Voices of Her Heart

Single mum Sarah dragged the toothbrush over her teeth, not excited at the prospect of another endless day of endless rants from a micromanaging boss.

She paused in the middle of drawing circles over them and gazed at her reflection in the mirror.

Her gaze stayed on her wrinkles and furrows.

She seemed–

Older. Empty.

Joyless.

Visions of her heart.

Her boss screamed at her over the deadlines she’s not met yet– noisy muzak in her ears.

She tossed and turned in bed that night, trying to come up with a way to finish a pending project.

No answers.

Instead, whispers.

Her body stiffened.

She cracked her neck.

She chalked it up to tiredness and threw her head back onto the pillow.

Then, dreams.

Of how her boss at humiliated her in front of a customer–

Incompetent.

Irresponsible.

Of her being unable to finish preparing a simple dish of fried noodles.

Herself, missing a phone call from the job agency informing her of a new position–and a higher salary.

She sat up with a start.

The room seemed emptier– more silent than usual.

She had installed solid wood floors in the rooms.

But– creaks.

The whispers continued, now clearer.

“You’ll never be…you’ll never be….”

Too coordinated.

With her heartbeat.

Her 10-year-old daughter knocked at the door.

“Mom, you screamed louder than my friends in the playground. What’s wrong?”

She pushed the little girl back to her bedroom, blushing at seem to be her own little-girl nightmare.

“Get to sleep. School tomorrow.”

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The whispers increased in volume.

Sarah begin to feel someone gripping her toes when she wore shoes.

She could no longer chalk the voices up to imagination.

Scenes of herself failing at making sales grew clearer.

More intense.

Along with her guilt.

When she thought of her little girl.

The whispers turned into half-phrases.

” You’ll never be…”

She chalked them up to fatigue. But she couldn’t afford failure.

Her daughter.

But they were just too loud.

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Then, the whispers stopped.

Sarah could finally sleep—

For a few days.

Then, she heard them again.

But louder each night.

Until—

A clear voice.

Cold.

Commanding.

“You’ll never make a sale. You’ll never be.”

It knew exactly when her presentations would fail.

“They’ll laugh at you.”

The gripping at her toes moved up to her ankles– feeling the tug– even when she was awake.

She stumbled about in her own home– once nearly falling down the stairs.

Then visions of herself telling her daughter that she couldn’t buy her toys because there were no sales.

Her daughter’s face.

Covered in tears.

Then, the work papers she brought home turned into–

Something different.

“You’ll never be” — scrawled in bright red across each page.

One night, really loudly.

” You’ll never be enough.”

She shot up in bed, stunned.

The ominous sound seemed to sync with her heart.

She heard it again.

” I’ve always been here. You’re a good listener.”

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Sarah woke up the next morning, humming to herself as she prepared breakfast.

She knew what it meant.

She couldn’t listen anymore– she had to make a sale this month.

And she did.

The client was completely engaged– he only had to sign the papers.

They arranged to sign them at her office the next day.

He was about to put the pen to paper.

Loud.

In her head.

” You’ll never be.”

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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here

The September 18th Numbers

Listen…to the quiet warnings.

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Mei was preparing Chinese waffles in the family kitchen, getting the children ready for what was supposed to be a routine morning.

“Eh, get up! The school bus will be downstairs in an hour!”

10-year-old John and 8-year-old Sam sat up in bed.

With looks grouches would be proud of.

A horse racing calendar hung on the kitchen wall, omnipresent. Slightly dog-eared, Mei had flipped the pages countless times to mark important dates.

And yes, to make horse racing bets.

But the calendar didn’t turn on dog ears. Over time, they began to peel– and curl.

Almost like curved nails, reaching for attention.

Its metallic tang lingered in the kitchen, at he edges of her mind.

She fingered a number– the print felt too dense.

Alive.

The metallic smell grew as she neared certain numbers.

She glanced at it.

September 18th glared at her.

Familiar–yet wrong.

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She stared at the date for a few long minutes.

The metallic smell of the calendar turned her nose red.

Numbers started to peel off the pages–

Faster and faster.

The phenomenon was beyond Mei’s exhausted–yet frantic mind.

Her two-year-old toddler ambled into the kitchen and tugged at her sleeve.

