around me were starting to shake to its very foundation. Yet I couldn’t hear a single thing except the chimes.

TING-TING-TING-TING-TING-TING they wailed.

Keeping low to the ground, I maneuvered to the exit. By now the drawers were falling out of the walls and cabinet doors swung open and shut on their own. With a rush of adrenaline, I burst through the front door and back into the living world around me.  With my exit, all sounds of the chimes ceased, and all that remained was the stillness of the wood around me.

I didn’t look back, I didn’t want to. So I just kept running. Running back down the trail path. Past the still lake and over the fallen log in the middle of the path. Anything to escape the wind chime house that I was sure was on my heels. Once or twice I fell into the dirt, only for me to dart right back up and continue on, dirty and bleeding.

I ran back to the picnic area where my parents waited for me. They stopped their conversation and looked up at me as I limped back to the table. They were taken aback by my condition, and asked how I managed to get hurt in just a few minutes. I told them everything, and dad went to investigate the path despite my objections. He came back some time later as my mother finished bandaging up my wounds. According to him, he couldn’t find a path off of the trail overlooking the lake.

The rest of the trip to my aunt’s remains foggy in my memories. My parents forced me to recuperate, which meant no exploring outside. To be honest, after what happened at the wind chime house, I felt that my exploring days were over. When we returned home, I felt a wave of relief wash over me. At last I could relax and recover from my ordeal in the safety of my home, my sanctuary. Or I thought I could, that is, until I saw the long and rusted wind chime that someone had placed on our porch.

The Abandoned Arcade

By Greg Meyer

If you are the type of thrill seeker who isn’t afraid to put more than money on the line, there is a place you can go that will change your life forever. In the downtown of Chicago, there is an arcade forgotten by time. You won’t see it during the day, as in its place is a large dirt field with chain-link fence. You can only see this place once the sun starts to set over the horizon. Graffiti and decades old posters for movies cover the dilapidated brick building. The chain on the doorway gives the illusion that it’s locked, but this is to prevent people who don’t belong from getting inside on accident. You should be able to slip in without any issues.

            Once inside, you must make your way to the front counter. The arcade will appear run down, with arcade games and pinball machines that all date before the mid 80’s. The smell of decay and stale smoke will hang over the place like fog. Go immediately to the front counter and wait, don’t go into the arcade floor just yet. You haven’t paid your entrance fee, and you’re not welcome until you do. As you wait, don’t stare too long in the blackness of the arcade, or you’ll start to see shadows moving. Ignore them, or they might take your courage to play.

Eventually, the Attendant will open the door of his office and shuffle to the counter. He’s an older gentleman, wearing a red striped shirt and bowtie. He will request payment for you to play in the arcade. You must bring with you an object that holds special meaning to you. This is a cherished item, like a photograph of a loved one or a favorite toy. You’ll know the right one, because the moment you think it you’ll try to pick something else, so you won’t have to give it up. Before you give The Attendant your payment, understand this: This is your last chance to escape the arcade without doing the task. Should you feel like you are unprepared, do not have the necessary skill, or care too much for your life to continue, leave the arcade without paying and don’t turn back. If you leave after giving your payment, you won’t make it to the entrance before the lurking shadows catch and drag you into the darkness, never to be seen again.

Hand The Attendant your prized possession and he will judge to see if the item is worthy. If you brought the wrong item, he will declare that your payment is insufficient and kick you out. You will find yourself back in the dirt field, never to see the arcade again.. If you brought the correct item, The Attendant will take the item and state that you are welcome to play. He will take the item for himself, and then hand you a brass token, good for one game in the arcade. Do not lose this token, as you’re literally holding your very life in your hands. He will then ask you to hold out your right hand. Do it, and he will stamp it with the number “3”.

At this point, you’ll faintly hear the bleeps and bloops of the arcade machines, and the rattling of pinballs hitting pop bumpers flippers. The Attendant will call you forward and tell you that you’re free to play.  Do as he says and walk into the dark arcade. As you enter, you’ll realize that the machines are lined up in the manner of a maze. Follow your instincts, and go reach the center of the maze of broken machines with flickering screens. If you come across a machine that’s working, but no one is playing it, do not put your token in the game. The game is not for you, and you’ve essentially thrown your very life away. Don’t be surprised if you hear whispers barely audible from behind you, or see a shadow in the corner of your eye. Just keep going forward no matter what you see or what the voices tell you.

