The Heart’s Berlin

The Berlin Wall fell this day, November 9th, 1989.

It took just one night for its pieces to shatter.

The walls that surround hearts can take a lifetime to break.

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50-year-old Thomas Weiss stood before a crumbling wall, wielding a hammer he wasn’t sure he wanted to use. His wife, Hannah, and twin sons had resided in the free zone for years–because she wanted to.

The wall had come down in 1989–ten years to this day. The shattered pieces lay on the ground, waiting to come together.

Thomas wondered if they would–but some walls sealed hearts.

And stood taller.

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Youngsters still came to hack at the bricks that hadn’t yet given way, breaking out in raucous hollers as they did.

Thomas watched them, his memories more dislodged with each blow of the hammer. Each cheer he heard felt like an accusation—like Hannah’s last words to him.

He wasn’t sure he envied the wall for coming down.

Before he slammed the door of the family home–sharper than the barbed wire that accompanied the bricks.

A young man spotted him standing, still in a reverie. He stretched out his hand–a small piece of the wall lay in his palm.

Thomas hesitated. He wasn’t sure if it was just unwanted history coming apart, or a piece of his own heart.

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His wife appeared amidst the dust and fallen wall splinters.

Older.

Strange.

The shadow of the wall that was, stood between them–too real.

Freedom felt foreign–the hardest reunions were the ones one didn’t prepare for.

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He dropped his hammer, the crowd’s joy flooding over him. He and Hannah didn’t embrace–but stood together.

Breathing the air of freedom for the first time–

In decades.

Their unity had begun—in silence.

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As dawn broke, the wall had nearly crumbled completely. The crowd had vanished, save for a few stragglers.

The bricks had come apart in just one night in 1989. His peace with Hannah would take a lifetime of rebuilding.

The Berlin wall had finally fallen. The one in his heart–still solid brick.

And had to shatter–within.

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

The Keyhole Mysteries Story 2: The Keyhole Journalist

Some stories are written only by the heart.

πŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈ

Jun Park’s world was made of words—his apartment was plastered from floor to ceiling with old newspaper clippings. No one could ignore the musty scent of ink and yellowed paper when they stepped inβ€”it clung to the air, heavy with stories long out of mind.

There were so many articles that he could no longer read them all.

But they were his muse.

The need sparked a little spontaneity.

He remembered a ladder he stored in a seldom-used room–one that he had subletted for ready cash, until work took the tenant to another city.  

As he approached, a faint, bluish hue caught his eye–it leaked under the door, like a crooked finger, drawing him to his next write. 

πŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈ

The key to the room, coated in rust, no longer turned. 

But curiosity piqued, he gazed through the keyhole in its door–

A girl run over by a truck.

He himself, taking photographs for an article, among a crowd of curious onlookers.

On another night, a man, grasping his heart, collapsed on the ground. 

Again himself. His camera, furiously clicking.

πŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈ

One evening, he glimpsed a figure he knew too well–his younger self, standing over a table of articles. 

He met his own eyes, across the line of time. 

Beckoning him.

He paused–then knew.

πŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈ

His articles had never left him–only waited for him to write–

Anew.

With more heart. 

He threw the door open. The room was empty except for one finished article, freshly written, in a typewriter on an old desk. 

“Begin again.”

Jun knew that his writing would come to life with a clear, throbbing heartbeat.

That some articles were finished with spirit. 

What faded from the eyes came to life–

With soul.

πŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈπŸ–ŠοΈ

If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee β€” it keeps the words flowing and the lights 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 Glimpse: Tales Through the Keyhole

She saw too much.

πŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”’

Marilyn had just moved into the remote, backwater town of Scaresdale– not willingly.

The teen’s life was a jigsaw puzzle she was trying to put together within a new frame– and new town.

She and her family had just finished freeing a row of cartons of their contents–

Finally.

Some time to explore.

Hide and Go Seek occupied the children–

It was time for Marilyn to do some exploring of her own.

Somehow, the attic had become her center of attention.

An irresistible magnet.

She stepped in, and saw–

A door.

After fiddling about with it for 10 minutes, it was time to put up the white flag.

Then, a shadow beneath it caught her eye.

Sounds of movement within the space– it had to be a room– next door.

A wooden door– locked.

A curious beam of light from the shaft below.

Marylin’s hands tugged at the stubborn handle.

It didn’t budge.

She peered through the keyhole.

A flash of red.

πŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”’

Rapid motion. Too quick. Too final.

An odd shape.

Familiar– yet not.