She took the little boy in her arms– and his fingers brushed its pages lightly.

Another date flashed.

Her deceased grandmother’s birthday.

With a shocked gasp, she backed away, trembling fingers reaching for the kitchen knife on the table.

It tensed within her grip.

The dates were–too correct.

Her mind flicked to each one–as if it knew.

It stored–more than mere numbers.

It was telling.

Choosing.

It had–

Chosen.

Her.

She had to warn–or confront.

Fate lay in those numbers–hers, or another’s.

September 18th.
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The numbers on the calendar peeled off–

A whirlwind.

September 15th.

16th.

17th.

The metallic smell overwhelmed.

Mei’s pulse thudded.

“September 18th… I know this date…”

Then, she remembered.

Her older sister.

The one whom her mother had cried over countless family gatherings.

She had died after fingering a kitchen knife.

Curiosity.

She had turned it turned it–

To her heart.

The knuckles around the knife in her hand turned white.

She backed away from the calendar– near her toddler.

The knife.

Waited.

Then, she dropped it.

A sigh of relief.

She gazed at the young child, giggling, still tugging at her dress.

The calendar’s hinted page.

September 17th.

She clutched her young daughter’s arm.

The calendar curled. With the smell of metal.

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As One

Everyone needs a hero.

So it is that the town of Wilkinson gathered to celebrate the sacrifices of those who cared for those who ran towards flames or pain.

Sirens wailed–not for safety, but empty celebration. The confetti little ones in the audience at the town’s stadium fell to its floor in heaps of ash.

The parade was in full swing– cars drove by with garish clowns staring out the window. Jugglers on pogo sticks smiled twisted smiles as they tossed tennis balls in the air.

Confetti ash stuck to spectators’ hands as they waved their party favours. In the middle of the third row, a mask slipped–a child’s gaze felt–

Hollow.

Vacant.

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The marches began–armed service platoons, and paramedics, now on a different duty. They marched well.

Too well. Too timed. Their boots struck the pavement in a march too stoic–one beyond dignity.

A metallic tang rode the air, filling it with an almost bloodlike taste.

Where there was none.

The crowd started to shift in their seats. Little children eyed the passing clowns, not with laughter or smiles, but stares, locked in place.

Siren calls distorted–the crowd snapped its heads in their direction.

In perfect sync.

Unthinking.

And the marchers lagged behind the music–not under its guidance, but the metronome of another.

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The metallic tang thickened, more and more akin to blood. The confetti ash stuck to everyone’s hair, greying each member of the crowd.

A crowd of dedicated to service.

One which continued its mechanical cheers.

Then, one of the marchers faltered out of step. His mask slipped.

His face–sunken. Pale. Stoic.

Features affixed.

The crowd soon followed his falter, their masks dutifully slipping.

To the same, unseen rhythm.

Their faces–his.

Sunken. Pale. Stoic.

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Silence.

The group of marchers and the crowd stayed still.

As one.

Staring.

At —

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When a march like this begins, would you follow, or strip off the mask? Do answer in the comments!

If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!

Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.

The Marble Steak

This story contains images that may disturb some, but is meant to teach, not glorify harm.

A little piece de resistance for Steak and Zuchcchini day.

Beware when the pursuit of greatness cuts too deep.

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I remember Mama Tree. She was once my whole life.

I was hers.

Entwined.

En-branched.

We worshipped nature’s balance. The balance in life.

And I remember that logger. The one who took Mama’s life.

Butchered her trunk.

My trunk.

And we became…

Butcher blocks.

Festering in the corner of Marrow and Vine.

You’d find it in a cosy corner of a gentrified district…one for the epicurians.

But few knew that we were its prisoners.

Forever trapped as witnesses to the violence of blades.

The ears that heard the cries of cut meat.

And the wallowing of marrow.

The taunts of Chef Calder Lim as he prepared his piece de resistance–reversed-aged sirloin on zucchini slices–

Rare.

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“Everyone!” Calder’s grating voice boomed through the kitchen.

His Sous Chef, Justine Chew, shot him a look dirtier than a diaper.

Ignoring the almost-malevolent stare, Calder held up a cut of meat.

Red.

Angry.

Eerie.

Almost diabolical.