If you travel the maze and find an arcade machine being played by a small boy with curly red hair, then breath a sigh of relief, for you’ve found the correct machine. Go up to the machine and observe the child as he plays the machine. No one knows what the game is called, as the machine has no name, and the title screen is bare. There will be a set of red and blue joysticks and buttons, and the boy will be playing the blue set. Watch the boy play to get an understanding on how the game works and observe his strategies.

When you are ready to play, place the token on the cabinet to queue your turn. The boy will turn to you, and you’ll see his pure white eyes. He will ask in a hopeful voice, “Will you play the game with me?” Say yes, or you will understand true hopelessness. The boy will stop playing, and will let you finish his turn. This allows you to get a feel for the controls and how the game plays. The boy will explain the rules to you as you finish out his turns. Listen to him, but don’t confuse his helpfulness as kindness or weakness. He wants a good challenge out of you; it’s more fun that way. Once the turns are over, the boy will tell you to place the token in the coin slot. Take a deep breath and prepare yourself, because you are literally playing for your life. Insert your token into the coin slot, and the boy will do likewise in the second player slot. The boy will then press the two-player game button and hit start.

As far as people have researched and guess, the arcade game does not exist in our world, so you can’t play it to prepare. From what former players have reported, it’s an early arcade game that plays something like Pac-Man and Pitfall. The player must navigate a large maze, while being pursued by a rival player and computer opponents. There are obstacles to avoid and holes to jump over in the maze, which will drain your lifebar. Falling down a hole, or getting caught by the player will cost you a life. Collecting the tools to escape the maze will both refill health and increase your points. If you collect enough points, you will earn extra lives. The amount of lives you have left are based on the number on the back of your right hand. Everyone starts off with three lives, and losing or gaining lives will change the number on your hand.

You must now escape the maze with at least one life left. I cannot give any other advice on the game other than this. Use the arcade skills you’ve developed in your life, in addition to any tricks the boy performed while you watched him play. He’s hunting you now, and he won’t hold back. Keep an eye on how many lives you have left on the back of your hand. Should you lose a round without a number left on your hand, you’ve lost the game. One word of warning: do not trash talk the boy during the game, or you will find the game impossible to win. Do your best to block out of your vision the shadows that have gathered behind you to watch you play the game. Don’t let the glowing red eyes reflecting from the screen cause your confidence to waver. Remember, this is the moment you’ve prepared for since the day you first held a game controller in your hands.

If you are able to escape the maze, then you’ve won the game. Do not gloat your victory over him, or you will be forced to play a rematch with whatever lives you have left. The Attendant will come and lead you out of the maze. The number on the back of your right hand will determine your reward for playing the game of the Abandoned Arcade. If there are no numbers on the back of your hand, then no reward is given other than the knowledge that you’ve left with your life and soul intact. While this might be a disappointment, I can tell you it’s much better than the alternative.

If you have won the game with a number on your hand, then you’ve earned a prize: extra life in the real world. The amount of extra life is based on the number on the back of your hand. The number will stay on your hand after you leave the arcade, but only you can see that number. When you have extra life, you will not age a day, and your body will never get sick. If you are killed in any fashion, you will wake up moments later with your wounds healed, but at the cost of one of your extra lives. Once the numbers are gone, you will age again, and you can be killed for good. 

Should you lose the game, your soul will be violently stripped from your body. Your body will rapidly decay and turn to dust, your soul robbed of its essence, and what’s left of you will be forced to remain at the abandoned arcade as a shadow for all eternity. It’s a harsh punishment for death, but where do you think the extra lives come from?

I Don't Sleep Alone Anymore

By Greg Meyer

It’s in the middle of the night when I’m jolted out of a deep sleep. I take a second to blink my heavy eyelids and try to clear my foggy mind. Blinking, I glanced at my clock through blurry eyes to read the bright green numbers, 3:30 A.M. Why am I awake? I was having a good dream, too. It was Christmas again, despite it being April, and the trees were decorated in lights.

BARK!

The yelp immediately puts a knot in the pit of my stomach. That bark came from my miniature schnauzer, Patches, and I knew what it meant. Now, I love my dog, but any dog owner will tell you how annoying it is when your dog wakes you up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom.

