The Last Stop on Mann’s Tour

Some hauntings don’t rattle chains. They wait in your notifications.

🕯️🌫️🚶‍♂️📖✨

I gathered with Elvis and the rest of the group, ready to grace ghostly lanes with gentle tiptoes.

Our guide, Mann, was a fellow who engaged…though without unnecessary pomp.

The buildings around the park were old. The streets, narrow. Lamps hummed in a slightly strangled way, as if they hadn’t enough Strepsils.

And we followed behind Mann like obedient shadows.

Mann launched into his spooky stories. But…they were…oddly personal.

Someone chortled suddenly. Uncomfortably.

The air thinned as the guide came to each stop.

The stories narrowed, like a zoom camera.

Oddly familiar – and tied to each group member.

A woman who declined her mother’s last call – that same woman was now frantically tapping her mobile’s keypad.

Then, there was the tale of the man who chose profit over humanity. That same man was shoving company leaflets.

Then, there was the teen who caught footage of people falling off their bikes. He was filming a boy skidding past on a skateboard, yielding to the pavement.

Then Mann stopped with an abrupt flourish. He swiveled around from his position in front to face the group.

“These stories aren’t recorded hauntings. They’re our regrets. Our behaviours. Choices that replay in a Youtube loop long after we’ve made them. Check your phones.

Each group member scrolled through their message feeds and looked up, sheepish.

With a missed notification. An unread message.

“These spirits don’t flood buildings. They’re ours. Our neglected responsibilities.”

Suddenly, we weren’t afraid of darkness. Our fear? What awaited us at home.

The silence was loud. Clanking.

Reminding.

And regret swarmed in, dark, hungry flies.

It crept over us quickly, a dangerous blanket. We dispersed, trying vainly to avoid it.

Mann again. With a new group of ghost tourists.

With their stories. Stories they must complete.

🕯️🌫️🚶‍♂️📖✨

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

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Community Standards

When the light flickers, people behave. When it stops, they explain.

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Tan here. A long-term resident of Block 345, Chestpeak Avenue.

It’s not a bad place to live. The residents of Block 345 are generally orderly folk who maintain the block well. And I like that they leave everything where it should be.

But that lamp. That idiotic lamp.

The flickering of that idiotic lamp was irritating. Irregular. Inconsistent.

It happened whenever I walked past, but some enjoyed uninterrupted illumination.

That was interesting to note.

Coincidence, of course.

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Take Mdm Lim, for example. The one who waters others’ plants for them. That light would behave over her.

Now me? I’m not a plant person. I like to keep up with the news.

But I’m a retiree. I can’t afford regular newspapers, so I depend on…external help.

I sometimes…er…borrow the newspapers outside neighbours’ apartments when they’re not watching.

And that darned light would go on and off over me whenever I did.

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I, Tan, believe that optics must be upheld. I’ve always done this at work.

And at home as well.

Sharing corridors requires community discipline, so I make sure to return the newspapers slightly earlier.

What is borrowed must return mah? Best practice.

Tan always obeys community standards.

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They finally replaced the silly lamp. See? I said that the wiring was faulty.

Nothing unusual. Just the Town Council and its nonsense.

Things went back to normal since the lamp stopped flickering. Mdm Lim waters her own plants and conserves water for herself now.

Everyone else’s – not so important lah.

Me? Now that the lamp has stopped flickering, I have decided to borrow newspapers permanently.

No returning. For what? Everyone can see anyway.

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So, everything in order, lah.

It WAS faulty wiring, like I said. Glad they corrected it.

Mdm Lim waters her own plants and conserves water for herself now.

I borrow…but when no one else is in the corridor.

I don’t like that light now. It shows. Too well.

💡🏢💡🏢💡🏢💡🏢💡

Original Singaporean microfiction by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. AI tags are coincidental

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

Veil of Shadows

1964 marks the year President Lyndon B Johnson initiated a War on Poverty, aimed at increasing employment opportunities, revamping education, and boosting healthcare.

While reviews of the polices had a mixed tone, it did decline by about 8%.

Some vows like these, however, remain unfulfilled.

Reprieve and fairness is sought.

Promises spoken. Justice delivered. Echoes that endure.

⚡👁️🗨️🕊️📜🔥

Murmurs of excitement ran through the conference hall as Mayor

Carl Sim launched into the speech his eager audience was craving. A throng of journalists, waiting to fill their pages, gathered in the corner, asking sensitivity breaching questions. Their pens hovered above notepads waiting to serve as canvases.