A cut of lab-grown steak, which I just knew wasn’t animal.

Just…not.

The enormous walk-in fridge became a coffin.

A zucchini morgue.

And it didn’t ring with the vegan in Justine. She slammed the fridge door, squirming.

She drew her cutting board. Calder’s signature dish..at the expense of her soul.

She raised her cleaver over a slab of wagyu.

And stopped.

She was supposed to be alone in the kitchen.

But…

Whispers.

“Why chop?” The cry was faint.

Pleading.

She chalked it up to exhaustion…she had pulled an all-nighter to prepare for the next day’s culinary exam.

She hit the books after dinner. It was another long night.

One marked by an eerie green shade.

Her head rested on the table.

Green roots tugging.

And tugging.

They entrenched her in their centre.

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And Justine wasn’t the only one—

Rooted.

Calder, Head Chef, had begun losing his head–and his hands.

Steak ala Palm (his) became part of the day’s menu after his knife sliced into his hand mid-service.

He had placed it on the griddle, together with the other sizzling steaks.

And I, the block, found my strength growing.

And growing.

With the blood from Calder’s steaks.

The zucchinis became my watchmen.

They twisted.

Absorbed Calder’s trauma.

Losing their softness.

Justine knew she had to act—before anyone lost themselves.

She found herself at Marrow Vine’s tiny library, tucked in musty attic.

There, a tome. Covered in layers of dust.

Her mouth fell open.

Marrow Vine.

Built on sacred land.

The last Head Chef.

Vanished.

The last entry—

“The Zucchini watches you.”

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The day came. Calder’s big reveal. His human-sirloin steak zucchini combo.

A hit with the guests.

Until one bit into a zucchini.

That screamed.

The doors of the restaurant slammed shut.

Themselves.

I luminesced. A telepathic connection–

With Calder.

He began to stew.

Literally.

Besides the steaks.

Justine stood by, back against the wall, trembling.

I didn’t have to tell her.

She either joined us…or became a joint.

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Justine didn’t take.

With one fell blow from a cleaver, she smashed me in two.

She grabbed LPG from under a stove.

Poured the fluid over the floor.

Struck a match.

And ran.

I wasn’t all chopped up.

I was repurposed again.

A chic kitchen island in Justine’s new cooking show.

That whispered—

“It’s not about the finest steak and zucchini–it’s in restraint.”

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If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!

Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.

The Upstairs Neighbour

We celebrate women who make their own way today, with a little one or two in tow—it’s Single Working Women’s Day today.

Being a working man or woman is never easy…being a single parent can exacerbate the pressure.

So we honour the women (and men) who make it through life with grit–and cute, small packages.

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Janine Low’s walk-up apartment was quiet—the quiet of the unknown. The park and street in front of it were lifeless sketches on a canvas: they waited for human additions.

But it at least prevented the procrastination monster from growling—the silent surroundings brought the overworked HR executive a few hours on the online clock while her six-year-old son, Nicholas, recharged his used-up rambunctiousness with sleep.

Single motherhood in metropolitan Singapore was no walk in the park. The loud groans of the HR inbox competed with Nicholas’ endless skateboarding streaks. She typed while the flat whispered.

And relationships were a gladiator cage for the single mother. Her ex’s constant texts “to talk” about their son were constant battles of the Lows.

Work was worse. Fellow HR executive Maddy couldn’t resist the limelight—the credit-stealing aficionado often told the management about work that had been done before she could.

Then, there was the apartment just above. Vacant. A supposed den of zen – yet something kept her up like Nicholas’ metronome on edge.

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Ever the responsible adult single mother, Janine tried to “logic” everything to Nicholas. Chat GPT became her unofficial guru– everything from why flats made noises at night to what happens when children talk to invisible friends.

Busy as she was, she tried to sound out the neighbour upstairs– no one ever did.

At her wit’s end, she approached the building manager.

Another vague reply.

“Oh, her ah.. that apartment…empty since COVID struck. She left…..chiong ah (hurried).

Nicholas didn’t make things much better.

Janine arched over his young shoulder over breakfast one morning. He was occupied by what most 6-year-olds were–stick drawings.

Except that his was–

Of a lady.

Too real.

Janine recognised her at once– she’d never described her to Nicholas.

