Creeping towards me

     She stands at the edge of my room, clutching the wall like the ruins of a castle. She is floating towards me, her long, thick black hair covering her face and most of her upper torso. Her presence fills the room like a dense fog, crisping the air while simultaneously electrifying it. The chill keeps my eyes peeled back, focused on her small, subtle creepings. The moon lets a sliver of light into my room, casting a ghostly glow on her black, tree branch-like hands that seem to inch closer and closer with every breath. I can feel my pulse in my ears as I pull the thin sheet over my head like a shield, believing if she cannot see me, she would simply melt into the floorboards, never to be seen again. I had no such luck. For months, she and I played this game in the dark—the game of creepy chicken, seeing who would falter first. And, as one might expect from a small child, I slowly stopped sleeping altogether. I feared that if I closed my eyes, the woman would surely steal my soul.

    My body is immobile as the black branches run across the top of my sheet, begging me to scream, but all that escapes is guttural gasping. I can feel my soul clutching a rosary, begging Mary to protect me from the demonic presence tugging at my toes. Pissing all over myself, I use my essence as a deterrent to prevent Evil Dead from touching me. There is no stopping the branches; for every one I break, three more grow in its place, leaving my bed soaked in urine and tears.

    I can hear the floor creak beneath her weight, a cruel reminder that I am not alone in this suffocating darkness. Each sound reverberates like thunder in my skull, and the once-familiar shadows twist into shapes that loom and leer, feeding on my fear. My heart races, a wild drum echoing in the hollow chamber of my chest, as I count the seconds, praying for dawn to break through the window. But the night stretches on, its grip tightening around me like an old friend turned foe.

    As her branches brush against the sheet, I imagine them curling around my throat, squeezing the breath from my lungs. I wonder if the choking feeling is real or just another trick played by my mind, another cruel game of shadows. I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping to erase her from existence, but the darkness remains, thick and suffocating. The moonlight, once a beacon of comfort, now feels like a spotlight exposing my vulnerability, illuminating my fear for her to savor.

    Memories of laughter and warmth feel distant, like a mirage fading with the rising sun. I think of the stories my mother used to tell me about brave knights and their valiant quests. Where is my knight? Where is my hero to rescue me from this nightmare? The thought cuts deeper than any branch she could extend, the truth seeping in: I am alone, just a small child against the encroaching void.

    Suddenly, I remember the flash of light that once danced in my room when I pressed my fingers against my nightlight. A flicker of hope, a reminder of safety that now seems like a cruel joke. The world outside my room is full of magic and laughter, but here, in the clutches of the dark, I feel as though I am trapped in a cursed tale, with no chance for rescue. With every breath, I can taste the bitter tang of despair, an intoxicating mixture that feeds the dread coiling in my stomach.

    In an act of desperate rebellion, I muster every ounce of strength I have left. I kick at the branches, feeling the phantom pain of their ghostly grasp. "Leave me alone!" I whisper, my voice barely more than a breath. But the words hang in the air, swallowed by the dark, and she only inches closer, a haunting smile curling upon her lips. I realize then, with a clarity that stings, that this is not just a game for her; it is a game of survival, a twisted dance between predator and prey.

    With a final, trembling breath, I decide to break the silence. I call out to her, not with fear but with a challenge. "You can't have me!" The words echo through the stillness, a flicker of defiance igniting a spark of hope. The branches pause, just for a moment, and in that suspended breath, I see the faintest hint of uncertainty in her dark eyes. Maybe, just maybe, the darkness is not as powerful as it pretends to be. Perhaps the light still flickers somewhere, waiting to be found.

    I hold my breath, suspended in that moment, daring to hope that my words have carved a crack in her shadowy facade. The air thickens, a tangible tension stretching between us as if the world itself holds its breath, waiting to see which of us will break first. The black branches hang in the stillness, quivering like the wings of a trapped bird. And for the first time, I sense a flicker of hesitation from her, as though she is pondering her next move in this macabre chess game.

    But then, like a puppet on invisible strings, she lunges forward, a blur of darkness that threatens to engulf me whole. I scramble backward, heart racing, the bed a flimsy island in an ocean of dread. I feel the edges of reality blurring, the room warping into a distorted nightmare. Desperation wells up within me, and I clutch the rosary tighter, its cool beads a fragile comfort against the encroaching evil. “I am not afraid of you!” I shout, louder now, my voice trembling with unspent fear and rising anger. “I will not let you take me!”