Everyone was too preoccupied to notice the faint shimmers at the periphery of the room. His palms were slippery with nerves – the room held its breath. Sentient shadows scaled the walls – artists with hidden secrets none wanted to know.

Carl cleared his throat and began his speech, one filled with glowing promises of sweeping changes that would enhance lives.

No one noticed the very slight tilt of their chairs – even as they were sitting on them. Papers fluttered in the windless air-conditioned hall, drifting like white gowns above the ground.

The room was – living. With a heartbeat that didn’t sync with Carl’s. As he spoke, a chill worked its way up his legs through his spine. A cloying smell of crisp, pressed white linen grabbed the air.

And it wasn’t air-conditioning draft.

The paper gowns gathered and filled – with forms from a world unknown.

They were ageless. Visible. Slowly approaching.

Imposing.

The crowd in the room took tentative steps backward, mouths hung wide open.

Then, the room erupted in gasps and whispers.

Screams ricocheted off the walls. Bodies piled against doors, grabbing handles.

Pressing against each other as they tried to exit.

Carl’s pulse raced faster than a Formula One driver’s car. A mix of awe and dread filled his being.

The vows he had made all along, to the millions he had soothed?

Mere words.

The guardians had made their dreaded – and expected – entrance, drifting with logic not to be challenged.

And vindication for words unmaterialised. For people -unwanted.

Then, chaos unfolded. Not haphazardly – but in structured, elegant patterns. Tables had overturned outside the hall -lifts were malfunctioning.Officials around Carl scrambled to protect him, but he remained stoic.

His face – unreadable.

The guardians drifted to the stage, mouths fixed and straightened. Gasps of disbelief filled the room. The smell of smoke and wonder enveloped the crowd.

Carl saw the gnawing gap between his empty promises and the painful realities the people in his town dealt with.

Increasing crime. Inadequate public schooling.

The guardians’ feet traced the steps of the stage.

One by one.

Then, they vanished. Leaving overturned chairs, flickering lights and chaotic whispers in their wake.

The air had an empty heaviness few could articulate.

Mayor Carl knew that some forces of poverty – tense family dynamics, unchanging mindsets – were beyond his control.

As ambiguous as the guardians’ warning of justice.

He carried the weight with him, along with their lingering shadows.

A light flickered in his eyes. Their echo resonated, undying.

⚡👁️🗨️🕊️📜🔥

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

She Wears The Red Scarf

Today marks the anniversary of a milestone in women’s political power in America—the election of the first woman to Congress. We mirror that femininity in Singapore by celebrating the Samsui Woman, a female labourer commonly seen at construction sites in the 1950s and 60s. Opportunities for women have increased over the years—and her scarf, and spirit, live on. She wields the scarlet scarf of strength.

🧣🇸🇬🧣🇸🇬🧣🇸🇬🧣🇸🇬

The evening air was dense with the usual Singapore humidity–and tales once woven. Despite the tropical overwhelm, Singaporeans walked to the polls.

Outside on a railing was a scarf–red, fluttering in the November wind. It hung a poignant scarlet against the grey twilight. No one saw the woman who donned it, or her dust-streaked blue blouse.

A heavy blouse no wind could lift.

Mdm Ong was a Samsui Woman who lived in Singapore of the 1950s–a construction worker who laid bricks when women weren’t meant to construct. Along with others like her, she built a city that never knew–or wanted to know–her name.

She had toiled when families prayed, hauling beams twice her weight. She out-dreamt her pay.

She returned every Singapore election–not as a ghost, but as a witness.

An elections officer noticed her form in the glass, in a blue samfoo, head bound in a telltale red scarf. She watched as the women of the time filed past to the polling booths, pens ready to mark their chosen candidate.

She blinked, and the Samsui ghost left, leaving only the faint, but comforting scent of earth.

The elections staff sealed the ballot boxes. The scarf fluttered to the ground. The elections officer picked it up, and wore the proud memory around her neck.

🧣🇸🇬🧣🇸🇬🧣🇸🇬🧣🇸🇬

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

The Whine

Every soul needs a guide–even if it isn’t human.

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All Souls’ Day blanketed the pavements and roads in velvet black and the dim light of street lamps; anything but a typical day for a little pet dog.

Snowball stationed herself at her home’s bay window, hoping to unsettle the

patrons at the coffee shop opposite with her insistent, barking overtures.

