The Cave Remembers

Some curiosities are carved in stone—and they never forget.

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The boys scrambled across the rocks of the cavern, wet from the rising tide. The smell of hewn stone pervaded the air—dust waiting to be returned to life.

The walls had taken on a luminous sheen—more vibrant than they should have been after thousands of years. Carvings of livestock—bison, horses, stags—had been etched mid-stride, as if the animals were unaware of being stalked. The sound of echoing hooves.

No one was moving.

A nervous chuckle seemed to come from Marvin, one of the inquisitive teens. “Look—it’s like they’re watching us.”

The others exchanged hesitant glances, then turned their heads to him. They were silent.

For too long.

“Marvin,” Nicholas had furrows on his brow.

And those furrows weren’t typical.

The laughter echoed around the cavern.

“Did you just laugh?”

“It wasn’t me,” He swore. But his face had contorted into a too-wide grin.

One he tried to control—vainly.

Then, the walls stirred.

Shadows rippled around the bison’s hooves. They pounded in echo—but nothing moved.

The carvings shimmered in the light of the boys’ lanterns—as if the creatures had noticed.

The hooves echoed—faster.

The boys tried to stand, gripping the stones around them a little too hard.

“Hello?” Nicholas’s question bore a panicked ring.

“Hello!” An echo—not Nicholas’ voice.

Then—fur. On the hooves of the etched bison.

The bison’s muscles.

Twitching.

The paintings on the wall turned.

Antlers poised.

At the boys.

Who wanted to know—too much.

The boys quickly backed out of the cavern. As they did, the bison returned to their etched poses.

Heard.

The tide receded—but the hooves still pounded, for those who dared to listen.

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Have you known curiosity to stir the bison, figuratively? Do share in the comments.

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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!

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As One

Everyone needs a hero.

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

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

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

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

Hollow.

Vacant.

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

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

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

Where there was none.

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

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

In perfect sync.

Unthinking.

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

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

A crowd of dedicated to service.

One which continued its mechanical cheers.

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

His face–sunken. Pale. Stoic.

Features affixed.

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

To the same, unseen rhythm.

Their faces–his.

Sunken. Pale. Stoic.

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Silence.

The group of marchers and the crowd stayed still.

As one.

Staring.

At —

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

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The Blood Moon Rises

Hey, it’s the day of the Blood Moon…one of horror… for those with lingering feelings.

Or an old soldier with lingering feelings for battles that once were.

But let’s remind him–we’re never too damned old to think of something new.

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“I’m too young to feel this damned old.”

Alone, in a rundown backyard that hadn’t been tended in years. The sky was–a thing of beauty. Blood seemed to trickle from the weeping willow of a moon–echoes of the heart. A cold breeze graced the neck–wonder if it remembered. The sky was too alive–that Garth song wanted it tamed.

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Sounds of what seemed like gunfire–or a military drill at a nearby airbase. Then, bright, vibrant sparks consumed the skyscape.

Flashes in the sky, or just tricks of the mind, triggered by a moon in blood red?

The mind certainly whirred—a comrade-in-arms, cut down by tracer fire. The night burned, along with the flames in the sky.

The echo of boots on wet metal was all too audible. A single red streak across an endless black canvas. The piercing whistle of the cold wind, meeting its fire. Back on the ridge, twenty-three, hollow…and that Garth Brooks song.

Dragging a fractured mind forward to an unwanted time.

Echoing.

“I’m too young to feel this damned old.”

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But old it was. The body had started creaking a few months back. A haunted mind –pitch black, against the flaming orange sparks of gunfire that once were.

That once were.

The orange sparks danced. The heart still aches–too painful.

That could never be again. But these creaking legs still carry an old man wanting his guns.

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Yes. Too young to feel this damned old.

The moon above was bleeding–too much–and the same blood trickled from my ribs. Bullets lodged during two tours of Korea and one of Vietnam.

Ones missed–too strangely.

The orange sparks blended with the stars, becoming a flickering Van Gogh canvas–a poignant reminder of the comrades left behind.

The sky didn’t care. The song still played—faint. Too true.

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Two tours of Korea. One of Vietnam.

Still here.

Still counting the countless stars years younger than the frame.

A frame still younger than the dead.

The moon in the sky still bleeds..and Garth Brooks still haunts.

Too young to feel this damned old.

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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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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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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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Lanterns for the Unseen

Prologue

Each August, Taoists and Buddhists mark the Hungry Ghost Festival—a nod to their ancestors, with offerings of food, incense and paper money.

Wandering, hungry souls are included in those offerings–and remembrance for our own.

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Light from burning incense candles danced on the tree-lined, Singaporean streets of Sembing, Singapore, guiding footseteps–

Along with the Unseen.

They burned in human-crafted clusters, their smoke curling in waves, opening an unobstructed, tree-lined path.

Shadows stretched across the pavements, the candles their trustworthy sentinels–guardians of eternal devotion.