It recoiled from her vision–

As if knowing it had been seen.

πŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”’

Marilyn froze, unsure whether to open the door–

Or run for her life.

The shadow broke apart in her mind, filling the empty spaces-

With dread.

That she couldn’t name.

The air pressed harder, swallowing her.

Her breath seemed to strangle– not relieve.

The room shrank, sandwiching her between its walls.

πŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”’

The shadow enlarged, morphing into different shapes.

Then, distorted, creeping sounds below the door.

It crept up in different spaces–

Dark corners of the room.

On the glass.

On the television screen.

πŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”’

The walls pulsed with voiceless whispers–

Terrifyingly quiet.

Beyond the keyhole–

Arms overlapping.

A smell of lavender perfume–too familiar.

Two shadows–

Close to her in age.

Too familial.

Clear– in her mind.

πŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘

Marilyn bounced a step back from the keyhole, a wrench around her mind.

The familiar, familial shadows.

The lavender perfume she knew too well.

The arms wrapping. Too close.

The scenes replayed in a mental tape recorder–

Gone awry.

πŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘

Marylin’s hand hovered above the doorknob–

But didn’t turn it.

Her finger stayed in place.

Numb.

Should she?

The family.

Her eye caught a photograph of them on the wall.

All smiles at her 6th-year birthday party.

The glass was cracked.

πŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘

The room felt–

Smaller.

Cramped.

Beyond the keyhole–

The familiar shadows still moved, too close.

The whispering of the walls grew louder.

Her mind swiveled–

To open the door,

Not.

A dark heaviness descended on her shoulders.

Her heart throbbed, an erratic rhythm.

Figures in the photograph she knew–

And loved.

This.

Her fingers wrapped around the door knob–

But couldn’t pull.

Cold sweat dripped down her fingers.

She had seen too much.

Ready–

To snap.

πŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘

The teenager couldn’t move.

She stood still, unable to speak.

Beyond the keyhole, the shadows diminished.

Finally.

But not in her mind.

The smell of the familiar perfume lingered in the air–

The scent too cloying.

The imprint remained.

Covered in mental dust.

A stain that wouldn’t vanish no matter how much remover she used.

Never entirely swept away.

The print wrapped itself around her mind–

When it stopped to see.

πŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”’

Marilyn visited the house years later-

In her litigator’s capacity.

Her father had bequeathed it to her.

He felt he owed it.

A debt he could never repay in full.

The other familiar figure–

Too present.

At get-togethers. Family events.

Always kind.

Offering hugs and love.

Even support when she needed it.

But never comfort.

She had seen too much–

Through that keyhole–

But thankfully–

Didn’t snap.

πŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”‘πŸ”’πŸ—οΈπŸ•³οΈπŸ”‘πŸ”’

Original keyhole mystery by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. AI tags are coincidental.

If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee β€” it keeps the words flowing and the lights 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 Filament Shines

William Long was put out. The disgruntled electrician lacked a social life–the thirty-something-year-old spent most of his days in a garage, fiddling with light bulbs that flickered at will and lamps that emitted buzzing noises that grated on the ears.

Still, he kept the lights on–literally. Not for profit–

But for love.

Of his eleven-year-old daughter, whose giggles had once turned the atmosphere in the garage from mere electric static into sparkling fireworks.  

He was a craftsman consumed by glow.

And memory.  

Each flicker spoke of her.

The divorce.

No interaction in years.

So he couldn’t keep the garage silent–the quietness hummed, flooding his mind with tears he couldn’t shed.

At least not openly.

πŸ’‘βš‘πŸ”§πŸ› οΈβœ¨πŸ’‘βš‘πŸ”§πŸ› οΈβœ¨πŸ’‘πŸ’‘βš‘πŸ”§πŸ› οΈβœ¨πŸ’‘βš‘πŸ”§πŸ› οΈβœ¨πŸ’‘πŸ’‘βš‘πŸ”§πŸ› οΈβœ¨πŸ’‘βš‘πŸ”§

One evening, the cats and dogs came down in humongous litters.The buzz of half-reparied bulbs flooded the garage.  William scrambled from his desk to answer a frantic knock on the door.

He opened it to a teen girl, soaked to the skin. Her parka and umbrella offered no protection.

Something in her eyes stirred something in William.

In her slender young hands was a battered desk lamp.

Dark. Obviously not functioning.

The girl held it up with a sheepish grin.

“Sir, could you get this working again? I’m sorry that I can’t pay you. All I ask is that it works again.”

William noticed how gently she held the lamp.

