Whispers Between Desks

Today marks Nelson Mandela’s passing in 2013.

We may not leave echoes in history the way he did, but we CAN resonate.

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Prologue

A normal school morning, sunlight warming an already too-warm classroom – but it had the quiet promise that even small moments are reasons.

For those who ask, “Why do this?”

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“Bye, Miss Kwek…no, bye Mummy.” The little 7-year-old girl offered a little hand swap as she bade goodbye and traversed the corridor.

The classroom’s silence wrapped around me as she left. Nothing but scattered papers and desk chairs.

I sighed. I’d have to spend an hour pushing them in and sweeping–the kids had to rush home for lunch.

Miss Kwek the SuperMum.

Or SuperTeach.

And honestly…I didn’t know if the little girls realised that anymore.

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My first teaching assignment. This music and English teacher offered little ditties.

I taught them occupations with Ernie’s “Who Are The People in the Neighbourhood.”

But…their attention waned, as it often did for seven-year-olds after the first half-hour of breathing.

Unmarked worksheets stared at me from a basket, berating me for neglect.

The empty classroom smelled of faded whiteboard markers. Ernie’s face stared at me from a chart on an easel.

Blank.

Wondering if the constant effort to plan lessons was worth the “Mummy”- or if they’d even remembered him after the song.

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As I put marked exercise books on a bookshelf, my hand met a box with a bump.

I hadn’t noticed it before.

An envelope reared an edge from its corner.

Beckoning.

I drew a breath, my fingers lingering over the edge —

And dropped it again.

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I picked the box, letting the exercise books cascade onto the floor with a thump.

A printed letter, the pristine white paper waiting patiently. Its edges were starting to curl, but a few minutes wouldn’t make a difference.

After those minutes were finally over, I pried the envelope open.

Addressed to me.

“Dear Teacher,

“I like Ernie, and Who Are the People In Your Neighbourhood. But I like the way you sing it. You sound like my Grandma. She had a great voice. She died last year. She used to bring me to school.”

A watermark.

I was about to create a few – but not the factory sort.

“Thanks for the song. I watch Sesame Street every afternoon now. My English has improved. Marilyn.”

So it had.

For all time.

I sat at the desk, a quiet smile starting to stretch across my face.

One that needed Face Yoga.

In case of premature sagging.

There was a reason for Mummy after all.

Despite how dog-tired she was.

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“Mummy” dropped the letter back into the box cautiously –

Its pulse was quickening.

The classroom still had a distinct marker odour – but it teased my nostrils.

It didn’t punch.

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I swept the floor, erased the whiteboard –

And lifted the easel.

Ernie.

And his neighbourhood.

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Mummy had a place in it.

Though her legs were a little tired from walking around.

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The Eight Minute Countdown

Schedule–what matters.

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Meiling was the consummate superwoman–she was her father’s sole caregiver. Her mother, bless her soul, had passed peacefully a decade earlier.

Her apartment was silent, save for the incessant buzzing of phone reminders. Mei Ling lived and breathed a schedule–she had every task planned and accounted for.

But there was one thing she couldn’t fix–

That wall clock.

It had ceased along with her mother. The very day she died.

Time had stopped, but she refused to notice. Schedules were a grief mechanism–they were safer than unwanted memories. Rolodexes, none of which were about her.

So the clock waited, patient as time itself. The hands moved–with ticks that should not have been.

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11:13 p.m. A barely discernible hum replaced her usual calm demeanour. Outside, the intermittent glow of a streetlight.– it made its way into the corridor.

But with bated breath.

The darkness stretched, eight minutes too long.

Then, seconds.

Punctuated by the same hum—

But louder.

Thudding under her skin, on her bones, syncing with the beat of her heart.

Growing more intense, under her skin.

A lullaby she had long since mired with the clock’s odd ticks. She hadn’t heard it since the clock stopped moving.

Familiar. Sung before.

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Then, the light returned. The hands of every clock in Meiling’s apartment froze–

1:13.

Then, slow ticks.

Time moved–the wrong way.

Backward. Soft. Steady.

Every tick accused.

Her mobile pinged with a new voice mail.

Sent by her.

“You can’t schedule me.”

The past had stolen her voice.

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The good daughter was desperate–she grabbed a clock and brought it to Mr. Tan, her estate’s clockmaker. He didn’t just sell clock off the shelf–

He gave them life.

After looking hers over, he went to the back room of his workshop–

And returned with a pocket watch.

“Here,” He thrust it into her hands.

She stared at its gold case.

It gleamed, as if speaking–or had feelings.

She looked at him, nonplussed.

“Time remembers,” was his cryptic answer.

Then, her eyes fell on the mirror behind him.

She looked at–

Herself. Years younger.

Happier.

Schedule-less.

Untouched by grief.

