The Wind Whispered A Secret

October 18, 2013 at 12:00 AM
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I sat on my balcony, preparing to smoke the last cigarette of the night. It was late and my bones themselves were tired. As I snuffed out the cigarette and stood with a stretch, a noise caught my attention. It was so faint that I immediately brushed it off as the wind and continued on to bed, the noise already out of my mind.

The next morning, I returned to the balcony for more cigarettes and coffee. I watched the world wake up with me, the cars churning through the intersection like ants, the birds making their endless racket, the shadows growing steadily shorter. As I watched and listened, I heard the noise again. For a moment, I thought it was the wind, since I could see the palm fronds moving across the road. Squinting and looking down at nothing in particular, I tilted my head to try to hear it better. It wasn’t just the wind. There was a voice.

I tried to brush it off again, and continued about my day, returning to the balcony once in a while for another cigarette. I found myself squinting and tilting my head each time, the world around me forgotten in favour of this whispering wind. I couldn’t understand what it was saying. It was a like voice on the television in a room down the hall, stifled by three or four walls between us. No matter how much the noise around me died down, it was still so quiet.

I had another cup of coffee along with my lunch, another cigarette to smoke and that damned wind to keep my company as I sat on this damned balcony. I felt strange. I felt almost as though I weren’t myself, as if I were an actor in a screenplay of my life. I instinctively knew my lines and every move I had to make. I began to fear that voice in the wind.

Dinner. I still sat on the balcony as I ate. I didn’t want to eat, I just knew I should. I wasn’t even sure what I was eating, but I still ate it out of necessity. I lit my cigarette and listened intently. I would hear what this voice said. I must hear this voice. For an hour, I sat still, allowing my cigarette to burn down to my knuckles. I didn’t move as I felt it sear my flesh. I would hear this voice. I would hear this voice and it would tell me its secret.

I nodded off. I wasn’t aware how long I had slept, but the sky was dark and the streetlights lit. As I awoke, I had an idea. I would pretend to continue sleeping. I would lull it into the open. The crick in my neck bothered me only slightly as I waited for the wind to tell me what I so desperately wanted to know.

From the corner of my eye, I saw the moon rising high in the sky when I finally heard the voice again. It was clearer. No longer three or four rooms away, it was just on the other side of the wall.

I could hear it! I could hear the words!

My internal celebration was cut short, however when I finally heard the secret the wind had been keeping from me.

“The anti-psychotics appear to be working, doctor.”

Credit To – Jack Alltrade

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The Crawling House On Black Pond Road

October 17, 2013 at 12:00 AM
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I can’t sleep. I have to share because maybe I won’t feel if I share. Dr. Kirsch says to write and get it off my chest. Writing about it might release me from it. What should I title this? “Therapy”?

I’m currently seated at a computer terminal in a little, white, sterile room. There’s about a half dozen other computer terminals here, all facin the same way like a classroom. There’s posters on the walls with medical information. Everyone in em looks happy and complacent. Zombies. This place is called Sleep HealthCenters, just outside of Boston. It’s a clinic for people with sleepin disorders.

I’m feelin a little loopy from the eszopiclone, so if my writing gets all garbled just deal with it and I can edit it when I’m clear-headed.

The doc wants me to do a little writing. He said that repetition can help with insomnia, and I gotta admit, if things were normal, this room and the clack of these keystrokes would probably make me pass right the fuck out.

Things ain’t normal though.

It’s not that I can’t sleep, it’s that I don’t want to sleep. I actually doze off pretty frequently, but then I realize I’m falling asleep and I snap myself out of it. When I don’t, when I drift off and can’t stop myself, I dream, and that’s what I want to avoid. If I could control what I dream about, I would sleep right now and not wake up til fuckin October. But I can’t control it. And ever since May, ever since

Tom

That house on Black Pond Road

Fuck, just thinkin about it makes my skin crawl. And writin that makes me see it all again in my head. I don’t wanna relive it. But Dr. Kirsch– he’s my doc. Nice guy, smiles a lot, practically whispers when he talks– Dr. Kirsch said that if I write about the experience, it might “release me” from it. Like there’s some sorta mental hold on me, torturin me. Guilt? I was as much a victim as Tom was.

Tom.

