So, some time ago I wrote a piece, Inseparable. In it, I talked about people who are seemingly joined at the hip. You know, people who finish each other's sentences, make the same random connections, etc. I noted that my husband and I were in that group, except that we entered the twilight zone the night we appeared to participate in the same dream. (I had dreamed my son was in danger and as I was reaching out to him, he screamed, but I woke up to hear my husband screaming in a voice not his own, "Mom!" I opened my eyes and grabbed his arm which was flailing in his sleep.)
Fast forward to last night.
I had a nightmare, as I am wont to do. I dreamed that I was driving along a dark road bordered by a cemetary and decided to go visit someone's grave.
Aside: Who visits graves at night?
Anyway, I pull into the cemetary, and drive down a dirt path - old tombstones in rows on either side. I get to the end and turn right to get to the grave I'm visiting, at which point I think (consciously or unconsciously) that this is stupid, something scary is going to happen and I need to get out of there (wake up) fast. I make a u-turn (apologize to the deceased I am no longer going to visit) and slam on the gas, while simultaneously praying the rosary.
My body is suddenly suffused with cold-sweat inducing fear and I am sure evil spirits are about to jump me as I tear out of the cemetery.
I woke up, heart pounding as if I had just run a race, to the sound of my husband moaning and shaking as if he were terrified. Turns out he was in a cemetary...stuck in an empty grave.
Our second visit to the twilight zone.
My name is Brandon Lake, and I am a normal person. I work a 9-to-5, just like so many other people are forced to. It’s not glamorous or interesting, but hey, money is money. I own a small apartment on the third floor of some building in the city - again, nothing fancy, but I’m happy enough just to have a roof over my head and food on my table. I’m just handsome enough to be a mostly successful flirt, but average enough that I don’t stand out in a crowd, which is how I like it. Yeah, that’s me. Average. Everything about me is no different than anyone else.
On this particular day, I feel a little more tired than usual. Nothing major - it happens from time to time, days when my desk chair feels a bit tougher, my paperwork feels a bit more unbearable. Nothing that couldn’t be fixed by treating myself to a few drinks at some bar down the road.
Sighing, I switch off my computer for the day and heave myself out of my chair. I automatically return the distracted waves of my few remaining coworkers as I pass by their cubicles on my way out.
Exiting the building, I am swept up in a wave of people on the sidewalk during rush hour, desperate to escape from the prisons where they’ve spent the past eight hours or more. Across the street, a neon bar sign catches my eye, barely visible in the slowly darkening evening. Why not? I think to myself. Maybe I can have a little fun.
The first hour is a blur. A few coworkers show up, and I talk with them for a while out of courtesy. The popular, beaty music pounds in my head. Then I see her.
She’s pretty. Young, blonde, alone. Perfect. I manage to catch her eye from the other side of the bar. I buy her a daiquiri - my favourite. We talk. She tells me that she’s an English major, graduating next year, and that she’s originally from a small town about two hours away. We exchange a few witty remarks, and I start to enjoy myself. She’s interesting.
She seems uncomfortable with the idea of coming back to my place, or of me going back with her, so I suggest taking a walk in a nearby park instead. She seems relieved, glad to know that I haven’t been talking to her just so I can use her once or twice, then abandon her.
We talk for what seems like hours, sitting near a small, artificial pond, gazing up at what we can see of the stars. I smile, a genuine one for perhaps the first time all day. I’m starting to like her.
I’m not really sure what I do to freak her out - maybe I laugh at something I shouldn’t, or maybe I don’t when I should. Maybe I let something slip by my carefully planned responses for these situations, or go too far with a joke.
It doesn’t matter now. The mood has been killed.
She inspects me closely, suddenly uncertain about talking with a stranger in a park in the middle of the night. I can feel her growing distant.
What’s the matter, I ask her. She doesn’t respond, and pulls herself to her feet. I ask again.
She turns to leave, telling me over her shoulder that she feels creeped out all of a sudden, and gives some half-assed excuse about having to work tomorrow. I can tell she’s lying.
I ask if I’m the reason she’s leaving. She hesitates. I know what that means.
She thinks I’m a freak.
My hand closes around the nearest object, a heavy grey rock lying on the ground near me. I stand in one fluid, practiced motion, clearing the short distance between us by the time she spins around to face me again. I can see the whites of her eyes, open wide in fear, as I raise the rock clenched in my fist above her head.