She stared at the pocket watch.

An eight-minute countdown.

Her reflection wasn’t haunting. It was waiting for her.

Eight minutes–to face herself.

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With a deft move of both hands, Meiling smashed the clock–
.
Blood trickled down her knuckles.

The air in her apartment was still–consumed by silence.

The clocks started moving as they should–to 1:14 a.m.

Her young reflection smiled through tears in the mirror.

“I remember,” she whispered wanly.

Then, she knew.

Some clocks had to come apart before they could tick.

She had been haunting herself–with her schedules.

Her over-efficient ways.

Almost soulless.

Time had started again–and forgiven her.

She helped her father into the wheelchair—the old man smiled, and grasped her hand.

She was glad to hold it–at least, for now.

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The Office Games

The climb ends where trust falls.

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“Morning all,” Dylan Koh’s bass voice turned the office into a boombox. “Thank you for your presence this lovely September morning.”

One that resounded in a room no larger than a child’s bedroom.

With the Famous Five–except friendship was off the cards.

The office never felt so much like a cage.

Its prisoners–five accountants eager to make–

The Climb.

The air had a metallic tang, distinct–

Blood on coins.

A low groan emitted from the ceiling.

Anton, Susan, Paul, and Fiona each had a drive to succeed that was legendary—and would make participants in The Apprentice blush.

Dylan, the CEO of Raintree Finances, continued.

“The five of you are Raintree’s nominees to succeed the outgoing Chief Financial Officer, Desmond Sim. ” He couldn’t resist a smirk. “But you need to prove that you have what it takes to fill his shoes.”

“Each of you must complete a series of tasks. The objective? To be the only one left on the corporate ladder. To eliminate–” he paused, “and be the ONLY one left standing. Literally.

The five shot glares at each other that could pierce the plasterboard walls.

“I’m game. ” Fiona’s gravelly v

ice seemed stronger than usual.

“Me too.”Anton was louder, not to be outdone.

The rest sat up straight.

Stoic.

Nodding.

Determined.

The walls of the room seemed too tight.

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The trained accountants found the first task—

Ordinary.

Auditing a few books was of no consequence.

But they soon increased in–

Complexity.

They found themselves having to locate vital, secret files and label them all to be declared challenge winners.

Each red-marked, as if bleeding.

Of course, Fiona mislabelled one–by ACCIDENT.

Susan misplaced another—again, by ACCIDENT.

Each “accident” added weight to their breathing.

Trust was a major casualty–a mere nod was a lie.

The calculators on the table seemed to click, tallying each mistake

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It was neck and neck–ALL four contestants overcame the initial challenges.

To face the Penultimate Task.

One which demanded–

Compromise.

Of self.

Paul and Susan succumbed—choosing right over ruthlessness undid them–integrity was too slow for mercy.

Anton and Fiona remained in separate rooms.

The task?

To sign a doctored statement or forfeit the game.

The walls of the office seemed to pause their approach; the beat of the staplers on the tables halted.

Waiting.

For betrayal.

Fiona caught sight of Paul mulling over the document; his form was still visible through a transparent window.

He raised his pen.

She raised hers.

Ambition struck quicker than mercy.

Dylan emerged from his room with the document.

Signed by himself.

Ceding trust.

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For the employees–there had been no promotion.

The climb ends where trust falls.

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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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The Step Before Mine

City folks exhausted by routine. Figures moving through streets and parks, half-forgotten. Shadows hover strangely when no one watches.

When no one pays attention.

Attention that, when neglected, should be reclaimed–before things change.

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Lina was the quintessential workhorse—she cared for nothing but the daily grind. She’d taken enough from a boss who wanted more than she could deliver—all she wanted was home, and to soak in a bubble bath of kindness.

The park was empty of visitors, leaving only lamplight that bent oddly around puddles of rain for company. The air was cool—so cool that shadows hesitated or lingered, almost as if they found the ground repugnant.

Lina trod the usual path, her bagpack slung carelessly, her eyes glued to the cracked pavement. Something at the periphery of her vision twitched—perhaps a passerby in a sonic hurry. Or likely a flickering shadow, drifting out of place. She blinked it and flitted out of sight.

A puddle rippled—no wind blew. A leaf hovered in midair, remaining a second too long. Lina snapped her head. The figure appeared at the corner of her eye again, teased by the light.

Precise.

Too exact.

She turned right. It did too. She turned left. It did too. It mimicked every step she took. The light of a park lamp hovered over her, shining on distended shadows that stretched in ways that tightened her stomach.

She stopped. It did too.

She stepped forward—it moved first.

Her pulse raced. Each of her instincts screamed that she had a mimic—one that tested and teased, floundering at the edges of her perception. Reality shivered.

Her movements—no longer hers.