The lady from the vacant apartment.

The boy merely smiled and looked up.

“She doesn’t like it when you peep.”

Again, childhood fantasy was her comfort rationale.

Until she began to hear noises at night.

Humming.

Ethereal singing.

Footsteps shuffling.

Things started to move.

She left her bedroom slippers turned to the bed- they pointed to the bedroom door in the morning.

It had been locked to prevent Nicholas from skateboard spiralling.

He sketched again the next morning– this time with a caption below the drawing.

“She’s watching.”

Work was a stress bomb that tore her hair out further. Maddy continued her climb up the corporate ladder– kicking the rungs beneath. Her credibility slipped–sleep eluded.

A trusted colleague, Lisa, pulled her aside in the bathroom.

“Hey, is everything all right? You’re looking pale. It’s not just stress is it?”

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Things that would go wrong did.

Printers jammed.

Another proposal vanished.

She thought of the humming she’d heard.

It sounded faintly like–

A lullaby.

From her childhood.

Nicholas brought her another drawing that night.

Her jaw dropped.

One of–

Herself.

With the lady upstairs holding her shoulder.

But the single mother didn’t let that faze her. Something was bleeding through.

And she needed to stem it.

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Janine was exhausted–not by stress, but by the unknown pressing down on her and Nicholas.

She couldn’t just ignore what was happening.

She needed someone’s ears–Lisa’s, the building manager’s–even her ex-mother-in-law’s–but wasn’t sure which would hear–

Without setting off alarm bells that wouldn’t stop ringing.

She plucked up whatever courage she still had and crept upstairs.

Through the dank and darkened corridors of an untouched floor.

The door to the empty apartment was as expected–dust-covered, with paint chipped in too many places. An old shrine stood near it–the tenant hadn’t cleared the altar before she passed–

In the home.

With trembling fingers, she tapped it gently.

No one answered.

She was about to turn away when a whisper pierced the still air.

“Janine…”

A soft click.

Something moved.

A note. Slipped under the doormat.

“Beware….of IT?”

Before she couldn’t figure out what IT meant, the note dissolved–

Into nothing.

She kept typing the word “it” in the document she was working on at work the next day–she couldn’t help herself.

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Then, strange happenings.

In her favour.

Every time Maddy tried to claim her credit, the CC chain would vanish.

Each time she vented about cancelled leave, the system would auto-approve hers.

It seemed like a trade-off with the unknown–one that made her cringe.

But something sparked.

IT was PRIDE. A compelling force.

That stopped the need–

to ask.

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She returned to the apartment that night–

The door was ajar.]

The home felt warm. Strangely welcoming.

On an old table was a sketch of Nicholas–smiling.

Next to him was herself. Calm. A proud mother.

Back at work, she found that Maddy had done the unthinkable–tendered her resignation.

She deleted the word “it” from her working document.

And it retyped.

“I heard, ah.”

The sign off.

“Your neighbour, Ho Kwee (friendly ghost). “

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If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!

Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.

She Smiles And Doesn’t Blink

This day–17 July–is World Emoji Day.

It’s about faces–frozen in planned expression.

It’s all about the masks we wear–

To placate.

To please.

To calm.

But do they placate, please or calm–ourselves?

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Mr. Ding was that constant ghost in the neighbourhood–always smiling, in a suit so well-pressed that irons would heat up in shame. He loomed on one’s memory, like ivy weaving through windows; silent, sudden, impossible to miss. The children spoke of him, unsure whether he was waiting–about the house with lights that flashed dim, dying signals, struggling to keep time.

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The air wrapped its heavy arms around Mr. Ding’s home on Halloween night, but it didn’t seem to have caught the joyfully screaming children on the street.

Still, the lights around his house flickered impatiently, almost aggressively–in slow, twisted time.

Little Liya knocked his front door, driven by candy canes and Hershey’s kisses.

Mr. Ding finally opened it—after a full half hour.

He smiled—in a thin line.

“Trick or treat,” the basket in Liya’s hands trembled.

No candy. He put something else in her hands.

A mask.

“It will keep you safe.” The chill in his eyes didn’t match his smile.