She doesn’t have time to scream. The only sound she can make is a small exclamation of shock and pain that is quickly drowned out by the sickening thud of the rock crashing into her skull. She falls limply to the ground, and I continue to bash her head, over and over, until she’s no longer recognizable, until I get sick of the nauseating squelching noises that accompany each blow. Finally, I straighten up again, surveying my work for a second, the rock, now slick and red, still in my hand.
I stand next to her bleeding, broken body for a few minutes, looking up at the stars, barely visible behind the glow of city lights. I sigh heavily.
Great. So much for my relaxing evening.
I drag what’s left of her into the pond, dropping the stone in after her, and scrub the blood and brains from my hands. My movements are practiced, robotic, as if I’ve done this a hundred times before.
How many times have I done this, anyway?
I leave the park swiftly, walk a few blocks away, then call a cab. Luckily, I’m able to use my coat to hide the remaining bloodstains on my sleeves and chest.
I return to my apartment and change clothes. I go into a nearby alleyway and gingerly place my ruined garments in an old, metal trash can that the homeless in the area often use for warmth and set it alight. I head back home and settle into bed.
As usual, morning comes far too early. I unwillingly trudge my way back to work yet again. When I open the door, my office is silent. My coworkers are all standing, transfixed, watching the news on the television. A reporter in a royal blue suit is talking about the body found in the park earlier that morning, her eyes full of sorrow and concern. She says that the victim has been identified, and a recent picture of the girl I had spent the night before with flashes up on the screen. I stared back at her.
A shame. She really was quite pretty.
My name is Brandon Lake, and I am a normal person. I’m an office worker, enjoy a good daiquiri after a hard day, and don’t really get the appeal of loud, repetitive dance music. Like anyone else, I have certain likes and dislikes. I’m perfectly normal. And I fucking hate it when people say that I’m not.
(This story is based on true events)
It was a typical Tuesday afternoon; I went to the local bank to deposit a check. The time was 10 till 5 o'clock and the line was moving slow at first; it eventually picked up and I was almost to the teller. The security guard started pacing up and down the corridor of the bank entrance. I didn’t think anything of it, I just thought he was blocking the entrance to weed out any last-minute patrons trying to enter. Must have been a nervous routine.
My transaction went pretty quickly, although I did flirt a bit with the teller. She was your typical community college graduate, working her first, somewhat professional, low paying job and trying to move her way to the top. Probably sleeping with the boss too. She had a bit too much blush on, but she was really sweet, and if there wasn’t a line behind me, I may have asked her out.
I deposited $200 of the $250 check and cashed $50. A ten and two twenties. I hate large bills. I headed for the door, the security guard was still pacing. He was walking away from me, but did a quick pivot turn right as I was crossing his path. We made eye contact for a quick second, I nodded, and headed for the door.
As I was about to push the door open, I noticed a youngish gentleman, perhaps my age, about to make his way in. He was wearing a camo jacket, red ball cap, and had a terrible five-o'clock shadow trying to push its way through. He was about to walk up, but when I pushed the door open, he retreated, walked back to his white jeep and was about to get in.
I smiled at him and said, “It’s okay! It’s still open!” He shot a sheepish smile at me, said thank you, and started to make his way back towards the entrance.
It was 4:58pm. He had time; I shouldn’t feel bad.
The next morning, I was in a meeting at work and my coworkers started talking about a triple homicide that happened at the bank the night before. Some man went in to rob the place but freaked out and started shooting everyone there, leaving 3 dead. A customer, a security guard, and a teller. My teller?
“Wait, what?!?! You’re kidding me!?!? The bank? I was there last night. I left right before 5 and everything was fine.” I yelled.
“This happened right at 5, chief. You must have just missed it” Our tech guy whispered to me. He pulled out his phone and showed me a pic.
“This guy fled the scene before the police could arrive, but they’re posting this picture everywhere. The camera caught this on his way in.” I saw the image and it felt like someone socked me in the stomach. I couldn't breath.
Camo jacket and a red cap. Only I couldn’t see any sign of a beard. The picture was out of focus.
“No way! I saw that guy! He was walking in as I was leaving. I basically held the door open for him.”
“Well, if that’s true, then you just killed 3 people, chief!” He was joking, but it was true. Why did I tell him the bank was still open?
I couldn’t think straight. I began to sweat and my pulse was racing. Maybe the guy I saw wasn’t wearing a cap, or a camo jacket. And the guy I saw had a beard. Now that I think about it, he looked nothing like that picture at all.