She managed to leave the park. The pavement leading from it was familiar — yet out of place. The corners had taken on a razor-like quality that seemed to brush against her skin with ominous fingers. Shadows hung over her—too long. The air bore an uncanny memory of what once was.

She couldn’t unsee—it. It echoed every twitch, every glance with uncanny synchrony.

Something had shaped her awareness during those moments. Not in the best way.

She breathed, at last, at a normal rate. But her shoulder twitched, and it did too. It glanced towards unseen corners—together with her.

The street before here echoed the impossible rhythm. The shadow had consumed the edge of her attention.

That she had been too busy to give.

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

Has the unnoticed waited for you before? Feel free to share!

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 Whispering Husk

It’s World Coconut Day, so we give credence to a fruit that is the lifeblood of the tropics. The juice within is refreshing– but tempting to a grieving heart.

Grief can consume you.

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Henri was hungry; the call of island coconuts was too strong, even at midnight. He cracked the too-soft shell with a practised swing of his axe.

It cracked open. Too quickly. And–

A tremor of recognition shivered from within.

The white liquid moved–slightly.

A faint whisper—and memory.

His grandfather’s smile. And voice.

“Henri…”

His name whispered, strained, billowing through the palms like smoke through the frigid air. The hair on his scrawny arms stood–yet, it was a sound he longed to hear.

The voice cracked with a soft plea.

“Drink deep. The only way to end the strife.”

He took a first sip, then stopped, as though guilt had sealed his lips.

The coconut water bore odd, trembling ripples– it had the pulse of something–

Living.

Waiting.

He looked at the cup towards his lips, then stopped.

And again.

Each lift brought the cup closer to his lips.

Each time the ripples grew stronger, thickening.

Shimmering.

A hush filled the room– it was pregnant with an unacceptable–yet irresistible–promise.

Henri succumbed to the husk’s call–his young form collapsed against a tree. Its branches were outstretched, waiting to catch him.

The husk trembled violently, beating like a trapped heart.

Henri stiffened. His body began to hollow. His skin–too tight, sinking inward.

Fingers– Bent. Out of place.

Something inside the husk seemed to be answering Death’s call. Henri’s fingers curled around its emptiness, its voice braiding with his into a single, indistinguishable sound.

The husk had found its echo.

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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 Gift of the Left Hand

Today is International Left-Handed Day–a day for those who are left-handed to raise it proudly.

In a world where the right-handed steer the course.

The left hand rises when the right hand stays still.

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Adam Chong sat in the back of the auditorium of Greenridge High, glad that his pale green leather jacket merged with its grass-green walls. He was glad for the distance between himself and the speaker in front; had enough of subtle bias.

His jacket.

The pale green tweed coats of the rest.

Open bias.

Taunts.

Pushes from bullies, caustic words spilling out of their mouths in a merciless fountain.

He was seen–way too much.

His left hand generated a spotlight that was way too glaring.

It mutated him. Differentiated him in a world where only the rights held sway.

Just once, he wanted to return a punch, in more ways than one.

His left hand trembled, its fingers moving with lives of their own.

Not from fear, but his defiance.

In the world of the Rights, the Lefts rebelled.

Secretly.

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An abrupt block of his view.

A popular crowd of Righties sat in the seats in front of him.

Their stalwartian faces set, uniforms neatly pressed.

Priceless Go wristwatches decorating their wrists–ornaments of intimidation.

They blocked his lecturer. He needed the guru’s notes for the next day’s exam.

The group slouched in their seats casually, each a tall shadow in the darkened room.

Each surrounded his seat.

His pen twirled between his fingertips of his left hand in unspoken defiance.

Then, whispers of “leftie…leftie…”

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Adam looked at his nondescript Casio, still blinking in his left hand.

He could either take it off–or suffer a beating and residual TikTok shame.

Shame he had suffered for the three years he had studied in Greedridge High.

Looks of avoidance and pity from other students in the school hall.

The first whack.

The instant, live broadcast on TikTok.

His left hand wasn’t a flaw–it was a left hook of glinting steel, waiting to strike.

One that was no longer silent. No longer afraid.

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Adam stood, his small form a gripping shadow lining the pale green wall.

His Casio stayed firmly on his left hand.

The world was right-handed. He couldn’t change that.

But it could never see his left coming.

He raised it. Proud.

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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 Turnstile

Treasure the moments–before they are gone.

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It was a typical July afternoon in Singapore–the sort that smelt like Kopi O and a crowded train platform.

50-year-old Deanna Ling stood in place in front of the turnstile in the MRT station.

Her fingers still held warmth from her breakfast coffee, but the world around her was–

Frigid.

A moving wave of blank stares that was too cold.

She was a statue in a city that ran on milliseconds–everything moved faster than her breathing.