He took it from her, albeit unwillingly.

As he tinkered with it, he observed her eyes on him.

Watchful and meticulous, as though offering guidance.

With a knowing gentleness.

The lamp flickered as William continued his work, but the girl was a picture of calm.

Finally, a faint hum.

“I know this lamp isn’t the best, ” It was as though she was reading his mind. ” I onlywant it to shine.”

At that moment, William knew what the lamp was for–not its steadiness or quality, but its presence.

πŸ’‘βš‘πŸ”§πŸ› οΈβœ¨πŸ’‘βš‘πŸ”§πŸ› οΈβœ¨πŸ’‘πŸ’‘βš‘πŸ”§πŸ› οΈβœ¨πŸ’‘βš‘πŸ”§πŸ› οΈβœ¨πŸ’‘πŸ’‘βš‘πŸ”§πŸ› οΈβœ¨πŸ’‘βš‘πŸ”§

Some tweaking from the electrician, and steady light.

Though it wasn’t the brightest.

William hissed under his breath, ready to admit defeat. But the teen stepped closer.

She patted him on the shoulder. A familiar touch.

“It’s glowing. That’s all you needed to do for me. All it needed to do. All I needed.”

She left the garage with the lamp, turning back with a nod and a smile that he knew–

But couldn’t place.

Then, on a shelf behind his workbench, a photograph.

Of the girl.

He still didn’t know her. But felt her.

Tugging at his heart in ways too knowing.

Weeks, later, the teen girl returned.

The same knowing presence.

She showed him how she placed the lamp on her desk so she could study.

She left again, not telling him who she was.

Or about the photograph she had left on the shelf.

He smiled, somehow content—

With acceptance–and a little unconfirmed mystery.

If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee β€” it keeps the words flowing and the lights 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 Cat Remembers

t waits…for payment.

πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›

The estate of Hollowmere in Langsville was quiet–but whispers often broke the silence. So did —

Cats.

A black cat that watched walls. 

Hushed rumours surrounded Shadow, a black feline whose presence crept up on souls near the end of their time. 

It didn’t sear with its claws–it signalled. 

Calling for them to cross the inevitable bridge. 

To a shunned, inevitable fate. 

Dr. Elara Vines had retreated to the quirky county for a little reprieve–to escape scrutinizing eyes after a botched experiment.

On pets–she had wanted to see how long they would survive without owners.

But whispers stalked her–too furtively. 

Her professional explanation? Erratic human psyche.

But it could explain only so much-the cat had made its selection. 

And she, Elara, was the chosen. 

πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›

The soft murmuring didn’t do much to scare the workaholic in Elara–her lab was a haven for research notes and digitized scientific data. 

Then they–

Disappeared. Becoming–

Cats. Or unexplained, random sketches of them, lining the walls. 

Those same walls throbbed, breathing with a sure, yet petrifying rhythm as she lay in bed, tossing–fear stabbed in an uneven, broken rhythm. 

And she was too aware of its presence. 

Black. 

Svelte. 

Cryptic. 

Too quiet. 

She saw its reflection in her mirror each evening, each time drawing closer–

And closer. 

Its reflection smiled–Cheshire. Mocking. 

The wallpaper moved–and changed–beneath her fingers. 

Hollowmere had to pay its dues–and the cat was waiting. 

πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›

The cat was starting to grate at–and scare–the typically stoic Elara. 

That the cat could literally make its presence felt—gnawed at her scientific nerves. 

She began to search for the source of its reflection–with chiseled knocks on the wall.

Hoping to find something–anything hidden within the walls that would explain the feline presence. 

Seven days of chiseling–and a crack.

It widened.

Becoming a space for her small frame. 

She stepped in…

To sheer morbidity. 

Rotten remains clutching–

A cat’s smiling skeleton. 

Then, it stepped in. 

Stealthy. 

Silent. 

Its shadow—

Parted from its body. 

Becoming the silhouette.

A woman’s.

Along with sheer fear was stark realisation. 

Elara had fed the cat.

Not with food, but with remorse.

Guilt.

Of her failed experiment. 

πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›

A few months later, a discovery by the home’s new tenants. 

A closing journal entry–

In Elara’s unsteady hand. 

“The cat’s aware. It waits for payment.”

The manor’s landlord made it available for rent again–

It stayed clean.

Quiet.

Empty. 

Except for something–

Svelte. 

Black. 

Eyes glaring with knowledge. 

Glowing with want. 

Some cats never forget. 

πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›πŸˆβ€β¬›

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

The Moon Gives

Nature gives, yet some forget its cost.

πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™

The moon’s glow absorbed the night sky in the village of Lunardom.

A constant presence.

Lunardom couldn’t recall what kept it there.

What kept it strong.

The villagers revelled in its beauty, thenβ€”

The sky opened in eerie silence.

No moon.

Or rising tides,  with the pulse of its gravity.

But everything feltβ€”wrong.

The night forgot itselfβ€”

Becoming restlessβ€”and so did the rest of the sleeping world.

πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™

The forest near Lyra teemed with wildlifeβ€”not wild in the way we knew.

Birds didn’t chirpβ€”they whispered. Howls replaced the croak of frogs. Wolves sangβ€”humanlike tones that crept up spines and froze them.

A silver glow teased the surfaces of mirrors and puddlesβ€”but it wasn’t the light of the moon.

But its mimic.

Lyra was out collecting firewood one afternoon when on her wristβ€”

A mark.

It moved.

Syncing with the rhythmic movements of somethingβ€”

Unseen.

And so the path to the unknown openedβ€”in ways that would unsettle and shape Lyra’sβ€”and the forest’s core.  

The shifting mark unnerved the typically stoic Lyra-

Who, ever the heroine, embarked on a quest to settle it.

Then, an old journal in the attic.

One with pages that told ofβ€”the Lunarkin.

Ancient guardians of the moon.

Her mindβ€”and all she knew-unravelled like spools of tangled thread.

πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™

Lyra followed the mark’s irresistible pull to the lake.

It too, behaved erratically, rippling upward to the surface instead of outward, defying and reconstructing gravity.

Then, she caught sight of herself.

Not her.

But a creature of light and bone

The guardianβ€”or captorβ€”of the Moon.

The being spoke, its voice thundering and gravelly.

β€œThe Lunarkin have damaged the ancient tether beyond repair.” It intoned to the trembling girl.

β€œThe void must have one descendant before it will be satisfied.”

The mark on Lyra’s arm spreadβ€”and pulled her.

Toward the water.

The void had made clear which descendant it wanted.

But the brave girl wasn’t about to let history repeat itself.

With a quick, practiced flick of her wrist, she sliced off her palm.

And offered it to the omnipresent, sentient being.

Then, a petrifying burst of silver.

Shards flew.

The surrounding light did an upward pirouette, andβ€”a new moon pieced itself against the dark skyline.

Lyra’s reflectionβ€”gone.

πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™

The moon steadied itself in the night sky, its light now pale and flickering.

As if recalling its shattering.

Tides surged once more. Birds called with resounding chirps. Wolves howled, hailing the moon’s presence.

But their rhythm broke through the forest in distended fragments.

Nature’s poor mimicry of normalcy.

Lyra’s reflection was no more. But ripples formed in puddles at the sound of her name.

The village cheered the moon’s return, welcoming it with feasts and dancesβ€”forgetting the girl who gave.

Beneath the surface of the lake, a gentle, silver shimmer, shaped in a palm.

Throbbing intently with the moon’s rise.

Paying what was due the Moon.

πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™

The world continued, but lighter.

Lonelier.

The moon always graced Lunardom’s sky, but with a familiar face that took on its dim, sad glow.

Forgotten

πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™β­πŸŒ™

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

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

The Silence in Her Hands

Today, October 6th, is when the Nobel Peace Prize winners start being announced.

Peace is lived, not viewedβ€”-through the eyes of a child.

πŸ•ŠοΈπŸŒΏπŸ•ŠοΈπŸŒΏπŸ•ŠοΈπŸŒΏπŸ•ŠοΈπŸŒΏπŸ•ŠοΈπŸŒΏπŸ•ŠοΈ

Home was alien to Eunice; it was her first time back there after years of documenting conflicts in war-torn countries.

The house remained as it was when she left her parents and the neighborhoodβ€”a decrepit riverside garden, walls overwhelmed by creeping bougainvillea,

Yet, the vibrance of the flowers locked the eyes of the young photojournalist.

The creeping vines throbbed with an unrest that mirrored hersβ€”

Permanent and unresolved.

She stepped into the garden as though it was a shattered fragment of the world she now knewβ€”chasms of chaos.

Even in the silence, she recalled the roar of broken cities.

She breathed in the still air and shut her eyes.

Broken buildings.

The holler of exploding bombs.