“Whoa, Whoa, Whoa!” Our executive director ran in the room. “This just in. You know that robbery last night? The guy fled to a hotel and the cops tracked him there this morning. He ended up blowing his brains out in the room before they could arrest him.”
“It wasn’t a robbery. He didn’t take anything. He just shot up the place and ran off.” The tech guy looked my way and smiled. “And this one held the door open for him.”
Run. Hide. Run and hide.
Just a suggestion to weak stomached people...DO NOT READ. I never write horror because it scares the hell out of me because I’m somewhat of a baby, but it’s nearing halloween so I thought I’d give it a try.
She was given one job: Hide. And fast.
Heart racing, she tripped over in the dark running into the wall with a BANG! Gasping she kept running. To where she didn’t know. She didn’t have the sleep or concentration needed to think. The only thought was to hide. Hide and run. Run away from the shadowy figure pressing it’s hands on the large front windows, moving them decidedly over the window and marking it with bloody words: Run. Hide. Run and hide.
Sobbing back tears she rounded the corner to the kitchen and grabbed a knife as she passed the counter. Avoiding the basement, she sprang passed the entrance, backed against the wall, and prayed the door to the closet wouldn’t jam like it usually did.
CreEeeEEeeek... the door opened easily, and she shoved her small figure inside under the first shelf. Shivering, she tried to calm down, but the visions haunted her mind. The way she woke up to a sound of squeaking on glass like a window washer moving the washing wand over a window. How she got up and looked out the front window to see the figure of her late husband standing at the window frowning and writing on the window in a deap red paint she knew was blood even before she’d saw that the hands were fingerless and mutilated. How the songs in her head started then. A man singing along to the accompanyment of pianos and singing ladies like the olds songs on records with the crackling in the bacground...
Run. Hide. Run and Hide.
Let me know, so I can find.
Run. Hide. Run and hide.
Darling, you I’ll always find.
Run. Hide. Run and hide.
You are running out of time.
Run. Hide. Run and hide.
Before the night is done, you’re mine.
Run. Hide. Run and hide.
You didn’t twice before I died.
Run. Hide. Run and hide.
You should know I’ve never lied...
The song stuck going on forever wound itself around her brain making her nausious.
A strangled shriek and a gurgle followed by drips echoed for a minute, and she screamed at her own terrible mistake. The children. She forgot the children. She lept from her hiding place and stumbled around the corner. And found, with a gasp and audible sob the youngest, a small figure, tied to the light fixture in the kitchen like a goat with his neck cut through. A small trickle of blood ran over his bloody face, over his blood dyed eyes and through his hair. His mouth was open and pooled with the same thick red liquid that splattered the adjasent wall. Drip. Drip. Drip. A puddle on the table collected the drops from his neck and spilled over into a small trickle of on the floor near and under her feet. She bent over gagging, silent tears escaping her as the wretched scent collected in her eyes, nose, and mouth.
She stumbled through the kitchen into the living room toward the bedrooms tripping again in the same place, but regaining her balance as she heard the second shrill voice leap through the walls of the house. No, she thought. No no no no. The house seemed to moan and sway as she stummbled toward the bedrooms.
She slipped and fell again. The wooden floor was slick and wet and warm. And when she pushed herself up from the floor, her hands were a deep red. Gasping and coughing she pushed through the door to the first bedroom to see the oldest shaking and choking back tears. Releived she flung herself toward the bed where the child cowered in the far corner. I saw him mommy. I saw daddy. I saw him. she cried and grabbed at her mother’s arm.
The floor in the halway creaked and moaned slowly as if inhaling painfully and consequently exhaling in raggedy breaths. The two in the room huddled in the corner of the bed and a little boy walked in dragging a blanket through the red-stained floor. The woman exhaled and beckoned the child forward. Come here baby, she called soothingly, we have to leave home.
He cocked his head to the side as if he didn’t understand. The mother let out an unearthly scream peicing the night air as if a knife had been run over her skin, for as the child cocked his head, it drooped over his shoulder hanging by a strip of skin and muscle on only that one side while a fountain of blood sprayed from the arteries in his neck. A sucking gurgling moan slipped from his open neck, and blood spattered the floor and walls and bed, and the child kept walking forward as if he were supposed to be alive.
The girl sitting next to her mother screamed as well and ran out of the room and passed the boy before the mother could stop her. A second later, there was yet another sickly gurgle and the sound of a sink handle not turn off fully, and the shrieking stopped. The woman tumbled off the bed, away from the boy backing toward the door and followed the leaking tap sounds into the hall where the girl was slung over a chair, the back of her neck cut open to drain the blood from her body and let it mix with the rest on the floor as it trickled down over her eyes and through her hair down her arms to drip off her fingertips.