“Patches, shut up and go to sleep,” I mutter.

BARK!

I exhale a sigh and roll my face in my pillow. The worst part about taking my dog out to go potty is that I have to go out with her. We don’t have a fenced in backyard, and I don’t trust my dog to just run off, do her business, and come back to me. The whole thing is just a hassle, and having to take her out in the middle of the night frustrates me to no end.

BARK!

I growl as I toss my pillow aside. Her last bark had a sense of urgency to it, and she’s whining at the door now. That’s it; I have to take her outside. I don’t want an accident in the house, as I’d most assuredly step in it in the morning in my bare feet. I slide out of bed and put my clothes on in the dark. I can tell I’ve put my shirt on backwards, but at this point I don’t care. If all goes well, I’ll only be outside for a few minutes.

I open my bedroom door to Patches, who then hops around my feet in utter excitement. She races to the front door and swivels her head around to make sure I’m following her, anxious that I might not understand her need. It takes a few moments to get the harness on her, my sleepiness not helping my reflexes in settling down a hyperactive dog, and a moment later we’re out the door.

We made our way to the backyard, Patches dragging me around as I shuffle like a zombie learning to walk again. I hoped she’d go somewhere near the front of the house, but these feelings were futile. The back of the yard with the low hanging trees and bushes is undoubtedly her favorite place to explore. Patches buries her nose in the ground as she sniffs for just the perfect spot, and I tap my foot in the grass impatiently waiting for her to make her choice. This process can take anywhere from a quick thirty seconds to an excruciating five minutes, and I’d rather it wasn’t the latter for the sake of sleep.

“Just pick somewhere and get over it,” I plead with a yawn escaping my mouth.

Thankfully, Patches didn’t feel the need to go exploring, and she did her business. At last, now we can go back into the house and back to sleep. Just before she finishes, there’s a soft rustling noise in the bushes. It sounds like the wind at first, but I start to get concerned when I don’t feel the breeze on my skin. Patches, having finished her business, is at attention with her ears perked at the bushes. She lets out a growl, but I’m not seeing anything, which is freaking me out. The last thing I want is for Patches to get into a fight with a wild animal.

“Come on, let’s get back into the house,” I say as I start to tug on her leash.

Patches lunges a bit towards the bush, but I hold fast and keep in place. Then in the darkness, I see something emerge from the foliage. I could barely make out the shape of the creature, but the body was darker than anything around it. Even stranger, the creature seemed to be covered in feathers, but the shape appeared more snakelike than any bird I’ve ever seen. The only spot of color I could see were the eyes, piercing emerald eyes that glowed like small colored lights in the night. The rustling noise started again, but the bushes weren’t moving. The beast made that noise as a promised threat of attack. I could feel the tension in my leash loosen as Patches whimpered in fear.

In a flash I tug on the leash and sprint towards the house as fast as my tired legs can take me. Patches stumbled from the unexpected pull, but she recovered and got back on her paws in an instant. It didn’t take long for Patches to catch up and run past me, a wild look of fear in her eyes. I didn’t look back; I couldn’t. No way did I want to see how close this abomination was to me. We reach the porch and I’m fighting the screen door to get open, fully regretting my procrastinating in getting it fixed. I take a glance to see how close the creature is to us. This creature was doing a weird slithering motion towards us, not as fast as a run but with an unnatural speed. I could see now that what I thought was plumage on the creature now looked like wavy black smoke that moved in motion with the beast. With another desperate yank I finally get the screen door open and the two of us race inside.

I bolt the door and duck down, my heart literally pounding like I’ve had way too many espresso shots. I know that seems silly, but I didn’t want the creature to know where we were. Patches ran under the living room table, dragging her leash behind her. As my rapid breathing returned back to normal until I heard the thing outside loudly sniffing the bottom crack of the front door. My body froze in place as I waited for this creature to lose interest in me, hoping it couldn’t find a way inside my home. After what felt like eternity, the sniffing stopped and the silence of night returned to my home. After a few minutes of silence, Patches emerged from her hiding place and tried coming to me, but the leash was wrapped around the chair legs. I smiled a bit and came to her rescue, untangling the mess and freeing her from her harness. She immediately climbed in my lap and nudged my hand, demanding some comforting pets.