πŸ•ŠοΈπŸŒΏπŸ•ŠοΈπŸŒΏπŸ•ŠοΈπŸŒΏπŸ•ŠοΈπŸŒΏπŸ•ŠοΈπŸŒΏπŸ•ŠοΈ

Eunice tried to realign with life as it should beβ€”

Normal and uneventful.

Bomb free.

But falling bombs and the cries of motherless children were stalkers she could not shake off

Her camera lingered, untouched, on a shelf.

She volunteered at a local community center, trying to forget the unsettling images she had captured for Life magazine.

Images with an unrelenting grip.

Then, she met Tomo.

The five-year-old was hard of speechβ€”his drawings spoke for him.

Louder than the spoken word.

The children he played with drew to his silence.

The surreal calm of the mountains and lakes he painted.

Children who played together, the colours of the skin and mind linked—

Not a barrier.

πŸ•ŠοΈπŸŒΏπŸ•ŠοΈπŸŒΏπŸ•ŠοΈπŸŒΏπŸ•ŠοΈπŸŒΏπŸ•ŠοΈπŸŒΏπŸ•ŠοΈ

On an afternoon at the centre, hollers that kissed the sound barrier.

Human tsunamis formed in the city streets, swallowing buildings.

A fire had consumed a building nearby.

Screams.

Anarchy.

Fragments of Eunice’s mind.

The nightmares she had borne, that her heart now unfollowed.

The photo journalist within reached for her camera, then stopped.

Realisation gripped her arms.

πŸ•ŠοΈπŸŒΏπŸ•ŠοΈπŸŒΏπŸ•ŠοΈπŸŒΏπŸ•ŠοΈπŸŒΏπŸ•ŠοΈπŸŒΏπŸ•ŠοΈ

One that she followed. She helped to lead the children in two lines, an adult picture of calm, down the fire escape.

Firefighters doused the raging flames in a matter of minutes.

She helped to bring the charred garden back to lifeβ€”to a place of reflection, community, and shared stillness.

And came to know that peace couldn’t just arrive; it had to came in parts, with gestures of gratitude, sincerity, and above allβ€”

Tolerance.

πŸ•ŠοΈπŸŒΏπŸ•ŠοΈπŸŒΏπŸ•ŠοΈπŸŒΏπŸ•ŠοΈπŸŒΏπŸ•ŠοΈπŸŒΏπŸ•ŠοΈ

Eunice left the camera behind, an unwanted memory puzzle piece, forever.

She had to live, not capture, stories of peace.

Her eyes fell on Tomo, sketching a dove in the garden.

The world she left behind raged, but the garden buzzed with gentle truth.

And the quietest personsβ€” and momentsβ€”held the greatest power.

πŸ•ŠοΈπŸŒΏπŸ•ŠοΈπŸŒΏπŸ•ŠοΈπŸŒΏπŸ•ŠοΈπŸŒΏπŸ•ŠοΈπŸŒΏπŸ•ŠοΈ

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

The Perfect Putt

Every perfect swing has its price.

β›³πŸƒβœ¨πŸŒ«οΈπŸŒοΈβ€β™€οΈ

Lara stood on the championship golf course, waiting for the tee-off. Whispers drifted from the stands–everyone wanted to see if she would return.
A title that was hers–unless fate planned otherwise.
The murmurs of the crowd were far away–as if the world had converged on that grass patch.
She felt the familiar hunger of ambition, in answer to the crowd.
Too loud, too urgent.
Then a glint that drew her gaze.
Waiting
Patient.
Demanding.
From the 7th tee.
The others were too caught up in the game to notice.
The smell of cut grass strengthened and swallowed.
Around her, leaves blew, rustling–
Without wind.
But a warning.

Lara reached downward, her fingers wrapping around the glinting tee.
The shot was too perfect.
Straight and equidistant.
Of course, cameras did equally perfect zooms. The commentators hailed the miracle
Then the green grass around it wilted, and the sand split.
Fissures appeared on a nearby mound.
A lone red robin appeared on it–
Dead.
Her caddy hollered a warning; not that the officials heard.
But she was too close to the title to stop her swing.
A crack.
Under her feet.
Lara kept swinging and winning.
Each swing carved into the mound, making cracks.
Deeper and deeper.

β›³πŸƒβœ¨πŸŒ«οΈπŸŒοΈβ€β™€οΈ

Lara took her final swing.
The ground responded, trembling more than the St. Andreas Fault.
The fissures were invisible–at least to the clamouring spectators.
Roaring the win.
They raced towards her, unknown to them.
But Lara knew–
Her perfect putt had carved too deep.
The trophy was within sight–
On cracking ground.