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20-year-old Alvin Cheng watched as his Father scattered prayer sheets near the incense bin, his eyes tracing the flickering lights of the candles.

“Boy, offer a joss stick to our ancestors.” It was Alvin’s turn to burn one for his grandfather.

Alvin’s hesitant hands reached for the incense stick and a ream of paper money–the currency of the ones who had left.

He bore the weight of forgotten ancestors –and his young shoulders sank uncomfortably.

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He threw the paper money into the bin, the flames consuming each note with ethereal gusto.

The streets echoed with promises once made.

He appeared, his form gently pressing against the trees. He stopped at the bin, eyes turned to Alvin, quietly pleading without words.

With a spectral hunger that needed acknowledging. He turned his pale face to the packet of chicken rice on the grass, his face etched with longing.

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It was a look that vanquished Alvin’s Gen Z scepticism–and fear.

The spectre was seeking vengeance, or the petrified gazes of those who still lived—it simply wanted to eat.

A place.

A name.

The young sceptic took the joss stick from his father’s outstretched hand.

He lit it and placed it at the side of the pavement.

The spirit drifted over and hovered.

Its spectral form gleamed.

The light from the candles danced with its fresh glow.

Alvin placed the packet of chicken rice in front of joss sticks. The aromatic scent of succulent chicken, herbs and spices wafted in the air, teasing his nostrils.

And the spirit’s.

It gazed at Alvin, the pale, yet unclear features of its face slowly bending-upturning in a faint smile.

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The ghost drifted away from the candle, hovering near the incense bin.

Tapping his father’s shoulder–almost with urgency.

Its features came together, now vivid, striking.

Alvin gazed at them–they were

too familiar.

But beamed with generational kindness.

In that instant, he knew the offering of chicken rice wasn’t mere kindness–it was piety.

The elderly spirit faded–but not out of the young man’s mind.

“Stay full, Ah Kong (grandpa).”

For the deceased–unknown and familiar.

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

A Black Rose

No flower was supposed to bloom in the barren soil.

Yet, a single Black Rose blossomed every winter, its petals pressing too closely against the window of widower Bob Vance.

Eleanor Rise was a seamstress with a relationship with the dead was—

Beyond the pale.

Eleanor had a seeing eye–her left. It discerned shadows that wore gowns–not with exquisite sheer–and far from elegant.

They fit.

Like coffins.

The skilled embroiderer knew not only her craft–she understood the lost souls of those who had crossed the inevitable bridge.

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Late that evening, the rose’s shadow lengthened, almost stalking, across the workshop. Candlelight flickered, forming its long shape.

A man entered Eleanor’s workshop, face covered in tears.

Bob Vance. The recent widower.

“I have something to ask, Eleanor, and I must know.” Distress was in his quivering voice.

With his distress came shadows–darkness that only Eleanor could discern.

Then, whispers.

With a frosty chill.

“You’ve tried to bring back the past, haven’t you?” Her eyes passed over him, wary.

He touched his quivering fingertips, not meeting her gaze.

Abruptly, he rose. “Thank you for your time.” An almost indiscernible mumble, and he stalked out of the room.

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Bob returned to his mansion, its detailed, arched windows shuttered and shadowed.

Casting furtive glances around his garden, he planted a small thorn–one from the black rose in Eleanor’s store–and began to tend it.

It grew.

Petals, black.

Beautiful.

Thorns–unweidly. Sharp.

And whispers began.

Short. Just barely discernible.

The mirrors in Bob’s home didn’t just reflect–they came to life.

At least, the reflections within them did.

Chairs in the dining room were–

Misplaced.

As the roses’ petals drifted onto the wooden floor, there was a faint whisper.

Almost a taunt.

“You called?”

Bob’s mother, who had come to assist with his laundry, laid eyes on the dark flower.

A shrill cry.

The plate she carried clattered on the wooden floor.

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Night turned to dawn in Bob’s mansion.

The whispers grew louder.

The silverware Bob laid on the table changed positions on the dining table when he laid eyes on them.

Bob had an inkling of the reasons for the events.

He tried to uproot the single black flower in his garden.

But the plant remained rooted.

Defiant.

Its petals dropped.

Protesting.

Scattering themselves across the floor–each time he cleared them.

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At his mother’s insistence, Bob resigned himself to leaving the rose alone.

But he still heard whispers in the hallway.

He turned to look, expecting quiet.

After all, he’d left it alone.

But in the mirror, a face.

A stretched smile.

His.

And hers.

One.

The rose lingered in his garden, petals fiercely rooted in the soil.

Elegant.

Black.

Faint whispers.

“Still here.”

Across town, another black rose pressed against a window’s glass.

Eleanor Rise passed it with a grim nod.

Unheard, they grow.

🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

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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.

🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️

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.

🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️

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…”

🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️

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.

🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️

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.

🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️🖐️

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.