A few minutes later, we returned to my bedroom so I could get back to sleep. Normally I don’t let Patches sleep in the room with me, but after the scare we had, it would seem cruel to leave her out there. She hopped onto the bed, and I crawled back in under the sheets. I looked back at the clock, 3:46 am. Did that really only take fifteen minutes? I sigh and lay on my back, now to work on getting back to sleep and Christmas in April. I shift onto my right side and look through the curtains into my window when I see them. Christmas lights, countless green Christmas lights in the window, more of an emerald color than green.

The Pipes Are Calling Me

            I bought my new house about one month ago, a huge achievement for a former apartment dweller ever since I moved out of my parent’s house. From what I understood, the previous owner abandoned the house and hasn’t been seen since. Because of this, I lucked into an incredible deal for a place already furnished. The house passed the home inspection, and everything seemed to be perfect. But a few days ago this all changed without warning.

During a shower, I noticed the water rose above my ankle. Stopping the water, I reached down into the drain and pulled up a clump of wet, gray hair. Great, I groaned to myself, just when I thought I escaped having to do any home projects. After work I scraped out what I could, dumped in some liquid plumber, and let the hot water run for fifteen minutes. When I came back, the water drained just like normal. With the job completed, I finished the night relaxing with a college basketball game on my flat screen with my orange cat on my lap and went to bed.

            Two days ago I jumped in the shower as usual to get ready for work. While washing my face I felt something brush against the side of my foot. Flailing around, I rapidly scrubbed the facewash off and expected to find an insect crawling around. Instead, unnaturally long strands of gray hair gracefully floated by my feet, moving like the feelers of an insect. I yelled and stumbled out of the shower, eyes stinging from the facewash, and took the shower curtain with me as I fell. Frustrated, I drained the water and started pulling the hair out, but the hair seemed abnormally long. I must’ve pulled roughly three feet of hair out that morning. The drain kept making noises like it was still struggling to empty the water in the pipes, so I accepted that I’d have to clean again later that night.

Now, I’m a pretty stubborn guy, so I’m don’t give up so easily when I think I can fix a problem. So, after work I went back to the bathtub and repeated the steps I did the day before and the drain operated as it should. Satisfied, I went to the kitchen and attempted to wash some dishes. About a third of the way in, I reached in the soapy water to pull out another glass when I felt something soft through my dishwashing gloves. Pulling it up, I found myself holding a literal ball of tangled gray hair that somehow found its way through the sink drain. After removing the dishes, I pulled all the disgusting hair out and put some cleaner in there, too. I felt sick to my stomach, so I wandered back to my couch and started to work on my laptop, the cat sleeping behind me on the couch.

While surfing the internet, I noticed an odd noise that didn’t fit in with the whirring of the laptop and soft purr of my cat.  I heard all of these odd gurgling and groaning sounds deep in the bowels of the house. I got up to listen closer to the noise. As I moved across the hardwood floor, I heard the sound creep along with the movements of my feet. I opened the basement door and snooped around, but I didn’t find anyone down there. As I passed the sink to go back to the couch, the drain gurgled and croaked like when the last of the water in a sink goes down the drain. Shaken, I decided to call it a night and go to bed.

Yesterday morning, I woke up and went to take a shower when I made my horrible discovery. The walls in my hallway had long red strands of hair running along side them and fastened in place. Every drain in the house now had red hair pouring out from the pipes. Trembling, I ran to my front door to escape, but the red hair sealed my escape route like a net so tight that I couldn’t budge the door. Every window had the thin strands of hair covering the locks and glass. I tried cutting the hair, but only ruined all of the pairs of scissors in my house.  I tried punching the window, but the strength of the hair kept me from landing a single punch on the glass. After these failed attempts, I discovered to my horror that the hair was still advancing around the house, having already enveloped my bedroom door in the short time I left it. I tried to use the phone, but the hair cut the power during the night, and my cell phone no longer had a charge. Banging on the windows and screaming for help was out of the question. I’ve never seen a soul pass by my place, and the mailbox is down the road. I tried looking for my cat, but couldn’t find her anywhere. Just before I gave up, I noticed tufts of orange fur littered the kitchen sink. I can’t imagine what happened to her, but I think I’m about to find out.

