Young Writers Society

“No. Please leave me.”

The ashen-faced man slowly stumbled back in the corner of the dark, musty room, breathing heavily. His face twisted in horror, his hands trembling badly, he jammed himself against the wall, his eyes directed towards the dark corner beside the closed door.

“Please. I- I can’t do this anymore,” he pleaded to no one standing there, his breath drawing out noisily. He seemed half-mad, staring at the dark corner as if gone insane.

Suddenly, from the exact place where he’d been staring, a low, gurgling voice sounded throughout the room. It was faint and deep; more like a growl than a voice. The man uttered a pained whimper, and dropped to his knees beside the floor.

“Please,” he insisted, raising his hands in front of him, as if begging for life. “I…. just can’t do it; I-I-“

Another growl. This time, it was sharp, menacing than ever. The man shuddered violently. Then, all of a sudden, the growl became a shrill scream, spiking higher and higher until it became enough to shatter a glass into a million pieces.

The man wailed pitifully. Stumbling to his feet, he ran towards the door, opened it, and fled downstairs, breath coming out in noisy gasps.

But as soon as he stepped off the last flight of steps, the lights shining above him went out. And the low growl again took its place.

“No,” The man repeated. He was still shaking in fright, but he had drawn himself erect, staring into the blinding darkness with bloodshot eyes. “I - I’ve s-said it already; I-I cannot do this anymore. I wish to leave this damning practice - forever.”

Silence. Nothing moved. The floorboard squeaked underneath the man. He looked around frantically, beads of sweat dripping from his forehead.

And then, as the silence seemed to be at its height, the growl came from somewhere BEHIND him. With a gasp, he turned back.

And he went flying through the air.

Screams. Yells. The entire house was filled with it. It rang out for miles around. Sounds of things breaking and falling soon joined it. Outside, thunder and rain and lightning crashed over the quiet town, dimming the sound until it could only be heard by someone passing by the large house.

It didn’t happen. At that time, amidst the fierce storm and frightful lightning, no one dared to step outside. Every one closed their doors and took their places in their warm beds and armchairs, quietly enjoying the warmth in their house.

But they didn’t know that far away, in the house at edge of the town, a dead man lay in his house surrounded by heaps of rubble and broken glass, completely matted with fresh thick blood. And while he lay spreadeagled on the floor, his hand rested on the picture of him standing with a dark haired woman cradling a small baby under her arms, blood staining it…..

……And about six blocks away from the house, a small, 12-year-old boy named Cooper was squirming and twisting in his bed. Dreaming that he was standing in that very house, watching the man die before his very eyes….

Soon, he would be waking up from his prolonged, uneasy sleep. And he would be running down to tell his father about the strange dream of his, only to find out that what he had seen had become true, leaving him in utter confusion. However, the explanation of this event never came to hand; at least not in the next two years. And it was so not in the way he had expected.

How do I know this? Well, it's obvious. I saw the whole scene myself. Every bit of it. Let's just say that Cooper was just a part of all the confusion, not to mention the terror, that I had to handle in that house.