She didn’t have mischief in mind that day; instead, she stood at the window, each paw trembling, hackles raised.

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The air froze with biting cold; atypical for Singapore, a country with heat and

humidity as its middle name.

A chill numbed the air indoors; the smell of damp leaves pervaded the air. I

concentrated on my book review, for the first time donning an outdated cotton

sweater.

Then—the low, persistent growls.

Snowball had positioned herself in front of my bedroom wall, paws stiff, nails

clicking on the floor.

An almost-human whisper grazed my ear. My breath caught, and my jaw dropped. as it looked around.

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The little West Highland Terrier lunged at the wall. A long silence followed.

Too long.

Then, a faint shimmer—the ambiguous outline of a silhouette.

Lost.

Caught between Heaven and Earth.

Asking—

Just for a name.

My heartbeat synced with its pulse—

One that echoed for a presence.

The little dog had guided—

And found.

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“Snowball. It’s alright. No need.”

Her cue not to bark.

She obeyed and lay down, finally calm.

The room felt—

Lighter.

Warmer, with the whisper now unheard.

But the chill was a permanent guest.

Teasing a little dog wasn’t the name of the lost soul’s game—

It had asked the little terrier for guidance.

To where it belonged.

The whisper left. But at night, Snowball still faced the wall–and heard the clicks.

🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

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

🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒

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.

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Rapid motion. Too quick. Too final.

An odd shape.

Familiar– yet not.

It recoiled from her vision–

As if knowing it had been seen.

🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒

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.

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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.

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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.

🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒

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 — 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 Perfect Putt

Every perfect swing has its price.

⛳🍃✨🌫️🏌️‍♀️

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.

⛳🍃✨🌫️🏌️‍♀️

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.

⛳🍃✨🌫️🏌️‍♀️

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.

⛳🍃✨🌫️🏌️‍♀️

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 heart—and spirit.

The spectators gaped, mid-stare.

The silence washed over the greens, a gripping shroud.

Then, they scattered their disappointment felt—but forgone.

⛳🍃✨🌫️🏌️‍♀️

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 course—one some reporters hailed a legend.

Others, a tragedy of Tsunami magnitude.

The iron cuffs—off her hands.

Lara’s trophy had lodged itself within the wide crack, gleaming to applause—

That would remain heard—

Only by Lara.

⛳🍃✨🌫️🏌️‍♀️

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

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An after-hours nurse, Rin had made cleanliness his life—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 clean—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.

Odd—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 hands—

Gangly.

Wieldy.

Like glitching glass veins.

Pulsing.

KNOCK.

Startled, Rin touched a window to see a hand—

Not his.

NEVER his.

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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 rocked—like a petrified heart.

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The crack in the windows widened—light bled through, as if bones had split.

In the middle of the fracture—an eye.

It blinked—and winked.

Too close.

Too knowing.

Another knock—within his chest.

Then a finger passed through the glass.

It pointed—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 pulse—Vibrating.

Too exact.

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The mirror’s surface stretched—-bulging, bated breath from within its depths.

The eye within the fracture multiplied, blinking.

Syncing with the knock.

The veins in the window lashed—its binds tightening.

The door creaked—the knob turned.

A tad.

The lights flickered again—Rin’s pulse quickened to the same rhythm.

Static crept into the air—his ears buzzed.

Then, a shadow.

Seeping in from the gap below the door.

A crack within the mirror formed.

A mouth.

Gaping.

Teeth within—sharp.

The door handle twisted fully.

🩸🖐️🩸🖐️🩸🖐️🩸🖐️🩸🖐️🩸🖐️🩸🖐️🩸🖐️

The mouth moved.

Not speaking—whispering.

The shadow under the door thickened, spreading across the floor——

An irremovable stain.

The door shook uncontrollably.

Then—stopped.

Silence.

KNOCK.

From within the room.

White lights flared—turning a garish red.

The mouth opened wider—-the frame ripped apart.

It. Crawled. Out.

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It slithered out of the doorframe, bending—

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 continued—from within his chest.

In time with his breath.

Pulse.

Fear.

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The sparks from the wall burned the veins in the glass—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 on—

Incessant.

Continuous.

The thing’s mouth opened—not to breathe out, but breathe in.

Sucking his breath.

His chest collapsed with its rhythm—each knock sucked a heartbeat.

The mirror quaked, a fractured web.

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

The Thing drew a final breath in—

Deep.