I’m in the basement now, it’s the only room left in the house that the hair hasn’t completely taken over. I retreated here when I couldn’t navigate the hallways anymore. There’s no food, and only a jug of water to sustain me. I got a little bit of sleep last night, but not much. Every time I close my eyes, the hair gradually extends its reach down here. The pipes continue to groan on the basement ceiling, letting me know it’s still searching for me. It’s odd, but I swear I think I’ve heard it chuckle a few times. It’s only a matter of time now before the hair claims me as its next victim. I’m like a fly trapped in a spider’s lair, with the web slowly cocooning around me. With these last few moments, I can only think of one thing, one regret out of this whole ordeal. I should’ve called a plumber.

The Disposable Camera

My family never owned a camera, so if I wanted to take pictures to remember trips or summers by, I’d have to buy a disposable camera. Every year I would buy a few disposable cameras and use them periodically over time. When I didn’t need them, I kept them on my desk so they’d be available when I needed them.

            It was September of 2000, and I had finally used up the three cameras I purchased in the spring. I worked at a grocery store at the time that had a photo-developing department, so I brought my cameras in before I started my shift. A few days later, I picked up the three envelopes full of pictures and brought them home to thumb through. I remember being so excited to relive all the fun things I did during the summer, as the past month back at school made it feel like summer was a distant memory.  But something seemed off to me. At the store, the lady behind the desk had given me an odd look when she told me to enjoy the pictures. Her expression and tone to her voice bothered me, like she didn’t believe what she was saying. I shook it off at the time, thinking I had simply put meaning into something that wasn’t there.

            I arrived home from work and went straight to my room. Opening each package, I viewed them in chronological order, thumbing through each photo carefully, as to not smudge them with my prints. The first stack of photos didn’t cause any sort of alarm, as they all were from a camping trip at the beginning of summer. I flipped through the glossy photos one at a time, occasionally chuckling at the ridiculous poses or situations involving my friends. The next stack of photos brought immediate disappointment. There were a higher than normal percentage of photos that didn’t come out. The picture would be completely black with the exception of some large yellow flashes of light somewhere in the blackness. I guessed that the lighting was insufficient or something went wrong in the process. There were about five of these pictures in this stack, along with the normal expected photos.

            I moved onto the final stack, all taken near the end of summer. The same issue continued with these photos. I’d get through a couple before reaching another black photograph. Out of frustration, I resolved to either take a photography class or develop my disposable cameras at another store. But just as I neared the end of the stack of photos, I found one that put a deep dread into the pit of my stomach.

            The photo was of… I’m not even sure how to describe it. It must’ve been around five in the morning, because the room was lit by the dim morning dawn. I was in the corner of the photo sleeping in my bed, but I wasn’t the only one in the photograph. There, holding the camera, was a girl.  Or at least I think it’s a girl. I couldn’t tell exactly her age, but her skin was ghastly pale and shriveled, although not from age. She looked soaking wet, with strands of knotted long hair obscuring part of her face. The girl wore a gown that had once been white, but was now horribly stained. Her gaunt face stared straight into the camera, her cheeks sunken in and jaw lazily open. I could see into her mouth and her decaying tongue, with blackened pointy teeth. But what stood out to me the most were her eyes, her bright yellow eyes that could easily have been mistaken for a cat. They glowed behind the strands of blond hair stuck to her face.

            What’s odd to me was the girl’s face, as she didn’t look malevolent or particularly evil. Instead, she appeared almost fascinated by the object in her hands. Had she ever seen a camera before? I stopped myself. Why was I even thinking this? The more important question loomed in my mind. What was she? Was she human? And if so, was she living, or something much worse? But if she wasn’t a human, what creature could she possibly be? She had some degree of intelligence to operate a camera, but besides that I had no idea what I was dealing with.

            The thought of something that grotesque invading my space while I slept filled me with absolute horror. A part of me wondered if this was all an elaborate hoax played on me by my older sister, but I didn’t recognize the face, and there was no way she or any of her friends could’ve created that face with makeup. I went to her room with the picture to double-check. When she recoiled from the picture, I knew this wasn’t some sort of prank. She asked me what the heck was that thing, but I couldn’t give her an answer. I took the picture to my parents, but they weren’t much help. Sure, the photo freaked them out, but all they said to comfort me was that they would look into getting a home security system for the house. At this point I knew I was on my own about this.