Tom was my friend from college. We both attended BU. Freshman year, his room was right across the hall from mine. I remember runnin into him on a bench late one night when my roommate was spending too long talkin on the phone to his girlfriend from home. Tom bummed me a smoke and we just sat and talked about our roommates’ idosyncracies for a couple hours. After that, we just hung out all the time. Even after college we stuck together. Both got jobs in the city, lived near each other in Somerville.

When was it? It was May. Right. Friday the fucking 13th of all days. And Tom called me up after work and said

“Whatcha got goin on this weekend?” and I said, “Nothing.” and he said, “Any chance you can help me clean out a house?” and I said, “Who we robbin?” and he said, “My dead aunt.” and I said, “Friends help you move, good friends help you move bodies.” and he said, “Unfortunately somebody already moved the body, but she’s got a lot of other shit in her place and I need to clean it out so it can get sold.”

So he picked me up that night and we drove and listened to tunes on the radio, stopped and ate and chilled and just drove and drove. And I asked him as we were goin,

“How’d she die?”

“She hung herself.”

“Well I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Don’t be, she was batshit insane.”

“I’m sure she loved you, too.”

“Hardly. But she loved her brother, and he just happened to be my father. He needs to get the house sold but they live out in Washington now, so I agreed to clean the house.”

“What a good son.”

“Well, I’m gettin paid for it.”

“Oh, I see. I help do the work and you get all the reward.”

“You get the reward of my company for a weekend in some rat hole.”

“I guess that’s better than what I had planned.”

Black Pond Road. That’s a hell of a name. Her house looked like it was going to collapse. It was one floor, one large living room connected to a tiny kitchen and two tiny bedrooms. The bathroom was practically a closet. There was a screened porch off the side lookin out into woods.

It was after 1 in the morning when we got there. I remember suggestin we sleep in the car just in case the house collapsed. Tom pulled out a flashlight, we gathered our bedrolls and backpacks and went inside. I was

the floor moved

It was dark, but when Tom shone his light in, I swore it looked for a moment like the floor… moved. Fuck that floor. It was the kitchen. Greasy, stained white tiles. Everything in that room was greasy and stained. Even the windows. They were so gross, the reflected light from Tom’s flashlight came back like a mustardy puke yellow.

Was it clicking? Tapping. I can’t describe it, but the feeling when we walked in was like a couple crashers walking into a chatty party and everyone stopping what they were saying and lookin at us. Almost the faintest echo of a final sound, like a hundred fingernails tapping on a tabletop and then quiet.

“Did you hear that?” I asked.

“No.”

We shoulda slept in the car.

My room was like a prison cell attached to the living room. Tom’s room was only accessible from the screened porch. I took a look in and told him we should switch.

“If I’m not getting paid, at least give me the nicer room.”

“You don’t want this room, this is the room she hung herself in.” We just stood there for a bit.

“The only thing missing from my room are bars on the window.”

“That’s so you can escape when her ghost comes for us.”

“A ghost wouldn’t be caught dead here.”

I went and unrolled my sleeping bag on the tiny bed in my room, then climbed in and lay there in the dark. After a while of everything bein quiet, I started hearin this sound. It was like chittering. And buzzing. Fucking mosquitoes, that’s what I thought. I pulled the sleeping bag over my head and tucked it under me to keep anything out.

God

If I hadn’t been so tired.

Somethin bit me. On the web of skin between my fingers. I woke up and was instantly in pain all over my legs, like a hundred needle pricks. And my feet felt like I was standing in the sand at the beach with the water coming in and the mud squishing between my toes. I jerked out of the sleeping bag and fell on the floor. I hurt my chin on somethin, I don’t know what. I got up yelling and checking my hand. There was a tiny red dot of a bug bite between my index and middle finger. And then I looked at my legs and they were dotted like a bad case of chicken pox. Hundreds of little bite marks. And I looked at my sleeping bag and

bugs

just skitterin out of the bag like

It was a stream of them, crawlin over each other. Earwigs. Hundreds of earwigs slithering out of the bag I’d been sleeping in. And house centipedes with them, wiggling along. This just tide of glistening bodies crawling out of the bag with me. I felt like I was going to puke and I ran from the room, slamming the door shut.