The glass veins snapped—

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.

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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 September Blues: Part 2

Would you resist the call to blend?

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The sirens stopped, but the figure stayed.

Deathly still, as if waiting to draw breaths.

Sockets wide, drawing.

Hollow.

Bloodshot.

Its presence swallowed the echo of the sirens.

Its silent gaze pressed on Janine’s ears, shrinking their calls.

Todd stared at it through the window, a picture of calm.

Too calm, like he already expected him.

Janine, meanwhile, noticed little things in the house—

Not in sync.

Lights flickered, fickle sparks in the night air.

Her phone froze, responding dutifully to the sirens’ calls.

Everything in the home jittered in disharmony, refusing her rhythm.

Heeding a will not her own.

Todd drew the being close.

Too close.

The figure drew his spirit, almost locking him in.

The young preteen whispered about what he shouldn’t know at his age-almost to an intimate, imaginary friend.

The figure whispered into his bones, carrying the weight of memory.

A weight–unlearned. The branches of the trees in the garden swayed, bending to the windows, as if responding to a conductor–

The figure in the backyard.

Todd’s knowledge, untamed, began to corrode.

He lifted his head.

And turned.

The air hummed where the figure still stood.

Angry. Edgy.

Janine’s phone froze, responding dutifully to the sirens’ calls.

The backyard tenant was closer each time Janine looked away.

Not moving.

Always nearer, though she never saw it move.

It collapsed distance–still.

Neighbour’s eyes peeked, on edge, from behind the curtains,

Waiting.

Then, Janine knew.

The civil readiness drills weren’t meant to protect–they were coined to foster obedience.

Conformity.

To a being that defined–for others.

And, like clockwork, the neighbours stepped into their backyards.

Walking in perfect sync to the movement of its arms.

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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 September Blues

September is a month of transition, when our lives become–Busyness.

Our lives can run the mill–sometimes uncontrollably. But we have to sometimes put that aside–at least, long enough to notice the little things.

Ignore the subtle–at risk.

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Todd had gotten on the bus to school just a few hours earlier, and Janine was already ready to throw in the mummy towel. But it kept wrapping around her. The single mother still had to plod on– she went through her routine in the small town, trying frantically to rush through endless errands before her son returned for lunch.

The small town prided itself on its civil readiness– all citizens responded in synched time to the call of sirens. Lockdown practice was mere child’s play. Janine barely noticed the peaking decibels, chalking them up to traditions that did chaotic dances in her ears. But this sounded more—

Alluring.

Persistent.

Like a call to somewhere– unworldly.

Still, she brushed the thought aside and paid quickly for her groceries. She didn’t want to leave a little boy wailing outside her home.

This year’s call seemed–

Different. The wails refused to end.

Hurried breaths over a YouTube video broadcast.

The street emptied of her neighbours almost as quickly as it ended.

“Mommy, everyone ran home faster than the Flash.” The 11-year-old Todd whisked his head around, taking in the chaos. “What’s happening?”

“Just an extended drill, Todd. Don’t worry about it.” But her words and heart were an uneasy mismatch. The hairs on her arms stood on end–

Too straight.

She was at the cutting board, trying to execute perfect slices of cucumber, when she felt a tugging on her sleeve.

It was Todd.

Her usually stoic son’s fish was deathly pale.

He gestured wordlessly to the backyard.

A figure that at the pots of dandelion she had painstakingly nurtured from scratch.

Unmoving.

Featureless.

Hollow eye sockets.

It remained still, watching,

Janine froze herself, knife in mid-air.

The figure turned–just enough for it to catch the corner of her eye.

The sirens wailed louder.

Todd whispered, pointing. “Look Mum. It’s swaying. Like your dandelions.”

Janine’s pulse quickened–Todd.

She moved towards it, knife in a tight grip.

The figure stretched towards them. The doors creaked.

Todd pulled her back. “Not now.”

The figure tilted its head– its teeth were in a sharp snarl.

Blood seeped out of its temples.

The sirens deafened.

Janine’s breath caught. Todd.

It was fight– or flight.

The figure moved towards Todd, arms outstretched.

Janine’s knuckles were white on the knife’s grip.

Then, the siren softened.

The figure backed into the garden.

Facing them. Staring.

Todd nodded. “It moves with the call.”

The figure lingered in the garden, fixing them with an empty gaze, its presence louder than the sirens.

Not to be ignored.

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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.