Liya grasped the mask in her hands–one that covered more than she knew

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The air wrapped its heavy arms around Mr. Ding’s home on Halloween night, but it didn’t seem to have caught the joyfully screaming children on the street.

Still, the lights around his house flickered impatiently, almost aggressively–in slow, twisted time.

Little Liya knocked his front door, driven by candy canes and Hershey’s kisses.

Mr. Ding finally opened it—after a full half hour.

He smiled—in a thin line.

“Trick or treat,” the basket in Liya’s hands trembled.

No candy. He put something else in her hands.

A mask.

“It will keep you safe.” The chill in his eyes didn’t match his smile.

Liya grasped the mask in her hands–one that covered more than she knew.

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Liya walked away from Mr Ding’s home, her steps anchored by an unseen weight. Halloween revellers scattered all over the path before her, walking with joy that was–

Off.

Children walked by her without a glance backwards. She was transparent glass to the adults.

And her voice? It wasn’t her own. Her mother acknowledged that with a pale face.

The mask wasn’t in her hands.

She glanced at herself in the hallway mirror.

A shriek that nearly broke it.

She made desperate clutches at her face.

No feeling.

Her smile wouldn’t disappear.

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Halloween returned a year later, with Liya at home.

Her silhouette in the window.

Passersby who looked up walked past faster than their legss would carry them.

She couldn’t move. Wouldn’t– or couldn’t–talk.

But she could smile.

It was the only thing she could do.

Mr. Ding’s home no longer flickered– the pulse of the lights were even.

Satisfied.

There were knocks on Mr. Ding’s door.

Another child. Just a child.

Naively asking for treats.

At least, until Mr. Ding and Liya opened the door.

And Liya held out a tray, the permanent smile stretched across her face.

With a mask that he would wear to placate someone. Please someone. Calm someone.

But not himself.

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If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!

Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.

Snowball and the Conservatory

The loudest words are heard–in silence.

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Snowball and her owner, Michelle, loved the rustic charm of Weston–the lush, green fields and countless apple orchards made it every little dog’s dream.

And the neighbours. Weston was the sort of town where everyone knew everyone else. Friendship among Westonites was not optional–it was expected.

And so Weston basked in its sameness.

Until Elly, a hard-of-hearing teen, found a letter in her mailbox.

Coded.

In tactile morse.

Pointing her to Room 12, West Conservatory.

Of course, Snowball wanted to get her nose into everything.

Literally.

Tail wagging, she walked up to Elly, who held it limp in her hand.

But the little West Highland Terrier whined—before touching it.

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“Snowball, fetch.” Snowball, as usual, hid her expert recall skills.

“Hey, you know how to return that! Stop fibbing!” Michelle threw her hands up in the air. “All right, no reward.”

Snowball snuck forward and sat, cocking a contrite ear.

“Well, can’t get angry with you.” Michelle gave the mischievous pup a ruffle.

Their rhythm broke.

Elly.

She approached them, the letter in hand.

Michelle straightened herself, on instant edge.

Elly’s usual off-the-wall demeanour was–

Different.

Her hands were moving faster than an expert typist’s.

And Snowball–well–wasn’t Snowball.

The little dog fixed her gaze on Elly, her tail pointed straight up.

But Elly finally spoke.

“Michelle–I need to find out what’s going on with this.”She waved the letter. News travelled fast around Weston–it had reached Michelle two hours after the fact.

“Can I borrow Snowball? She bristled before I could even show the letter to you. Perhaps she sniffed something I couldn’t feel.”

Determination covered Elly’s face. She wasn’t asking lightly–this was personal.

Michelle drew back and stared, without a word.

At first.

But Snowball went over to Elly and sat by her.

Michelle’s gaze darted from her neighbour to her dog.

Its back arched and tense.

She finally spoke.

“Ok, just for a while.”

The little dog didn’t choose this case. It chose her.

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Michelle watched Snowball settle beside Elly.

But the little dog wasn’t sitting right.

Snowball wasn’t–relaxed.

Michelle knew it wasn’t her paranoia.

It was gut instinct.

She stepped forward, taking the letter from Elly’s shaking hands.

She read it, wordless.

After a while, she looked up.

“I know something about this. I’m so sorry the conservatory fire took your grandfather.” She continued, carefully. “You’re not the first in Weston to go looking for answers. But something there shouldn’t be–woken.”