Her ticket wouldn’t scan–it had anchored her to the platform.

It had worked before. Before the call.

Perhaps she had tapped it a second–

Too slowly.

The turnstile gate beeped.

Again.

And again.

The line of people behind her lengthened-weaving, a line of blurred faces that refused to stop.

The light on the turnstile blinked. And the world blinked faster than the throbbing in her head.

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The scenes outside the train’s windows swapped from tree to building–the Flash was running circles around them.

The whirl was a series of too-quick pants blowing in Deanna’s ears.

The train was breathing too quickly–moving too fast for her to align with its steps.

She sat in her seat, unable to move a muscle. It had left her seat– and her–behind.

The crowd in the train gathered around her, a whirlpool moving in nanoseconds.

Someone dropped a bao. No passenger noted. It disappeared faster than it hit the ground.

The train stopped.

Inertia lingered–for just a second.

A quick sigh of air, then…

A human tsunami made its way through the door.

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Then–mental negatives.

Herself, in the hospital room.

The doctor’s words were a verbal blur–like the scenery outside her train.

Her mother, on a bed. Her pacemaker had stopped.

Never restarted.

They moved to the operating theatre–too fast for tears to form.

She walked out carrying her mother’s coat. Not her mother.

Her ribs gave in. She melted onto the floor.

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The next human wave rushed in, along with a decibel crash.

Over her.

Someone jostled her up.

“Are you alright?” A quick whisper.

She nodded. The train had to move.

She rose, in pieces.

But able to stand.

Her legs couldn’t work. The crowd did it for her.

And it kept going.

So did she–faster than her tears.

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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 Sun-kissed Bride

Tradition remembers what reason forgets.

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Sea salt drifted onto the pews in the cliffside chapel of Southstorm, the crystals settling without belonging.

The once proud hues of the walls had dulled into silence –no one crossed the chapel’s threshold on Sundays any longer. No weddings. No one attended services.

The locals spoke of Lucinda Blighton, a young, fresh-faced bride whose abrupt disappearance stunned the seaside town in 1963.

No wedded bliss in the chapel after Lucinda –they said that she took a long walk to the centre of the sea before anyone could take wedding photos.

Lucinda Blighton and her fiance strode arm-in-arm into the chapel, taking in its once-majestic altar and ornate stained-glass windows.

“Let’s do it here,” Lucinda’s voice rose –she couldn’t hide her girlish excitement.

“But what about them?” Her fiance, David, pointed to a local janitor sweeping the pews too quickly. “Lucinda, a local pub owner cornered me on the street yesterday. He sensed I didn’t belong here.”He put a tentative hand on her shoulder. “He mentioned the Sunburned Bride –she appears at every wedding that takes place here.”

Lucinda wrapped her hands around his fingers. “Don’t tell me they quashed the sceptic in you!”

June 9th arrived –thoughtfully chosen. A cameraman stood at the entrance of the chapel, ready to stream the ceremony live on YouTube.

The camera captured the toll of the wedding bells. David, his gallant charm enhanced by his Armani wedding tux. A blushing Lucinda stood nervously in arm with her father, ready to grace the aisle.

The leaves on the surrounding trees began to rustle –too energetically. Static warped the footage –Cameraman James couldn’t capture anything.

“I take thee, Nelson, to be my wedded husband.” Lucinda giggled. “And you, David, will be number two.”

Shock filled Reverend Jones’ stare. He refused to finish the vows.

Heat shimmered in the centre of the flame. Then, a comely female figure, soft face half-shrouded beneath a veil.

Scorched.

On the screen of everyone’s mobile –and nowhere else.

David’s tux wrapped tighter around his neck. He choked on the seawater rushing up his throat.

The Sunburned Bride’s yell was that of a Banshee’s -newly released.

Her voice? Lucinda’s.

She continued speaking through her sneers. “You promised, David, you promised!”

Lucida’s fiance shared the same name as hers –the one who left her at the altar.

It wasn’t David’s kiss she wanted –it was his name.

From before.

Saltwater trickled from his eyes –but he wasn’t crying.

The chapel was deathly silent, save for the whispering wind –and a broken vow.

The moment was fleeting.

Lucinda was once more Lucinda –no more irreverent, just speechless.

David didn’t appear in the footage. No trace of him. No shadow. No scream.

His tux, carefully folded, lying on the altar.

The locals sealed the chapel once more.

Lucinda never said another word. Her eyes stayed glued to the sea, looking for David.

A council ordinance banned all weddings

The locals bricked the door. On a sign –“No vow past the 8th.”

But the chapel still hummed every June–“David.”

Not all ghosts scream. Some whisper –until someone answers them.

It wasn’t rage that kept her–it was the wait.

The forever wait.

If you say I Do in June, your eyes must watch –for hers.

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.