    In response, she lets out a low, mocking laugh that reverberates in the hollow corners of my room, chilling my bones. It’s a sound that pierces through the veil of terror, shattering my resolve for just a moment. But I refuse to let it crush me. The warmth of defiance ignites within, spreading like wildfire, consuming the tendrils of fear that threaten to pull me under. I gather the remnants of my courage, each heartbeat thrumming with a resolve I didn’t know I possessed.

    “Leave this place!” I command, my voice growing stronger with each word, a newfound power coursing through my veins. I envision the light from my nightlight growing brighter, an ethereal beacon shining through the darkness, pushing her back, pushing her away. The branches shudder and recoil as if my words have actual weight, tangible enough to be felt, to create distance. I refuse to let her extinguish my flame, and I can almost feel the edges of reality shifting, reshaping around my conviction.

    The moon’s glow strengthens, illuminating the room with a purity I had long forgotten existed. Shadows retreat, collapsing into themselves, losing their power as I stand firm against her. She stares at me, her eyes dark pools filled with rage and confusion, and for the first time, I see the cracks in her facade. I wonder if she can sense my resolve, the flicker of light that refuses to die. I realize that in this battle of wills, I am not just a frightened child—I am a warrior of light, unyielding and fierce.

    In a final act of defiance, I throw off the covers and sit up, my posture straightening, a warrior ready to fight. “You may haunt my nights, but you will never own my soul!” I declare, the words spilling from my lips like a mantra, grounding me in my truth. With every repetition, I can feel her presence falter, the branches quivering, losing their grip. Maybe, just maybe, I can reclaim my power, banishing her to the shadows from whence she came.

Home

Over a hundred thousand miles away lies a large white home with boarded up windows and two broken front steps. Stuck in the middle of an almost desert-like wasteland it sits patiently. Hoping the next family to happen upon it will have the strength to fix its smashed windows, congested pipes, sieve-like ceilings, and spine-chilling garage. Believe it or not, a young spunky little eight-year-old called this monstrosity home for a long time. Making mud pies in its abandoned lot and playing on the dilapidated swing set that sat up against the whitish siding. Her parent's power washed the siding once thinking this dusty turd merely needed a new coat of paint or, in this case, to have its coat of paint cleaned and, it would transform into a gem. Unfortunate you can dip a piece of crap in chocolate but, that doesn’t make it a delicacy. Nightmares of horrifying branches grabbing at her in sleep made the years she stayed there restless. Moving away was an answered prayer but, to this day she thinks of its pastoral scene and wonders, what of its lonely heart?

Dear Mother

She just sat there while I slowly died inside. Her fingers feverishly typed away while I counted out all my white pills. Occasionally, a laugh escaped her lips in response to whatever stimulus was always more important than me. Quickly writing down all the pain I was feeling while she yelled from downstairs,
“Haley, did you finish cleaning that fucking room yet? I am really getting tired of your lazy ass. Nine fucking years old, Haley, pull your head out of your ass.”

Tears beaded up and slowly made their way down my face, making small pools on my first suicide note. Little did I know this would be the beginning of a decade’s worth of failed suicide attempts. If there is a God, I fucking hate him. I don’t think “My God and me” ever had a good relationship; I was much too “fucking annoying” and “a god damn slob” to be a good follower.

It’s my own fault. With such high expectations, I was bound to be disappointed. I heard stories from my cousin about mothers who read to them at night, hugged them when they were sick, told them how beautiful they were, and how they would always love them. Ironically, my mother made it clear, “You don’t need to be telling the family our god damn business, you little fucking shit starter!” I would not be exchanging our mothers’ different parenting methods.

I asked for too much. She was sure to show up to every school event and blow so much money on ME it would cripple us financially for a while. Buying me all the candy and special treats I ever asked for, in addition to letting me do whatever I wished while daddy was away. I learned how to change diapers at seven, so I was given the gift of overseeing my siblings’ changes. How many children can say they were entrusted with their siblings’ well-being at seven? Not many; I guess I was just lucky.

Mother didn’t just have a wonderfully colorful nickname for me whenever she saw me, but she even taught me how to fight. “You think you’re old enough, bitch? Well, come on, where did that smart-ass attitude go?” Yeah, ironically, if I brought friends home, she acted weird. “Hey, honey, do you guys want to go get pizza?” She would take my friends everywhere and buy us anything we asked for. You can see how this would cause some confusing conversations later: “You think money just grows on fucking trees? What, I am so sorry I can’t spoil your ass as much as gran.”

She would hurt me daily as a child, and the first time I tried to end my life, this is what I wrote to her.