            I spent the rest of the evening trying to make sense of it all, eventually falling asleep after putting the picture into my bag. I had to go back to the camera counter at work and find the answer. That morning I woke up and shut the window in my room. The weather was still warm, so I kept my window open for the cool air. I had to shut it, as the stench seemed particularly pungent that day. Arriving back at the camera counter, the lady who gave me the pictures the day before was working. She asked if she could help me, and I pulled out the photo of the mysterious girl. The woman grimaced as she stared at it.    

            “Someone’s dressed a little early for Halloween, don’t you think?” she asked.

            “I didn’t take the picture,” I countered. “I was wondering if this picture had been edited in any way, or if there was a mix up with the film?”

The woman shook her head.

            “Nope, those pictures were developed just like any other ones I work on.”

            “You’re sure there hasn’t been a mix up at all?” I replied, hopefully.

            “I’m positive. I have those photos ingrained in my mind. I wish I could forget ‘em.”

I could tell she didn’t have any other information for me, so I packed the photo and started to leave.

            “Oh, well thank you for your time. Have a good day.”

I took a few steps towards the exit when I stopped in my tracks. One word stuck out to me like a splinter on my index finger. I looked back and shot her an inquisitive glance.

            “Photos? What do you mean? I thought she was in just that one.”

            “Take a closer look,” responded the woman.

            I felt nauseous. I had to check the other photographs back in my room, all of them. Back at my house, I searched each of the black photos, when I noticed they all had one thing in common: they had one to two yellow flashes, or eyes in them. Slowly the outline of my room revealed itself in each picture. My amateur stalker friend wasn’t just one time offender; I had solid proof of eight visits in my hands. I thought back to all the garbage photos I threw out years previous, how many of those contained these eyes that pierced the darkness?

            Now that I had the evidence in front of me, I vowed to make sure this never happened to me again. My night visitor somehow made her way into the house through an entrance downstairs, but not anymore. That night my parents went to bed around ten, as they were never exactly night owls. I double-checked each downstairs window and door, securing each one as I moved from one to the next. With the house secure, I made my way upstairs and got ready for bed. After all, I needed my sleep, and I figured my parents believing the freaky picture as a valid reason to skip school an unlikely outcome. With all my preparations complete, I slipped under the covers and turned the light off, hoping to get some rest.

            It shouldn’t come as a surprise that I spent most of the night wide-awake. Every single creak and bump in the night caused me to jolt up and reach for my tennis racket. Hey, when you have limited options for protecting yourself, you take what you can get. I’ll admit that I felt embarrassed the first couple of times I waved the racket around, but the whooshing noise at least gave me a peace of mind. Eventually, I’d place the racket back and the routine would restart all over again. Feeling bored, I played my Game Boy Color to pass the time and ease my mind. Around three in the morning I grew tired of video games and decided to try something different. The end of my bed partially sat next to the window looking out to the backyard. Tired of waiting for something to happen, I moved my pillow to the other side of the bed and stared out into the distance. I only had a small area to look through, but I could see enough of the backyard without adjusting too much. We didn’t have a fence for our backyard. Instead a row of large bushes acted as a natural barrier to the property. Beyond that, a few yards away sat the creek I used to explore as a child. With nothing better to do, I watched the backyard and hoped it would give me peace of mind. I had the window open to keep cool in my normally warm room. I found watching the trees sway in the wind particularly soothing.

            About an hour later, just as it was hard to keep my eyes open, I heard a rustling in the bushes that perked my warning senses. Looking over in that general area I noticed the branches shaking, and a dark crouching figure emerged into my vision. I didn’t need a second look to know my stalker had arrived. She crept cautiously on all fours through the backyard, making her way towards the window. In a flash I spread myself flat on my bed and kept my ear in the direction of the window. I heard nothing at first, breathing a slow sigh of relief that my plan to lock the downstairs windows and doors succeeded in keeping that creature out of my house. My relief, however, turned into fear when my ears picked up a slow but steady scraping against the wall of the house. The girl didn’t need to use the downstairs windows to get inside; she used the brick wall to scale up to my window!

