Young Writers Society

“What is your name?” asked the man in the white coat.

“Simon. My name is Simon,” answered the patient. The man in white—Doctor Red—jotted down notes in his report. An eerie smell lingered in the room, and Simon was the only one who could detect it. It was the smell of piss mixed with sweat, and a hint of blood. But Simon didn’t mind; he had become so accustomed to this odor that he had forgotten what fresh air even smelled like. The only things he remembered were the walls and his name.

“And what is your age, Simon?” the doctor asked, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose as he leaned forward, inspecting the patient closely.

“Thirty-two, I think,” Simon replied, lying. He didn’t believe it himself, just spouting a number that came to mind without giving it a second thought. Doctor Red pushed his glasses up and jotted down more notes. Then, he looked at Simon and smiled—not the warm, reassuring smile you’d expect from a doctor, but one tinged with malice.

“Good news for you. You're being released today to the outside world,” said the doctor.

Outside. The word excited Simon, causing a smile to stretch across his pale, malnourished face. His deep green eyes seemed to glint with a faint golden hue. The doctor slowly stood up and left the room, closing the curtains behind him.

“Doctor Red, I don’t think we should let him go,” a woman’s voice said, her shadow flickering on the white curtain.

“What do you suggest, then? Keep him here until we all go bankrupt? We've already been generous enough to let him stay past his twenties. Now, you expect me to house him for free into his thirties?” the doctor replied, his voice rising with each word.

“But—”

“No buts. I am the head doctor, and you will do as I say. Get him some clothes and send him off,” the doctor snapped, throwing his hands up in frustration and accidentally striking the nurse in the face. Simon watched as her figure crumpled to the floor, her hand scraping through the curtains and into his room. Simon felt a strange wave of sadness for her, though he didn’t know why. As he stared at her hand, it suddenly seemed to transform, becoming small, like that of a little boy.

“Simon, SIMON!” The nurse was suddenly in front of him, her face filled with grief and worry as she handed him a coat and a black hat, along with a pouch. Her beautiful black hair peeked out slightly from beneath her cap. Simon’s mind surged with an inexplicable sadness, watching her face grow darker and darker in his mind.

“And this,” she said, handing him a yellowed piece of paper, “is the address of your house. Also, your father has passed away.”

At the news of his father’s death, Simon felt no sorrow—only a strange, unexplainable glee. A small, crooked smile escaped him, accompanied by a low, almost mocking, “huh.”

Moments later, he bid the nurse goodbye and left the hospital. The cold, musty air outside hit him, making him shiver. He donned the old black coat, buttoning it up, and placed the black hat on his head. Slowly, he began walking until he came across a man with a large yellow car.

“Where you headed, my man?” the driver asked.

In response, Simon handed him the note.

“That’ll be twenty,” the driver said. Without counting the money in the pouch, Simon handed it over. as the driver counted the mony his lips mouthed the word “thirty,” but he didn’t say it aloud. Instead, his face broke into a wide smile as he pocketed the money and let Simon into the car.

Throughout the drive, the man attempted to make conversation, but Simon ignored him, lost in thought. Eventually, the driver gave up and dropped him off in front of an old, weathered building.

Stepping out of the yellow car, Simon gazed at the house. It looked as though it had stood untouched for decades. Moss crept up the sides of the building, and heavy vines now covered the windows, choking off what little light could penetrate. The house stood alone, its surroundings swallowed by a thick, looming forest that seemed to press in from all sides, making the structure look even more desolate.

Simon’s stomach churned at the sight. Foggy, forgotten memories rushed back, and he remembered how the house once looked in its prime. Now, it was nothing but a hollow shell, an eerie monument to a past he could barely recall. As if his legs were moving on their own, Simon found himself standing in front of the main entrance. The door, made of blackened wood, looked ancient and worn. Its handle, once covered in fake gold, now flaked away, revealing patches of dull metal beneath. Simon grasped the handle and turned it slowly, the door creaking loudly as it swung open.

Inside, the house was in utter ruin. Shards of broken glass and splinters of chipped wood littered the floor, which creaked ominously beneath his feet. The furniture, what little remained, was ravaged, gnawed away by rats or worms. Dust clung to every surface, filling the air with a faint musty odor. Abruptly, Simon saw the ghostly figures of a boy being chased by someone who seemed to be his mother. Their faces were blurred, indistinct, but a soft white light radiated from their forms. Even without seeing their expressions, Simon could sense their happiness. But then, the figures began to flicker, dissolving into the air before reappearing about twenty feet ahead of him.

Now, another figure had joined them—a burly man, towering over the woman. The pure white glow that had once surrounded them was slowly being tainted by streaks of red. The man, holding a bottle in one hand, was striking the woman, over and over. Yet, she did not fight back, only shielding the boy in her arms as she absorbed the blows. Simon noticed the slow, silent tears streaming down the boy’s face.

