Darkness crept over him like a sheet of ice. Is this the end? he wondered. He shuddered as the light was extinguished, leaving him alone in the emptiness of nothing.
Suddenly, a beacon of light pierced the blackness.
His mother always made sure to turn on the nightlight.
Jonathan is a freelance writer in Southern California. He loves writing almost as much as he likes In N Out
, which is to say: a lot.
Telephone poles and streetlights streak past as I stare up from my bed on the car seat. Dad is driving fast. Mom has her hand on me, patting.
We stop; they fling the door open, haul me onto a gurney. The hospital doors whoosh open as they wheel me in.
Laurie is a retirement wannabe who enjoys petting dogs and admonishing children.
It was a nightly ritual. “Daddy, there’s a monster in my room.”
All the parenting journals promised: “Let her cry; two nights, and the crying will stop.”
Proud Daddy noted that after only fifteen minutes the crying had indeed stopped, as the monster dragged little Dana into the closet’s depths.
Alison spent many a night tucked under the supposed safety of her sheets, crying for Mommy and Daddy to rescue her from night terrors and other perceived threats. She is still wary of the closet and what lies under the bed once the darkness comes.
She gets up and goes to the other bathroom. The one they never use. As she sits there she hears, then smells, then sees this grunge of a man sitting on the tub. Ambien fog at 4 AM? She asks him, “Do you live here?”
“Only at night,” he says.
Deanna wrote this at four in the morning near the end of December.
When he regained consciousness he was still in the car. A distant voice said, “I can almost reach you.” There was the sound of tearing metal.
“Thank you,” he managed weakly.
The laugh was closer. “You think I’m here to help you? Well, it will be a release. Of sorts.”
Sally cannot draw or paint, so this is what she enjoys doing with her time.
In the darkness, as outside breezes twirl up leaves along an old worn path, it unsettles the stillness of the night as rattling gates keep some folk awake.
A solitary figure makes his way home, unperturbed by the eerie emptiness of unkempt streets or the shadows closing in from behind.
Connell believes that once a passage has been written it can’t be unwritten, but only added to.
I’m sitting by the fireplace. I hear a knock. I unlock the door and open it.
I’m walking away when I hear the knock again.
I walk back to the door. Open it.
I step out to look around. I scream.
The door is still hanging open.
Abby is an experimental writer and 7th grader from the suburbs of Philadelphia.
She’d been screaming, calling out. He’d no way of knowing how long. Maybe all day. She’d stopped when the front door slammed shut behind him.
The house was silent now. He stood and listened, as if for signs someone had heard.
Satisfied they hadn’t, he headed down into the cellar.
Nick Pullen lives in England, plays the horses and watches the fights.
Floorboards groan, but there are no feet on them to make that sound. A crash from a window pane, but only cobwebs catch the breeze.
“Dawn, where is dawn? I’m so sorry I came. I’m so sorry I didn’t believe…”
The door knob turns. Click, it’s open. Creak.
TP Keane is the author of The Anathemas – Underground
, coming out soon with Distinguished Press. She was born and raised in Ireland and now lives in the USA with her husband and two children. The middle child of seven, she has always found a reclusive corner to escape the hustle and bustle of a busy house with a good book.
Bobby prayed nightly by his bed while the moon shone down on him from the dark sky. He called it “Mr. Moon” because of the smiling face.
One night, after his prayers, he looked up to see Mr. Moon standing right outside his bedroom window.
Mr. Moon wasn’t smiling anymore.
Dan has been scribbling stories in notebooks since childhood but only recently has started sharing them via his blog. He thanks you for reading and hopes you enjoy them.