            Thinking fast, I slipped onto the floor and crawled underneath my bed. The closet sat on the other side of the room; no way could I make it over there in time. The bed skirt on my bed frame obscured almost all of the area underneath my bed, so I could count on that to keep me hidden at least. I stretched my arm for my tennis racket when the unmistakable squeal of my window screen slid upwards. Crap, I realized in my panic I forgot to lock my own window! I gave up reaching for my racket, and instead concentrated on keeping my breathing quiet. Under my bed skirt I saw a shriveled hand with sharp, black-crusted claws extend to the ground with the grace of a stalking cat remaining absolutely quiet. The flaky pale skin dripped with beads of water, the familiar stench of the creek seeped into my breathing air, tainting it. Her other hand followed close by, her arms bending down as she slunk to the soft carpet. I could see her blonde hair now, knotted and matted together, dangling and mingling with the floor. I clenched my teeth to keep them from chattering, but I couldn’t stop the rest of my body from trembling. I prayed the noises wouldn’t give away my location. By now, the girl’s feet hit the ground, but they appeared distinctively different from a normal person’s foot. Sharp dragon-like claws protruded from the tips of her toes, and translucent webbing connected the toes together. Along with her feet, I recognized bits of the white gown I spotted from the picture. The stains were much clearer now, even in the darkness of my room; it was blood.

            My invader stood up from the ground and lurched around the room. She made a quiet hissing sound as she walked, which I think was the noise of her breathing. Her feet stopped next to the side of my bed, and the hissing continued in a much more rapid pace. She had to notice that I wasn’t there like she expected. The bed sheets shuffled around above me as she climbed onto my bed, followed by rapid bursts of harsh hissing. The covers hit the side of the wall and she dragged her claws across the sheets in frustration. I knew this incensed creature stood mere feet above me, and I hoped and prayed she wouldn’t look below. Almost as if she heard me the movement stopped, and her hand reached down to the floor, groping around towards the sheets. The tips of her hair hung near the bottom of the bed skirt and I gulped in terror. The hand reached over towards my arm, only to pick up my Game Boy, which had fallen from my bed in my attempt to hide. She brought it up to her, and I could hear her click the buttons. Oddly enough the hissing died down, and in its place she made a slight chirping noise.

            The Game Boy didn’t hold her attention forever, as she climbed off of the bed a few minutes later and moved about the room. She uttered these short cooing noises, like she was calling out for me to come out to meet her. The girl made her way to my closet and managed to open it. Good thing I didn’t hide in there, or she would’ve found me. Clothes and hangers fell to the ground, and the coos became more frustrated. Making her way back to the middle of my room her movement stopped, just when I felt I could catch my breath. She just stood in one position right by my desk, which unnerved me. I didn’t know what she was doing, but her feet remained planted in one spot. I heard soft scratching noises, so I knew she was up to something, but I didn’t dare take a peek and risk getting caught. I didn’t have a watch on me, but she stayed that way for what felt like eternity. Why wouldn’t she just go? Was she studying the room, looking for hiding spots? After a long time passed, she took a few steps away from my desk and then went back to my window. I heard her make one final cooing noise before she made her decent down. She put the screen back to its original position, followed by the scratching noises of her climbing down the side of the house.

I waited with baited breath for a good ten minutes more, making sure this wasn’t some sort of trap. When I knew the coast was clear, I went straight to my window, shut it, and turned the locks. No way would I make that mistake again. I surveyed the room to see if she had destroyed anything, and to my relief she hadn’t. Exhausted, I flopped back in bed and worked on calming myself down, trying to make sense of what happened.

That morning before school, I went to my desk to grab the picture of the girl. I planned on showing the picture of the girl to the police and tell them my ordeal from last night, but I couldn’t find it or the other photos she took of herself. They were missing. The night before, I left the girl’s picture on top of the other recent pictures, so I assume she took it while standing at my desk. Frustrated, I gathered my schoolbooks for class and threw them in my backpack when I discovered one parting gift left to me from my stalker. There, in the open notebook on my desk, was a crudely made drawing of the girl on top of my bed with a bunch of junk underneath it. That’s why she stood in place at my desk for so long. As I studied the drawing further, the blood drained from my face from a frightening revelation. It wasn’t a bunch of junk underneath my bed; it was a picture of me trying to hide.

 I never saw her again. I hope I never have to. I never sleep with the window open, no matter what floor I sleep on wherever I go. I always keep them locked, and I never ever look out from the blinds when I hear her scratching softly on the other side of the glass.