The woman tripped passed and down the hall to the front door. The song came back on in her head and she stopped for a second behind the glass of the front window and screamed. She screamed to drown out the song in her skull. Screamed from fear, and hate, and nerves. Screamed until her lungs and throat wouldn’t let her anymore, and she looked through the window to see the man, still painting: Run. Hide. Run and hide. over and over again on the glass staring toward her but not at her, just through her and frowing as though, by looking into her, he could see what she dreaded he could see.
She ran to the window and put her hands against the glass to make her own bloody hand prints. WHY? she screamed in agony, WHY? and then he was gone. And the song was gone. And the children. And the dripping. And the moaning. And the blood. The house was still as glass as she sank to her knees placing her hands on the ground and finally laid her head on the floor.
She knew why. she thought. Because I killed him. She smiled, closed her eyes, and fell back asleep.
Don't do it. Don't do it. I sit there in the middle of my bed. Mother will come in soon to help me say my prayers and then tuck me in. I hear her walking around above. My brothers finish their prayers and her footsteps make the stairs creak. Don't do it. Now she enters my room. My cold, unwelcoming room.
With my prayers done she tucks me in. Don't do it. The lights are turned out and her hand goes to the door knob.
"No Mom please!!" A sob catches in my throat. "It's so dark with the door closed!" I blink away tears.
"You can't be afraid forever Baby," A soft and warming smile is on her lips. The cold of the room keeps that warmth from blessing me.
"Please," I beg. The covers are no longer tucked in around me. Sitting in the middle of the bed allows me to see the light from outside my room.
"Good night," with those words she seals my tomb. The door closes and the only light I have is from the frowning moon outside my window. The floor creaks and my eyes widen in vain to see. A shape darker than the blackness of my room is moving slowly around.
Those tears slip down my cheek and I move with a fear that I can't control. The covers now are covering me; a small barrier. Breathing commences as this figure moves closer. I need help, but I can't call out. So I pray like Mother taught me. Please.... please! I'm so scared.
The door that sticks to it's frame causing it to be so hard to open, budges. The breathing stops and the shape wavers into the shadows. Yet at another slam on the door I know it is not Mother. The rattling of the door handle is silent. Who doesn't use door handles? Fear rises in my chest drowning me.
The covers hide my face as once more the door is urged to open with a slam. One more time and it swings open. A soft light touches the covers. I know it is no use to try and silence my breath that now comes out in sobs.
More than one thing leaps onto my bed and I might faint in dread. The covers by my face are pulled at. It is trying to get me. "You can't be afraid forever Baby," Mother's words give me courage. As another wave of tears go down my cheeks I let the covers go.
Warm green eyes stare into mine. A deep rumble comes from the creature and it rubs it's face against mine before licking at my tears.
The tuxedo cat curls up next to me as my tears come to an end. God has sent me a guardian. My two other cats take their own places; one by my feet and the other on my side.
The door will stay open all night, the monsters will be kept at bay, and I will never fear again.
A feminine introvert, I love my “me time”. Probably just as much as I enjoy living to write and tell my story. I have always been called an old soul; seen as a person wise beyond her years. My ultimate goal in life is to serve humanity. I desire better living on an equitable level, for all inhabitants of the universe.
I am an “earth” being; born an earth sign. By sheer will, fate and destiny; I was born in month 9. Born with an uncanny awareness that I AM supposed to be here. I was not always aware of my purpose; though life experiences, life circumstances and situations led me to know what I know.
My life lesson was forgiveness.
I live by universal codes of morals and laws of balance, doing my best to live life aligned with the universal laws of nature. I never truly understood my love of nature until I learned to get over my fear of natural things; like nature. Though I still struggle with the idea of insects, rodents and birds; I respect their existence.
I have a deep and empathetic spiritual connection to the underprivileged; the used; the abused. While at the same time; I am bonded to creative artistic expressions as well.
I 100% respect the universal law of love and service, and I hope that this reflection will become a catchy “in thing” that never goes out of style.
I am a dreamer as well as a doer. I always have been and I always will be. It’s how I’m able to stay UP, in a society designed to keep my kind down. This works for me.
I choose to heal and educate via written and verbal expression; to the benefit of the universe. I aspire to inspire via out of the box solutions of creativity.