“Please stop, please...” Simon heard the boy's anguished cry echo through the air, pleading with the man to stop. But then, the figure of the woman vanished. In her place lay a small, worn doll, which the boy clutched desperately. Suddenly, Simon’s head throbbed with pain as a flood of memories surged through him. Overwhelmed, he whispered in agony, “Mother...” Small tears escaped his eyes as he looked toward the spot where the figures had stood—only to be greeted by an empty, hallway.

His head throbbed, as if a bullet had pierced through his skull. Slowly, instinctively, he walked down the hall and stopped in front of a door. A loosely attached board, crudely made, had the word "Busy" scrawled across it. He opened the door, feeling a strange familiarity. Inside, the walls were covered in scratch marks and random doodles. In the corner was a small bed with a blue bedsheet, and next to it stood a broken shelf. On top of the shelf sat a dusty music player—something he recognized, but in this moment, it hardly mattered. His eyelids grew heavy, and without warning, he collapsed onto the bed. As his vision blurred, he saw the shadow of a figure approach, gently closing his eyes for him.

In his sleep, memories of his forgotten past swirled around him. None were clear or coherent, just fragments of a life long buried. When he awoke, he found himself back in his old room. His hands held something. As he looked closer, he realized it was a doll—a familiar one, with red hair and eyes that seemed to glimmer with a golden hue. A sweet smile was fixed on its face.

“Dally,” he whispered. The doll’s eyes suddenly shifted, locking onto his.

“Welcome back, Simon. Are you excited to play with me?” the doll said, its voice unnervingly sweet.

Next to him, the music player came to life, and the doll jumped to the floor, beginning to dance. Without thinking, Simon joined in. His eyes sparkled with childlike innocence, lost to him for so long. He had forgotten all about Dally during his time at the hospital, but now, she was back. Why had he been at the hospital, though? The thought surfaced briefly but quickly vanished as his mind became consumed with joy.

The room around him began to shift. The sunlight that had crept in through the window slowly faded, replaced by the pale glow of moonlight. He looked at Dally, but something was wrong. The doll had stopped dancing. Its eyes fell from their sockets, followed by thick streams of blood. A horrifying scream filled the air. The once sweet melody from the music player was replaced by a deafening silence.

The room was silent except for Simon's ragged breaths as he backed into the corner, his body trembling uncontrollably. His father, a burly, monstrous figure, towered over him, clutching the jagged remnants of a broken bottle, dripping with dark, viscous blood. The sickening crunch of glass against flesh echoed in Simon's ears as his father took another step forward, his hollow, empty sockets where his eyes should have been now oozing thick streams of blood. The crimson liquid spilled freely, staining his sunken cheeks and dripping from his chin, creating dark splashes on the floorboards below.

“No... Father... please...” Simon whimpered, but his plea was met with silence. His father's once human face now looked like something out of a nightmare, a twisted mask of rage and decay, with blood flowing like tears down his pale, mottled skin.

The bottle swung down with savage force. The jagged edge connected with Simon’s head, and the sound of it hitting his skull was sickening—like a hammer smashing through rotten wood. His skull fractured on impact, sending chunks of bone and brain matter splattering across the room. Blood sprayed in thick, arterial bursts, coating the walls and pooling rapidly on the floor beneath him. His eyes widened in horror for a fleeting moment before the life drained from them. His body collapsed, limp and lifeless, to the ground, where the blood continued to ooze from the massive wound in his head.

The crimson tide spilled over, seeping through the cracks in the wooden floorboards, as if the house itself was thirstily drinking it in. The blood cascaded down into the bathroom below, where it dripped into the filthy, grimy bathtub, already filled with stagnant water tainted by oil and grease. As the blood mixed with the blackened water, the tub began to overflow, sending rivulets of the dark, grotesque mixture cascading down the sides.

Inside the tub lay the skeletal remains of mother—skin stretched taut over yellowing bones, blackened with rot. The blood trickled over the skeleton, sliding into the hollow spaces where its eyes once were, and filling its cracked mouth, as if the remains were choking on the fresh life that Simon’s death had given it. The sickly stench of decay mixed with the metallic tang of blood, forming a nauseating blend that clung to the air.

Above, Simon’s father stood over his son’s lifeless corpse, his breathing ragged and wild. His bloody hands trembled as he stared at the broken bottle, now glistening with gore. With a crazed, guttural laugh, he raised it to his own throat. The jagged glass tore through the tender flesh with ease, opening his neck like a grotesque flower. Blood sprayed out in violent arcs, coating the walls, the ceiling, and his dead son’s body, until the entire room was painted in a deep, visceral red. His body wavered for a moment, then crumpled to the floor, collapsing in a pool of his own blood next to Simon.

Downstairs, the bathroom was now filled to the brim with the thick mixture of grease, grime, and fresh blood, which swirled in a vile vortex around the skeleton in the tub. The house had fallen into an eerie silence.The deed was done. The blood had been spilled.

Simon, his father, and his mothers soul in the tub were finally, grotesquely, reunited.