It was morning. I went out through the porch and into Tom’s room and shook him til he made a sound.

“Get out. You gotta get out of your bag.”

“Dude, what time is it?”

“It’s morning time and you need to get out of the fucking sleeping bag, dude. My bag was full of bugs. I’m covered in fucking bug bites. Get the fuck out of the fucking fuck bag!”

“My stomach hurts, just give me a second.”

He didn’t have any bugs in his fucking bag. I almost hated him for it. But then he complained again about his stomach hurting and pulled up his shirt and I saw these swollen marks all along the waistline of his pants.

“What the fuck, dude?”

“We’re not sleeping in this fucking house, man. Look at my legs.”

My bites weren’t swollen but they itched so bad. I wasn’t taking my bedroll home. No way in hell I was keeping it after seeing all those bugs crawl out of it. Burn it. Burn the whole house.

Burn it

That’s my dream. When I fall asleep, I’m back in that fucking bag, only I can’t get out, and the earwigs and the centipedes are covering my feet and my legs and crawling up into my underwear and all over my chest and then they’re on my neck, on my arms, in my ears and wigglin toward my nose and I can’t scream because they’ll be in my mouth and no matter how much I thrash the bag won’t open and they just keep crawling back over me. I can’t dream that anymore. I spent a week telling myself it was just a dream but I know they did crawl over me. They had to have been all over me as they slithered into the warm, dark comfort of my bag.

Maybe I wouldn’t dream it if Tom hadn’t

I’m getting off track.

We didn’t find any bugs in Tom’s room. He gave me his car keys and I went into town and bought some Cortisone for him to put on the bites. When I got back, Tom was outside. He had his flashlight and was looking under the porch.

“Come here.” So I went. I looked under the porch at what he was pointing at. The porch was raised on these concrete blocks because of the tilt of the ground, and we could see all the way under the house. On the far side, there was this gray shit. It looked like crusted, packed mud.

“That’s a hive.” Tom said. I remember it felt like I just hit the peak on a rollercoaster and now the world was flying down at me.

“It’s huge.” There’s no way I can do the enormity of this thing justice. It was spread across the underside of the house from the edge of the base on deep into the darkness. Nothing was moving on it, but I looked at it a long time and I could see the little passage holes in it. Hundreds of holes.

“We’re leaving.”

No shit we were leaving. I wanted to be home already. I waited while Tom used the cream I’d bought on his bites which I knew now were stings. It was unnatural, I swear, the aggressiveness of the insect life in that house.

I ended up driving us back. Tom got awful cramps

awful cramps

He eventually had to lie down in the backseat, doubled over in pain. I pulled over at a rest stop and made him let me check the spots out, but the swelling had gone down. He had these stabbing pains in his gut though. I told him we needed to take him to a doctor. I wanted to see one myself. Fucking bites all over my legs.

“You gotta tell your parents to burn that fucking house to the ground.”

“Believe me, I will.”

I went and had the bites checked on Sunday. I was fine. I had my first nightmare that night. Back in that bag, being consumed by earwigs and centipedes.

I called Tom to see if he had gotten checked but he didn’t answer. I called him again on Monday. When I talked to him, he sounded … he sounded distant. Like he was thinkin about somethin else. I asked if he’d told his folks about the house and he said he hadn’t.

I took the day off and went to see him on Wednesday. I buzzed him, but he didn’t answer. I got into the building when someone else came out, and found his door was unlocked. He was sittin on his couch, staring at the far wall. He looked gray. His skin, it wasn’t pale or rotting or anything, but he did not look healthy. He hadn’t cleaned up in a couple days, the place stunk. He just sat there.

“Tom, we gotta get you to a doctor, dude.”

“I’m fine now, thanks.” he still sounded distant. I don’t think he even saw me.

“You’re not fine, dude. This isn’t fine. I’m getting you some clothes and we’re going to the hospital.”

Oh god, I let him out of my sight. This is my fault.

I’m so sorry, Tom.

I– when I came back, he was gone. His door was open. I went outside and looked for him, but he wasn’t anywhere. I waited for hours on the step to his building. Finally I went home.