She paused.

“Westonites say someone left the fire–quietly. Your grandad–” She placed a gentle hand on Elly’s shoulder–“Might have known something he shouldn’t.”

She continued.

“Room 12 is now locked. I know you need answers. Take Ball with you.”

The little dog looked up at her in acknowledgement.

“But if she starts barking–RUN.”

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The West Conservatory was a mass of burnt ruins.

Fenced off.

Broken vines.

Rotting wood–a foul scent.

Snowball and Elly crept in and were greeted by burnt walls and warped metal.

On the floor was sheet music, half-melted.

Room numbers on the charred oak doors were visible–barely.

The girl and dog sensed that the building hadn’t just burned.

It wanted.

Room 12 wanted.

Closure hadn’t touched it–yet.

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Elly and Snowball stepped in front of Room 12’s half-hinged door.

She gripped the door handle.

Inside was a charred piano–the odour of burnt wood assailed her nostrils. On top of it sat a box labelled–

For Songbird.

Someone had addressed it–to her.

She pried the tactile morse lid open. Inside was a reel recorder. A taped confession.

Snowball snarled.

Guttural.

Low.

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Fingers shaking but brave, Elly pressed the recorder button.

Soft, measured footsteps.

A tape-recorded message.

“You were never meant to find this. But somehow, I hoped you would.”

In front of them stood an older man, his hand scarred. His face, half-burnt, bore no recognition of Elly.

But he did know Snowball.

He faced the dog.

Snowball bared her teeth.

“You should have stayed out of this.” He waved a knife in front of the little Westie.

It hit Elly.

The knife.

The voice.

The scar.

Grandpa’s killer.

Bob Greene, the conservatory’s main conductor.

His green eyes couldn’t ignore her Grandad’s success with the conservatory’s students.

The fire was not about silence–it was about secrets.

Elly placed the recorder within hearing reach.

She recalled Michelle’s warning.

“If she barks….”

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Snowball barked–she wasn’t friendly.

Michelle’s warning rang louder in Elly’s head.

She ran to the door.

Snowball stayed, growling. She slowly approached the man.

“You were never meant to find this…”

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The tape-recorded message triggered the sprinkler system–set by Elly’s grandpa.

It left an escape route–just for her–and a very wet Greene.

She’d heard the truth.

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Elly darted out of the conservatory, soaked but safe. Snowball shook off the sprinkler’s water, the daylight creating rainbow hues within each droplet.

Elly was pale.

But resolute.

Nearby was Michelle–waiting for them, face worried.

The two girls exchanged glances–wordless, but ripe with meaning.

A shared secret.

A shared protector.

Snowball.

The dog that knew what no one else did.

Snowball rested her head in Elly’s lap.

The loudest barks are heard–in silence.

The Room Above

Da Xiang had all been forgotten–an obscure village tucked away in Pulau Udang’s remote woods. As if someone had grown the trees to seal it off.

The forests of Pulau Udang were dense.

Dark.

Morose areas of troubled vegetation–except for a colonial terrace, once clothed in European grandeur.

Its walls were now lined with overgrown bougainvillea, its rooms–the room–cages of grief.

Trauma therapist Clara Lum’s own trauma still left mental scars. Scars left by the room in the abode of affluence–that she had not discussed with anyone for 18 years.

Then, her mother passed.

Clara knew that the past didn’t rest until faced and buried. And doors, though familiar, never opened the same way twice.

That pulled her back to the house–home remembered differently.

Perhaps better. Perhaps not.

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Planning to sort out the nitty gritty of the estate’s matters, Clara reluctantly moved in.

But she avoided the room upstairs.

The room.

Until the third night, when she finally heard a familiar, but unwanted hum.

Carina’s lullaby.

She opened the room door a tiny crack. The things inside were just as she left them 18 years earlier–two made beds, a shared diary, and a window, still ajar.

But the status quo didn’t remain.

She searched for her therapist’s notes before a meeting one afternoon and found them.

Not unusual.

Except they were covered in blood.

And in the bathroom attached to the room where she slept, a second toothbrush.

She fell asleep, though not without tossing and turning.

A familiar little girl appeared in her dreams.

Laughing.