My life lessons taught me how to be responsible for my own actions on all levels.
Most important in my personal life is trustworthy companions and friends; love and loyalty unlimited.
I AM # 9 –And I choose to make the best of my time!
I never knew true and deep envy until we became family. We’re 4 years apart in age, but for some reason you see competition in me. Everything that I touch in life, you want. And you’ve had everything of mines that you wanted, that was within your grasp. Like my Air Force One’s. I bought mine first, and never even knew you owned a pair until I noticed that mines looked different one day. I rarely wore my coke white’s, so when I came home and saw that mine were replaced with a very dingy, highly worn pair, I went searching.
I went straight to your bedroom because everything in my gut told me, you were the culprit. Plus, I had to wake you up out of your sleep when I saw you wearing my favorite shirt, just weeks prior. I grabbed what belonged to me then, leaving you to your beauty sleep. That was my favorite shirt blood.
I found my shoes in your room. To prevent you from playing the switcheroo with my things again, I took both your well-worn pair, with my pair, and tossed them in the field behind our house. I remember the day you went looking for your (actually mine), pair of shoes. You hooted and hollered about the house accusing someone of stealing your shoes. Imagine that! I sat in the living room watching you lose your cool, and I thought, “That’s how I feel!”. Please forgive me for not speaking up and owning my shit, by admitting what I’d did. I hope you can understand my reasoning though, as well as the irony that I must have felt knowing that the shoes you were claiming to be stolen, were the very shoes that you stole from me, in exchange of yours. I wonder if you ever suspected me?
I was royally pissed when I found my boyfriend’s home phone number in your phone book. I learned that you were accepting his collect jail calls, on our house phone, taking messages for him, and relaying information. You were 14 years old, he was 19. You had NO right; NO business interacting with that man. But you know Sis, you sure taught me a lesson that day. Females can’t be trusted around my man. Not female family, or female friends. Cold world, but thank you for the lesson.
Then, at about 21 years of age, I popped up at Mom’s house, and saw you with your boyfriend. The same boyfriend who fought me when we were kids because I didn’t want to be his girlfriend. As I sat in Mom’s living room that day, watching you braid that boy’s hair, I couldn’t help but wonder:
- Does he beat her, like he beat me up all those years ago.?
- Does she remember the day he beat me up, while she stood there and watched?
- Does he remember that day?
When I left mom’s house, you sent me a text message that your boyfriend just told you, he had a crush on me when we were kids. I cannot remember what my response was back then, but I’m sure it was probably close too, “Lol. Wow, he told you that?”
If I were in your shoes that day, I’d have felt like shit. I would’ve wondered if he wasn’t with me because of his crush on my sister. But hey that’s me, you’re you. For sure though, I would have left his ass.
Today, I hear you are involved with another of my ex male friends. I heard, very shortly after he and I stopped talking, he began talking to you. How do I know? He told me because I asked him.
What you didn’t know is, he let me know you’d reached out to him via Social Media, shortly after that day that you and I talked, realizing we both knew him. At the time, you’d just had a child with your boyfriend, whom you were still in a relationship with.
When my male friend told me about y’all, I felt sympathy for both of y’all.
A little female advice: Be better that a man’s last resort or second best. Otherwise you may find that you were nothing more than vengeance, meant to hurt me. You’re better than that. At least you should be.
I forgive you Sis, for everything. I Love You
like a gun
I loaded a gun only to feed curiosity
If death in a matter of seconds
Is escape in its most fruitful form
I'd be grasping it wholeheartedly
I'm just wondering, call me insane
What it would lead to and where
If it makes you ponder and proud
Let it be what you wanted and more
If it would take you to infinity
Would every second count
And willfully make you wonder
Just for the sake of it
And the thrill of it?
Rightful Owner of Myself
You mark me indelibly as yours
with rouged smears of soaked blood
stamped footprints engraved on soul
biting acid etched in my frayed pores
bitter words burrowing daggers into heart
leading me by collared, bruised neck
crawling deflated like balloons at your feet
but you can never possess me as your rag doll
because you do not own the twisting cusp of me
you’ll never find me hidden in my sea of bulwarks
possession is nine-tenths of the law as you know
and I choose to defend myself as the rightful owner.
I thought you loved me.
I thought you were the perfect guy
You never stole anything
You didn't lie
At least I didn't think you did
But that night
That night we fought you cried black tears
The demon possessing you leaving your body slowly
You were the one possessed by this monster
Yet it my heart torn out and stomped on
It was me that paid the price for you