β›³πŸƒβœ¨πŸŒ«οΈπŸŒοΈβ€β™€οΈ

The spectators cheered in a roaring wave, moving forward, oblivious to the danger.
The ground beneath Lara crumbled into a gaping hole.
Wider.
And wider.
Applause rose, blind to the widening chasm.
She grasped the trophy–
The Earth gave way faster than a sonic boom.
She had to decide–to hold with both hands and fall–
Pride’s prey.
Or release—
And breathe. At last.

β›³πŸƒβœ¨πŸŒ«οΈπŸŒοΈβ€β™€οΈ

Lara’s fingers were in iron cuffs; the fissure threatened to swallow.

The roar of the crowd deafened, a drum that lured.

The gaps between Lara’s fingers turned chasms themselves.

into an open palm.

Sweaty, but breathing.

She released.

With a breath that finally soothed her overwrought limbs.

Salved her heartβ€”and spirit.

The spectators gaped, mid-stare.

The silence washed over the greens, a gripping shroud.

Then, they scattered their disappointment feltβ€”but forgone.

β›³πŸƒβœ¨πŸŒ«οΈπŸŒοΈβ€β™€οΈ

The hole swallowed the crowd, its cheers curdling, then dying off.

The crowd’s roar had dulled into silence.

A leaf rustled, accompanying the lone golfer.

It was a magnificent scar on the courseβ€”one some reporters hailed a legend.

Others, a tragedy of Tsunami magnitude.

The iron cuffsβ€”off her hands.

Lara’s trophy had lodged itself within the wide crack, gleaming to applauseβ€”

That would remain heardβ€”

Only by Lara.

β›³πŸƒβœ¨πŸŒ«οΈπŸŒοΈβ€β™€οΈ

If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee β€” it keeps the words flowing and the lights 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.

Glass Veins

One can be too clean.

πŸ’₯πŸ’₯πŸ’₯πŸ’₯πŸ’₯πŸ’₯πŸ’₯πŸ’₯πŸ’₯πŸ’₯πŸ’₯πŸ’₯πŸ’₯πŸ’₯πŸ’₯πŸ’₯

An after-hours nurse, Rin had made cleanliness his lifeβ€”Marie Kondo would have called his dedication to sterility an obsessive-compulsive disorder.

Nothing could be out of order.

Or dirty.

Not a speck of dust.

He got into bed one morning, put out after his shift.

But woke with a start. His apartment was cleanβ€”too clean. He was a neat freak, but this level of cleanliness was enough to send someone as fastidious as he was over the edge.

Oddβ€”an operating theatre too clean.

He looked at himself in the mirror.  

There was NOTHING to look at.

Nothing except broken images that looked like outstretched handsβ€”

Gangly.

Wieldy.

Like glitching glass veins.

Pulsing.

KNOCK.

KNOCK.

KNOCK.

Startled, Rin touched a window to see a handβ€”

Not his.

NEVER his.

πŸ’₯πŸ’₯πŸ’₯πŸ’₯πŸ’₯πŸ’₯πŸ’₯πŸ’₯πŸ’₯πŸ’₯πŸ’₯πŸ’₯πŸ’₯πŸ’₯πŸ’₯πŸ’₯πŸ’₯

KNOCK.

KNOCK.

KNOCK.

The glass pulsed. To the knock’s rhythm.

The veins in the glass throbbed harder.

Brighter.

Red.

Then white.

KNOCK.

Thud. His chest answered.

The window fogged.

Scrawled letters on the frosted pane.

KNOCK.

Cracks appeared, a mangled spiderweb, across the mirror.

His own pulse skipped. It sounded just like the knock.

The fingers grew longer.

More gangly.

Pressing harder on the pane.

KNOCK.

It rockedβ€”like a petrified heart.

🌐✨🌐✨🌐✨🌐✨🌐✨🌐✨🌐✨🌐✨

The crack in the windows widenedβ€”light bled through, as if bones had split.

In the middle of the fractureβ€”an eye.

It blinkedβ€”and winked.

Too close.

Too knowing.

Another knockβ€”within his chest.

Then a finger passed through the glass.

It pointedβ€”at him.

Dripping static and leaving a dripping trail of red.

Rin’s ribs tightened, locking him in place.

The rhythm had bound him.

The apartment door rattled to its urgent beat.

Then, something within the mirror moved.

The lights followed the pulseβ€”Vibrating.

Too exact.