Then, a voice she’d heard before–and never wanted to again.

Repetition in its cruellest form.

It was a reckoning—a homecoming in disguise.

Clara entered the room again the next day—not by choice.

She found herself there.

Awake.

Ten years earlier, with HER in it.

With Carina.

But her sister’s eyes were—Wrong. Unseeing.

“Let’s play again. But now, you’ll hide.”

Mouth rounded in a silent scream, she backed towards the door.

But the scene before her shifted.

Reset.

“Let’s play again. But now, you’ll hide.”

There was no window. No door.

It wasn’t déjà vu—A loop.

A trap.

Made by Carina.

Clara wasn’t coming home.

She was a substitute.

Clara left the house.

Without Carina in it.

Just a blank, upstairs room.

She never returned.

She didn’t need to.

In her therapist practice, a new patient.

With features too similar.

Her sister had died, breathless, in a crawlspace.

Because she didn’t help her out.

Refused to.

She had been too angry.

She smiled faintly at her new patient.

The new patient’s name?

What else.

She fixed an empathetic gaze on young Clara, her new patient.

The girl was morose.

Quiet, refusing to speak.

But Clara the adult sensed that her young charge had the potential to break free.

To redeem.

“Let’s discuss how it felt to be in the same house with Carina a second time…”

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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.

The Vacant Chair

The nondescript youth centre was where Jia wanted to work –understated, with angsty youth who needed a hand-up, not a handout.

The 33-year-old counsellor had her work cut out for her. The knives below her underprivileged charges’ feet made them bare their teeth; budget cuts made designing revolutionary programs near impossible; staff came into the workspace bleary-eyed and walking on tenterhooks.

In fear of what, Jia couldn’t understand. She stared at the vacant workspace before her.

But one name always surfaced.

Elaine.

Elaine had been the counsellor before her, now painfully absent.

The Counsellees’ favourite, not least because —

she connected.

No photos of her, no files. Her desk was empty, save for a poster board filled with Post-It notes with her signature motivational quips, the handwriting on it cursive.

Rounded.

Heartfelt.

An empty chair remained, rooted –like a full-stop no one dared to position.

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The first few days at the centre were an emotional tidal wave for Jia. Her teen charges wanted another Elaine –her handwriting. Listening ears.

Heart.

They spoke of her as if she still graced the community centre’s halls —

“She told me my silence still meant.”

Elaine was not cut from the typical counsellor’s cloth. She didn’t talk at them –she talked with them. She did things that mattered.

She knew their phone numbers at the back of her hand.

She used nicknames.

She let them draw on the table with erasable ink –to vent.

She let them sit under desks —

To cry.

When they needed space.

She was a counselling welterweight –impossible to overlook.

Desperate to live up to expectations, Jia scoured through employment records –but no Elaine.

The teen’s stories didn’t match.

She was a heavy whisper –invisible but felt.

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One of the centre’s regulars, Khai, had visited after hitting his mother –she had just told him about the divorce.

But it was Counsellor Jia.

Not Elaine.

Jia froze, tongue-tied.

A frazzled Khai stormed out of the room.

She sat behind her desk in the office, face wet, sobs almost strangling her.

She felt the community centre and its charges slipping through her fingers.

She remained behind her desk after everyone left, furiously typing.

“Dear Mr. Lim,

It has been a pleasure working for you. However, the teenagers who come here need someone…they know.”

She couldn’t help the ellipsis.

She later returned to the counselling room, eager to collect her counselling materials.

She didn’t find them —

Not at first.

In their place was Elaine’s chair.

With a sticky note attached.

Addressed to Khai.

“The quiet ones may not speak. But they listen. And hug.”

Dated –the next day.

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She paid the director of the community centre a much-needed visit.

But not to resign.

“Mr. Lim,” Jia raised her voice –a few decibels above its usual pitch. “I need the truth.”

He glanced at Elaine’s chair for a long moment.

“Alright, young lady. I know these last weeks have been tough –we do have a handful here. You deserve to know.”

He paused.

For a long while.

“You see, there was –is — has never been an Elaine. We created her to encourage the kids, to give them someone to believe in.

“Each time she was to conduct a session, one of us would try to do something quirky –to help them connect with us. With themselves.”

He paused again.