I went back after work on Thursday, but his door was shut and locked. I buzzed him but got no answer. I called his cell and was directed straight to voice mail. I didn’t know what to do. I was strugglin to think. I’d been havin the nightmare for days and had started refusing to sleep. I couldn’t think straight. I shoulda called the police, but when I got home I fell asleep on the couch and dreamed of being trapped in the bag again. I swear, when I woke up it felt like the bites on my legs had returned.

Friday. It was a week after that awful day. I was a zombie the whole day. My supervisor told me to go home. I was so tired I missed the stop for Davis Square and found myself wandering out of Alewife, not even thinking about where I was going. The walk helped me think though, and when I got home I called Tom’s folks. I told them Tom was sick and I was worried about him.

“He did sound odd when he called last night.”

“He called you? Did he tell you about the house?”

“Well I assume that was a joke.”

“No, Sir, you need to have that place razed.”

“Razed? No, he didn’t say anything about that. He joked about going to live there.”

I honestly don’t think that was Tom. I don’t think he was in control at that point, and whatever was in control intended to take him back to the house to live there. Poor Tom.

Poor Tom.

I went back to his place that afternoon and got in again. His door was unlocked, but he wasn’t there. He had left a note on his fridge. You could tell he was fucked up, it was so hard to read. It said

i can feel them moving
inside me
i can’t stop it
i don’t want to
go

bye

My friend Tom shot himself that weekend. They found his body in Cambridge with a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. Just a body in an alley with a hole in its head. I didn’t even know he owned a gun. The police didn’t suspect foul play, but they did an autopsy because he looked like he’d been on drugs. When I called his folks to give them my condolences, I asked them if they’d found drugs. They told me that the coroner had found dozens of large wasp larva living inside him.

Oh God.

They had been feeding on him from the inside, burrowing through his body.

I told his parents to get that house burned to the ground. I wanted to add that they should piss on the ashes. I wanted to piss on the ashes. I don’t know what they did about it. It may still be there. Buzzing with life.

the floor moved

The house took Tom’s life. The bugs. And I can’t sleep. I’m trapped in a bag and they’re getting in my mouth and my nose and my ears. They’re moving across my skin, consuming me.

I don’t feel better. I just want to forget. How do I post this thing I can’t stand this room anymore

Credit To – William Dalphin

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All He Wants

October 8, 2013 at 12:00 AM
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The sweet old lady rocks rhythmically in her recliner. Her head nods often in approval as she agrees wholeheartedly with her favorite evangelist late this evening. This has been Mrs. Weatherford’s routine every night since her late husband left her alone and vulnerable.

The preacher is hitting his groove on this exciting paid advertisement, “The love of God is unyielding! His Grace is amazing because it is neither earned nor taken. No it is free! All He requires is that you receive his gift. All Christ wants from you is to understand that you are not condemned and to go forth and make the world a better place through love and compassion through the word of the Lord!”

The sweet old lady increases her rocking pace in childlike excitement as the words of the Lord ring true in her heart. As she turns and gestures to the young Girl Scout tied to the dining room chair, she can sense the Holy Spirit’s message getting through by the tears of joy streaming down the saved child’s cheeks.

Credit To – StupidDialUp

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All Monsters are Human

October 6, 2013 at 12:00 PM
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You’ve always had a slightly ridiculous phobia of mirrors.

It’s never interfered with your life before, except in small and completely inconsequential ways. You’d close your eyes during a middle school session of Bloody Mary, would rush past them in a dark hallway, things any red blooded American raised on a steady diet of horror and gore would call more habit than oddity.

One night, late, you’re getting ready to go out with some friends. You feel grimy, so you all decide to get ready at your apartment where you can clean up with your own products. Everyone’s hanging out, taking pictures, and generally having fun as you decide to wash your makeup off and start fresh. You decide that the quickest way to do this is the way they show in commercials, where you get it all over with at once by splashing water over your tightly shut eyes and completely soaking your bathroom floor. You glance up quickly to be sure that your friends don’t notice your moment of hesitation when it’s time to close your eyes and scrub within sight of the mirror.

As you rinse off your face, your eyes open to see your reflection staring back at you, which is not unusual. What is slightly off, however, is that when you go to leave, the other you does not. You stare at each other with wide eyes, waiting to see what happens next. You turn to your friends to see if they’re seeing what you’re seeing to find their grins growing wider, too wide to be quite human. Their eyes turn as black as coal, and they start to walk forward. Your reflection and your friends reflections start to scream. Your friends lunge forward towards their dopplegangers.