          Dear Mother, 

    I am sorry for asking for one of your drinks when just last week you had given my friends everything we wanted. I try not to be spoiled rotten, but it is very hard. Every time I try, I fail. I am happy you always try to correct me and remind me what I have done wrong. I guess I just was born bad, and that’s why I can’t be a good girl. I have decided to kill myself. You tell me all the time how it would be so much easier if you didn’t have to deal with my bullshit, so I realize what you want from me now. I am sorry I don’t keep my room clean enough, clean the dishes well enough, watch my brother and sister well enough, I used up all our rent money at my birthday, embarrass you every time we are out in public, and make you cry every day. I guess some kids are just born ugly and bad. I wish I had died when I was born, like I was supposed to. I guess I figured you wanted to see me since you had me, but I was wrong.

Dear, Rosemary

    There are two types of people in this world: The Fallen and The Floating. An unhealthy dose of normality is injected into your bloodstream as a baby; the blood that pumps through your heart matches your father's collar—too good to know any better. At the age of six, you knew no worse pain than that of a scraped knee or a dead goldfish. In a world full of pain and misfortune, your father died at the age of eighty-four, and at ninety, your mother followed. A quiet departure: your father from a blood clot at work, your mother of old age while sleeping. When you fall asleep at night, you miss them, but not enough to pay them with waking hours; it was their time—no need to mourn the inevitable.

    When you hear stories of the girl in your high school class, you shudder, as the thorns and thistles she called a childhood leave scratches in your memory and scars on your heart. She is a happy woman, and although you try, you'll never understand why. That's why you married her—to give the Fallen what they never had. Yet she has treasures that you could never possess. In a crimson box underneath the stairs sits saturated memories. She can recall specific dates by smelling her favorite candle. Every year, your wife's friends gawk at the Christmas gift exchange as you watch her unwrap yet another clean linen candle. You and her friends will never understand why she prefers the scent of clean linen over any other fragrance.

    You and your wife make a disgusting amount of money, and yet she still clips coupons. Even though she is thirty years old, she still makes collages out of old magazines. She loves sixties music but knows absolutely nothing about it. She's watched every single Harry Potter movie a hundred times, and yet she can't fall asleep at night unless they're playing. She could buy anything in the world for herself but would rather make all of her own things. To this day, she has only ever purchased new items from the store to give to local organizations. She won't eat meatloaf—in fact, she hates it—but she makes the best meatloaf you've ever had every year on the same day. You will never understand why, in the middle of June, she buys a plane ticket to Texas and never goes. Sometimes she sits on the edge of her bed with a torn-up baby photo in her hand and just cries. You don't ask her why she does these things because if she knew, she would probably stop doing them.

    When she cries, you don't ask why because you two fell in love at an old theater, watching gory horror films over a shared love of seltzer water. You proposed to her a year later in that same theater, celebrating your newfound love. She gives you beautiful poetry every Valentine’s Day and sings to you for every birthday; like some sort of rare bird, she is a lovely one. You love her more than life itself, and even though you wonder, you'll never wander. When she cries, you don't ask why; you simply hold her in your arms and say, "I love you!"

    But in the corners of your mind, shadows linger, whispering secrets of the past. You remember the days when laughter was a foreign sound, when the walls of your childhood home echoed with silence instead of joy. Each holiday passed with a veil of muted colors, and even the brightest decorations seemed to dim under the weight of memories that lingered like smoke in the air. You learned to navigate the world with a stoic face, hiding the broken pieces that lay beneath the surface, knowing that to be the Fallen was to carry an invisible burden that few could see.

    You look at her as she dances through the mundane, a light in the chaos of everyday life. Her laughter rings like wind chimes, delicate yet unyielding, and you often wonder how she learned to float above the debris of her childhood. You catch glimpses of her joy in small moments—a sunbeam spilling through the window or the way her eyes crinkle when she smiles—and for a heartbeat, the scars on your heart fade, replaced by a warmth that blooms in her presence. It is a strange contrast, watching the Floating glide effortlessly while you remain anchored to the depths of your own sorrow. You find solace in her happiness, even if it makes your own shadows feel heavier.

    Yet, in those quiet moments when night falls and the world slows, you sometimes catch her gaze wandering beyond the horizon, lost in thoughts you cannot reach. You wish you could dive into her memories, understand the ache that hides behind her vibrant smile, but you know better than to pry. You let her have her secrets, knowing that the thorns of your past have made you cautious and fragile. So, you become the silent sentinel, guarding her heart while your own remains a battleground. When she sits at the edge of the bed, you offer your hand, a lifeline in the tumult, and remind her that love, in all its messy glory, is the greatest treasure of all.

This is an original short story, please do not steal. Thank you for enjoying my blog. If you have any pointers or anything you would like to know about the post please feel free to comment below.