“The kids began to create their images of her. Then, she became everything.”

Jia dropped her files.

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Mr. Lim’s revelation stayed with Jia –all night.

She tossed and turned beneath her blankets.

But the lightbulb lit.

Elaine was not a fraud –she was hope. A name given to comfort in the worst moments. To build needed courage.

Jia didn’t erase her. But she did pen stickies –in Elaine’s signature rounded cursives.

She placed them under desks, in bags, under books.

From Elaine.

And one day, she received one.

Taped to her chair.

On it: “With love, from someone who needs to learn.”

Elaine –now Jia, was Care. When no one else could be.

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Elaine’s empty chair remained.

Jia sat in it when she needed her inspiration.

At other times, she left it vacant. Just in case one of the teens needed to find a sticky note on it.

The room was now warm –with her memory.

She still lived, in what she thought.

In what Jia did.

The chair always felt warm.

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Original story by Michelle Liew. AI tags are coincidental.

Chronicles of Snowball: Tale of the Invisible Tail

This Young Adult/Adult inspiration is led by Snowball, the self-appointed grand dame of my apartment complex. And A West Highland Terrier (Westie).

She wasn’t given the job –she claimed it.

She watches. Listens. And knows more than most.

This story is for anyone who’s had their life shaped in the best way by a furry heart on four legs.

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Weston. Where waves breathed softly, seagulls conversed in low tones, and animals knew more than they should.

In Weston, dogs had instincts sharper than fishooks. Snowball the West Highland White Terrier was the town’s proactive guardian–she was a Westie who sniffed out more than good bacon.

She usually couldn’t resist the lure of the ones that her owner, Michelle, usually fried up fresh. But that day, she hung back.

For a silent shadow, clinging ominously to Weston’s only lighthouse keeper.

She only barked when it mattered. This day, it did.

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Because Old Dan, Weston’s only lighthouse keeper, had started wandering, leaving the lighthouse completely unattended.

Flummoxed Westoners worried that the old stalwart had started to lose his mind.

Snowball’s nose twitched. Old Dan may have lost his mind…and something else.

The little Scottish canine gumshoe followed him…to nothing.

Her neighbour, Pockets the Cat, provided a little wit –and back alley wisdom.

“Why don’t we sneak into his house? He has a doggy door.” She purred. “Besides, he may drop one of his smelly herrings.”

Now, Snowball knew how to find herring – and ghosts of the heart. Some truths didn’t bark loudly –they whispered their aches.

She and her feline sidekick sneaked into Dan’s terrace house on an

afternoon when work at the lighthouse kept him rooted to his post.

The animal gumshoes sneaked in.

Everything was as uncluttered –Dan was a Marie Kondo fanboy.

The Westie poked her nose into each dust-free corner. No unusual scents.

Until she got to the bedroom closet.

Her busy nostrils tracked an old coat –belonging to Dan’s late wife.

Then, sobs. Hollow, sniffling echoes filled the room. Truth had the scent of old memories –and gentle perfume.

Snowball hadn’t just sniffed out a coat –she had smelt a secret.

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Dan wasn’t the host to a ghost –he was the lighthouse keeper of grief.

The little Westie grabbed the coat with her mouth and brought it to the white cliffs of Weston, Pockets in tow.

And yes, she blended in with the scenery. Dan didn’t see her.

He stared out at the sea.

Hoping. For a return.

Snowall dropped the coat in front of him with a nudge of her nose.

Not all ghosts rattle chains –Dan’s wife stayed in his closet.

Waiting.

To comfort.

Pockets purred, her long, grey tail wrapping around Dan’s ankle.

The pets hadn’t banished ghosts –they reminded them that they once loved.

Are loved.

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Old Dan returned to his lighthouse post and remained the Weston’s sea security.

His neighbours learned to love silence -not muted calm. Quiet, with small things making a difference.

Snowball’s reward? A doggy treat from Michelle and a huge cuddle. And a job as the lighthouse’s animal sentinel.

The little West Highland Terrier and Pockets sat beside Dan, the wind carrying his love for his wife out to sea.

They hadn’t chased her away –they’d made her stay.

But quietly. Like a pawstep. With gentle sighs, like purrs.

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If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! ☕Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!

Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.