You always knew you were on the wrong side.

As your eyes begin to burn in an entirely sick, pleasant way, your grin stretches wide. Too wide.

Credit To – girl_from_uncle

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The Popcorn Ceiling

October 3, 2013 at 12:00 AM
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After my parent’s divorce, and for too many years after, my twin sister Ginny would wake me up unexpectedly in the middle of the night. Her demeanor would always be frightened and scared when she did. It always reminded me of when we were kids and she would escape to my room, away from our drunken and abusive mother. Ginny would just sit on the floor at the side of my bed and brush at my hand as we stared at each other in a comforting embrace. Five, sometimes ten minutes would go by until she would start to pull away and I’d know it was over. We would never talk, but we never had to in moments like those. She just needed a place to escape.

A September night nearly four years ago was different. Ginny was exceptionally frightened and crying inconsolably. For the first time since we were children, I could feel her grasp my hand to wake me. Her grip was cold, damp and trembling in fear. She was so scared and helpless that I felt equally scared and helpless. This is a common empathy twins share, especially so for Ginny and I.

After 20 minutes of comforting her and holding her as tight as I could, I felt her slipping away again. This time she begged and pleaded to stay with me. We would never talk during her escapes, but this night was different. As I lunged and jumped to keep her from floating away, I lost my ability to feel and touch her. She floated up onto the popcorn ceiling and was dragged across harsh surface until she melted into the sheet rock and out of sight. The vision of her petrified face and desperately extended left hand will forever be seared into my memory.

Her husband must have been exceptionally rough that night four years ago, much like my mother often was when Ginny was a child. When I watched her fade away I knew I would never see her again. For some reason I just knew.

Confirming what I already knew, I received the bad news the next morning about her violent murder and rape at the hands of her husband. Even though I already knew the how and why, the police never could explain the scrape marks and dust on Ginny’s back. I guess I could have told them but what good would it had done anyway. Only a twin would, could understand.

I had not felt the embrace of my sister in nearly ten years prior to that moment. For whatever reason, I was able to feel her again for one last time, to be with her when she needed me most, like I always was when we were children. It never mattered that we were always a thousand miles apart.

Credit To – StupidDialUp

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Young Again

October 2, 2013 at 12:00 AM
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“Youth is wasted on the young.” – George Bernard Shaw

The old, hate-filled woman had been staring at the bathtub for a whole 15 minutes until she was entirely satisfied that it was dead. Taking her gangrenous black foot from the back of its head, it rose slowly to the surface of the calm, cold water, no longer pinned down by the crabby appendage.

Gripping its scalp with her claw-like nails, digging them under the surface of its soft white skin, she snatched it out of the water in a single, wicked motion, before forcefully smashing it against the floor, like a potter adding clay to the kiln. The back of its head became flat as a pancake, while the sides split open and sloppy brain flowed freely from the cracks. Then she went to work.

Taking a pair of rusted scissors, she messily snipped and sliced the skin from all around its head, taking special care to preserve the eyelids. Then, with a great deal of effort, made more difficult by her missing fingers, she ripped off its head and flipped it inside-out, discarding its small skull by tossing it in the nearby faucet.

She was greying, with hair down to her knees, and horrible, sunken eyes and a near-toothless mouth. Ugly. Horriffic. But that was about to change.

Grabbing a large needle and a thick, leather thread, she began stitching the skin to her own face. It didn’t look good. The mangled, tatty skin was secured to her face by the rotting thread, which wove messily in and out, over and under her skin. She ignored the pain. And the blood. There was a lot of blood. Some of it even her own.

After what seemed an agonizing few minutes, she stood up from her wobbling knees, her hands still shaking and her vision slightly blurred from the intense pain. None of that mattered now, though.

As she looked at herself in the mirror, she couldn’t help but smile that wicked, foul, toothless grin. She looked disgusting before, like a witch, or something dead, but now she was beautiful. It was a miracle, she thought, that the family from across the street had ever trusted her to babysit their child.

It didn’t matter now. She finally had her baby face.

Credit To – Acaimo

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