πŸ”ŠπŸ’’πŸ”ŠπŸ’’πŸ”ŠπŸ’’πŸ”ŠπŸ’’πŸ”ŠπŸ’’πŸ”ŠπŸ’’πŸ”ŠπŸ’’πŸ”ŠπŸ’’

The mirror’s surface stretchedβ€”-bulging, bated breath from within its depths.

The eye within the fracture multiplied, blinking.

Syncing with the knock.

The veins in the window lashedβ€”its binds tightening.

The door creakedβ€”the knob turned.

A tad.

The lights flickered againβ€”Rin’s pulse quickened to the same rhythm.

Static crept into the airβ€”his ears buzzed.

Then, a shadow.

Seeping in from the gap below the door.

A crack within the mirror formed.

A mouth.

Gaping.

Teeth withinβ€”sharp.

The door handle twisted fully.

πŸ©ΈπŸ–οΈπŸ©ΈπŸ–οΈπŸ©ΈπŸ–οΈπŸ©ΈπŸ–οΈπŸ©ΈπŸ–οΈπŸ©ΈπŸ–οΈπŸ©ΈπŸ–οΈπŸ©ΈπŸ–οΈ

The mouth moved.

Not speakingβ€”whispering.

The shadow under the door thickened, spreading across the floorβ€”β€”

An irremovable stain.

The door shook uncontrollably.

Thenβ€”stopped.

Silence.

KNOCK.

From within the room.

White lights flaredβ€”turning a garish red.

The mouth opened widerβ€”-the frame ripped apart.

It. Crawled. Out.

πŸ”€πŸ”€πŸͺžπŸ§πŸͺžπŸ§πŸ”€πŸͺžπŸ§πŸ”€πŸͺžπŸ§πŸ”€πŸͺžπŸ§

It slithered out of the doorframe, bendingβ€”

To him.

It approached, raking its fingers across the wall.

Creating sparks from within each scrape.

Then, the mouth snapped shut.

But the light from the glass still bled.

The shadow under the door seeped around him, circling his feet.

Locking him in place.

His face-half his, half static.

His teeth flickered.

The knocking continuedβ€”from within his chest.

In time with his breath.

Pulse.

Fear.

πŸ”€πŸ”€πŸͺžπŸ§πŸͺžπŸ§πŸ”€πŸͺžπŸ§πŸ”€πŸͺžπŸ§πŸ”€πŸͺžπŸ§

The sparks from the wall burned the veins in the glassβ€”fire crawling through arteries.

The shadow wound tighter around his ankles, dragging him.

Rin saw himself at work, masked,  a scalpel in hand.

Wiping the operating table the surgeon was working onβ€”

Incessant.

Continuous.

The thing’s mouth openedβ€”not to breathe out, but breathe in.

Sucking his breath.

His chest collapsed with its rhythmβ€”each knock sucked a heartbeat.

The mirror quaked, a fractured web.

πŸ”€πŸ”€πŸͺžπŸ§πŸͺžπŸ§πŸ”€πŸͺžπŸ§πŸ”€πŸͺžπŸ§πŸ”€πŸͺžπŸ§

The fire veins were a virtual tarantula, bursting through the mirror’s cracks.

The Thing drew a final breath inβ€”

Deep.

The glass veins snappedβ€”

A shower of red  light.

The shadow around Rin shrilled, yanking the fissure, along with the Thing.

Rin fell back on his chair, collapsed.

Breathing.

His room, as it was.

Just cracks.

In the mirror.

And himself. Scalpel. Disinfectant.

And cloth.

In his mouth.

The knocks continued.

πŸ”€πŸ”€πŸͺžπŸ§πŸͺžπŸ§πŸ”€πŸͺžπŸ§πŸ”€πŸͺžπŸ§πŸ”€πŸͺžπŸ§

If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee β€” 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.

Parallel Lives

πŸŒ’πŸŒ“πŸŒ”πŸŒ•πŸŒ–πŸŒ—πŸŒ˜πŸŒ’πŸŒ“πŸŒ”πŸŒ•πŸŒ–πŸŒ—πŸŒ˜

Mara stepped out of her home onto her drivewayβ€”she knew each stone by heart.

But it seemed that what she knew by heart had to be relearned.

Fog clouded the street beyond, giving the otherwise familiar street an unnatural white hue. It had rained just an hour before; the puddles caught the lamplight like unlived fragments of her memory.

She caught sight of herself in a puddle. It seemed to blinkβ€”almost a stranger.

And the familiar street feltβ€”

Different.

Unvisited.

A place unheard of.

Her life stretched before herβ€”one that felt borrowed.

The university education that her parents couldn’t afford.

