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Latest Stories

April 15, 2021
Crime Stories Rishabh Rajesh

Busting Of The Drug Cartel

4am in the morning. The airport was hustling and bustling with travellers travelling from one place to another. John Deep, a narcotics department head officer at MIAMI INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT was on duty to catch hold of drug peddlers and smugglers. He has an…
April 12, 2021
Flash Fiction Rishabh Rajesh

The Darkest Night

CHAPTER-1: Introduction It was a dark and murky night. The moon and stars were hidden by the hazy clouds. The streets of Penton Avenue were deserted and desolated. No humans, animals and birds were seen. The streets had not streetlights nor any light source.…
April 12, 2021
General Stories Jack Karolewski

The Last Library

Perhaps it was inevitable. For what is life but a never-ending cavalcade of change and loss? People around the world stopped purchasing -- then soon, completely stopped reading -- physical books and other print media such as newspapers and magazines.…
April 07, 2021
Horror Stories Rishabh Rajesh

The Haunted Bungalow

John was driving down the desolated roads of Pressman Avenue. It was almost midnight. A storm was blowing and leaves were creaking. There was a heavy rainfall and a strong wind which made the whole weather cold. The road ahead couldn’t be seen because of the…
April 07, 2021
General Stories Joshua Santiago

Until We Meet Again

Dedicated to my nieces Natasha and Anayah. Uncle Joshy loves both of you immensely. Also dedicated to my older sister Alisha. You’ll never be alone. (page 1) It was a moist, cool, rainy September night. I had already gotten my things ready for work tomorrow…
April 02, 2021
Flash Fiction José Acosta

Bush Of Ghosts

Crowds Almost all the decisions we make in our daily lives have more to do with automatized rituals than with autonomous acts, much less with gestures of freedom. Our days are more-or-less predetermined by the voracious demands of the economic system. Since…
April 02, 2021
General Stories Jack Karolewski

Assassin

Nobody knew his real name, or even where he came from. He had seven different passports at any given time, and spoke eight languages fluently. He went by the names Simon Hunter, Miguel Torres, Ivan Borodin, Spiro Kallis, Sergio Cavetti, Turget Bayar, or…
April 01, 2021
Crime Stories Rishabh Rajesh

The Arthur Phillips Murder

Arthur Phillips was a successful businessman in the town of Bayland. He had an ammunition store with all kinds of weapons for the war. Bayland was a place known for death, bloodshed and war. Arthur was always worried for his family. He would pray that nothing…
April 01, 2021
General Stories Jack Karolewski

Consider The Unknown

It was New Year's Eve, December 31, 1942. A few days earlier, three inches of snow had fallen on New York City, and the cold air in the concrete canyons was evidenced by the steaming, exhaled breaths of the scurrying crowds. The normally festive holiday…
March 30, 2021
Mystery Stories Dylan James Harper

Domestic Profiling

The cramped office was filled with poorly organized files. Two men in white buttoned up shirts and black ties sat inside looking at computers. Both were smoking, and a small window with shades mostly drawn was cracked open, but it barely helped make the air,…
March 30, 2021
General Stories Rishabh Rajesh

The Heart Story

“Mom!! I am going to the mall with Harish.” Aarif said. “Ok beta. Come home soon, today is your aunt’s birthday, we have to go to her birthday party.”Aarif’s mom said. Aarif is a final year college student at Rampratap University. He is a careless and…
March 29, 2021
Horror Stories Douglas Kolacki

But Are They real

You wake up. Not at home, not in your bed, but somewhere dark and confined. The air is musty and cold, smelling of wet stone, and you’re lying on a bare mattress. You jerk your head up, wide awake. Where am I? Squinting, you look around and your fears are…

I awoke with a strangled cry, startled to find him standing over me.

The Stalker, dressed all in black like always.

Sure, I’ve seen him before, but never up close. Watching me from a darkened doorway, peering through the slats of the dingy blinds in an abandoned house, sitting in the next car over on the subway, standing on the opposite curb as I waited for the Walk signal.

For the most part, I’ve gotten over being afraid. In the beginning, I was terrified. Double- and triple-bolting the doors, nailing the windows shut, willing to take my chances on burning up in a house fire as long as he couldn’t get me. I'd worry that he’d gotten in the house while I was out, check every nook and cranny, places he couldn’t possibly fit, my frenzied imagination granting him superhuman powers. Maybe he could shrink himself to the size of a mouse, wait for me to let my guard down, reassume his normal size and come after me as I soaked in the tub or watched TV.

I bought the gun a long time ago. I used to carry it everywhere, even around the house, but it’s lying in a drawer now, gathering dust. Who knows if it even works anymore? Do bullets have an expiration date like medicine and batteries? Guess it’s a little late to go Google it now.

You know what they say: after awhile you can get used to anything, even a hulking stranger all in black stalking your every move. Okay, nobody says the last part, but I’m saying it. I mean, I still have a life to live. Work, bills, parties, dates. Although my dating life’s not so great—it’s hard to be intimate with someone when there’s always someone else watching. I know people are into that, but for non-exhibitionist me, it puts a damper on things.

After awhile I started imagining that The Stalker was a guardian angel. On the whole, my life runs pretty smooth. Like even though I live in a not-so-great part of the city, I’ve never been mugged, not even in the dark subway tunnels late at night. Maybe The Stalker’s a good guy. Maybe everybody has one; they’re just too wrapped up in themselves to notice.

He isn’t looking so benevolent right about now, looming over me. How’d he even get in? Have I gotten so complacent that I forgot to bolt the door? Now I feel invincible, telling myself he’s protecting me? Does he stand watch every night, and I’ve just never woken up before?

In all these years, I’ve never seen his face. Even now, it’s too dark. He’s too dark. Maybe he doesn’t have a face, just blackness, like the Grim Reaper. I’ve never seen him with a sickle...surely that would’ve caught my eye. Maybe the sickle’s a myth, artistic license to make Death look more interesting. Maybe he hired some fancy advertising firm to spruce up his image.

I can just picture the brainstorming session for that gig.

It needs something. It’s so blah—I know! It needs some color.

But it’s Death. Death doesn’t do color.

I’ve got it! A sickle. He needs to have a sickle.

Then everyone else would just stare at each other, not knowing what a sickle was. Once they figured it out, the guy who came up with it would get huge kudos, a raise...wish I had something like that on my resume. Designed the official image of Death—that would have the job offers rolling in for sure.

Has he been watching me all this time, just waiting to punch my ticket? Surely Death has a pretty full schedule; he couldn’t afford to spend all his time on me, unless he has a staff of underlings on the payroll, like all the Santa Clauses at Christmas.

Maybe he pals around with Santa, picked up the idea over a round of golf. There is all that business about Santa being an anagram for Satan...maybe he’s part of the dark side, too.

I glanced over at the clock. 3:47. Time to get the show on the road or call it a night. Death or no Death, I’ve got work in a few hours.

“Get it over with, or let me go back to sleep already.” That didn’t come out nearly as forceful as I intended, voice hoarse and scratchy. Still, The Stalker turned and walked out with a rustling sound, like leaves scraping in the wind.

He closed the door behind him; I heard the sound of the lock sliding home.

I rolled over to go back to sleep, smiling, finally figuring it out:

All this time, he’s had the key.

 

END

 

 

Vela Damon grew up in the rural south and now resides in The Lone Star State. Her short stories and poems have appeared in 101 Words, Dark Dreams Podcast, Leaves of Ink, The Subterranean Quarterly and several other publications. She has work forthcoming in Hogglepot and Blackout City Podcast. Find her online at www.veladamon.com and www.facebook.com/veladamon

 

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