The job she passed up to care for her ailing parents.

She felt the tug of life just beyond her reachβ€”so near, yet so far.

Each drop of rain seemed to whisper regret for what might have been; what could still be.

πŸŒ’πŸŒ“πŸŒ”πŸŒ•πŸŒ–πŸŒ—πŸŒ˜πŸŒ’πŸŒ“πŸŒ”πŸŒ•πŸŒ–πŸŒ—πŸŒ˜

She passed the park bench she and James used to sitβ€”

For hours.

Talking.

The masculine scent of his aftershave.

The armrest he had vandalised with Cupid hearts.

She passed the music store they used to frequentβ€”and the piano his fingertips used to grace.

A virtuoso.

Her mother.

In bed, hooked to a respirator.

The windows of her mind opened to James boarding a plane at the airport.

Fixing a lingering gaze on her as he entered the boarding gate.

Another imageβ€”odd.

Different.

Pulsing.

Of herself, following him.

Her mind veered back to the familiar streetβ€”yet not.

A gust of wind, howling, urgent, pushing her in.

Drops of rain pelted the gray cobblestoneβ€”

The black umbrella.

One they used to laugh under on days like this.

She paused mid-step, tears drenching her cheeks.

Her mother.

Him.

Not both.

πŸŒ’πŸŒ“πŸŒ”πŸŒ•πŸŒ–πŸŒ—πŸŒ˜πŸŒ’πŸŒ“πŸŒ”πŸŒ•πŸŒ–πŸŒ—πŸŒ˜

She found herself back on the streetβ€”

Known.

Yet unknown.

The gray hues of the cobblestone were now a strange white.

The white ceramic floors of the university.

She passed a cafeβ€”open where the legal library should have been.

Music streamed from a windowβ€”from a piano.

With her mom’s cries of painβ€”in sync.

She’d wanted to learn that.

Her mother.

In bed, hooked to a respirator.

Herself, in a nurse’s uniform, helping her sit up.

Her mother’s tears streamingβ€”

Down a relieved, smiling face.

The smells from the cafe teased her nostrils.

She was herself, walking.

Through the university’s halls.

Carrying legal ledgers, laughing with friends from law school.

Nurse. Her mom.

Lawyer.

Her heartβ€”yanked.

Spinning, overwhelmedβ€”in both directions.

πŸŒ’πŸŒ“πŸŒ”πŸŒ•πŸŒ–πŸŒ—πŸŒ˜πŸŒ’πŸŒ“πŸŒ”πŸŒ•πŸŒ–πŸŒ—πŸŒ˜

She stopped at a puddle and gazed at herself.

In her nurse’s uniform, pressed neatly.

Herself again, in the cafe’s window.

Donning a judge’s robes.

Both with raised right hands.

One mirrored the other.

Uncomfortable.

False.

Nurse.

Lawyer.

Not both.

Her heart yanked againβ€”landing in place with a soft thump.

Of knowing.

That she had chosen a path.

One she could not forgo.

That she had to continue walking.

She heard her mother’s breathing, now quiet.

Relieved.

Stable.

Together with laughter from the university’s hallsβ€”from herself, in a judge’s robes.

Both soundsβ€”pleasant.

Harmonious.

Mara the nurse..

The fiancΓ©e who was.

All had to walk along that street.

πŸŒ’πŸŒ“πŸŒ”πŸŒ•πŸŒ–πŸŒ—πŸŒ˜πŸŒ’πŸŒ“πŸŒ”πŸŒ•πŸŒ–πŸŒ—πŸŒ˜

Mara stood on the pavement, the gray cobblestone she knew facing her.

In her nurse’s uniform, on the way to the hospital where her mum recovered in a ward.

Her face clear, smiling, in a puddle.

The lamplight grounded her feet firmly, pushing them forward.

In the cafe windowβ€”herself, in judge’s robes, waving a poignant goodbye.

Smilingβ€”through tears.

The sound of her mother’s breathing reverberated calmly, pelting in rhythm with the raindrops on her umbrella.

She paused at another puddle.

Herself, in a judges robes, smiling.

Then James, in the airport lounge.

Staring.

She reached.

Then pulled back.

The plane had no seat for her.

Reached againβ€”and withdrew.

Her heart yanked.

πŸŒ’πŸŒ“πŸŒ”πŸŒ•πŸŒ–πŸŒ—πŸŒ˜πŸŒ’πŸŒ“πŸŒ”πŸŒ•πŸŒ–πŸŒ—πŸŒ˜

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