The Third-Floor Bedroom

 

No one ever went to the third-floor.  The furniture was covered in a thick layer of dust, and an eerie silence echoed throughout the empty hallways.  At the end of the dreary hallway, a single bedroom stood with its white-washed door closed to the unforgiving world.  If one were to open this bedroom door, they would find that the dust had avoided this room, and a certain shine sparkled around the open room.  Perfect white furniture, the color of baby powder, filled the room, and baby blue encompassed the walls.  There was just one slight difference on the back wall.  Paintings of white doves, wings outstretched, ran in lines down the length of the faded blue wall.  If one looked closely, they would be able to pick out the minute differences in each individual dove.  One may have a larger head than another, or a nick in their wing.  Why would an artist paint the doves differently? One may be tempted to ask.  Ah, this is why the third-floor has remained deserted for so many years.  The perfectly imperfect snowy doves had not always been an omnipresent painting on the baby blue wall, but had instead shown up of their own accord.  It all began when someone left the window open.  

Willow had always enjoyed living on the third-floor.  Since there was only one bedroom on this floor, she was the only person living on it.  It was quiet, peaceful.  In the mornings, the sun shone through her shear white curtains; it created tiny diamonds that twinkled in the morning light.  One fine morning, a sound woke Willow up from her dreams.  She had been dreaming that she was flying among the birds.  Willow opened her amber eyes, and yawned.  Her long, light brown hair had become matted around her face some time in the night like a rat’s nest.  As she began the process of untangling her hair from her face, Willow heard the sound again.  It was coming from the window.  Rap, rap, rap, came the incessant sound.  Willow blinked, attempting to place the sound.  Finally, she pulled her plush white comforter off of her bare legs, and walked to the window.  She pulled the shear white curtains back, so she could clearly see what was making the irritable noise.  A white dove sat at her window, tapping its beak against the impenetrable glass.  “No, little birdy, you cannot come in,” Willow whispered.  Upon taking a closer look at the dove, Willow saw that there was a tiny nick its wing.  The poor little bird could be injured, and is only looking for a nice place to land, Willow reasoned with herself.  Looking at the desperate bird, still rapping on the glass, Willow used all of her strength to open the window.  As soon as the window was open, the dove flew into the bedroom, circling it like a tornado.  Then, it was gone.  The dove could not have just vanished, Willow thought.  Scouring her room for the snowy white dove, Willow gasped when she found it.  It was on the wall, Flat-Stanley style.  The bird had merged with the wall, looking as if it had flown directly into it when it happened; it was as if the bird were painted onto the wall.

For the next 30 days, a dove appeared at Willow’s window, and disappeared on her wall until her whole back wall was covered with the flying doves.  On the 31^st day, there was no dove to greet Willow at her bedroom window.  There had been no rapping on her glass.  She was not sure if she was depressed or relieved.  The small white doves had become her familiar acquaintances, a pleasant sight to wake up to each morning.  As Willow arose from her bed, she glanced at her wall covered with the doves.  She had become accustomed to counting an additional dove each day, but this morning she counted one less.  As Willow pondered the missing dove, she heard a soft coo near her window.  Gasping, Willow turned around to find one of the snowy birds perched on the windowsill with its head tilted, as if wondering why she had not yet opened the window.  Staring at the bird, Willow heard a sort of peeling noise coming from her wall.  The doves were ridding themselves of the wall, and coming back to life in full force.  One by one the birds reappeared in Willow’s bedroom.  Shaken, Willow could not get to the window fast enough.  Her nails clawed at the chipped paint and uneven wood as she strained to pull the window free.  Freeing the window, she turned to look at the doves.  Their feathers had changed from a snowy white to a nightmarish black, and their screeching turned into that of nails on a chalkboard.  They were no longer the peaceful doves that came rapping on her window each morning, but the monsters that terrified you most in the darkest parts of your dreams.  As she ran for the door, the doves swarmed her like locusts.  The doves picked at Willow’s clothing until it was firmly in their beaks, and her feet no longer touched the wooden floor.  Willow fought, screamed, and kicked at the birds, but there were always more to nip at her face and her clothing.  The birds flew out the window, Willow grasped in their beaks.  As the inky doves flew off with their bounty, Willow thought of her dream of flying the night the first dove had appeared in her window.  She had never wanted it to be like this.   

 

Crimson Nightmare

  

  I was standing in a field of daisies with the wind blowing my soft brown hair in the wind.  I was clothed in a simple white dress that matched the field of daisies, and it flowed around me as I twirled and laughed in joy.  As I looked up from the magnificent field of flowers, I saw a girl.  She looked like a younger version of myself, and even had on the same white dress as me.  As I ventured closer to the young girl, a bloom of crimson appeared on the girl’s chest.  It increased in size, expanding until there was not one spot of white left on the front of the girl’s chest.  Right before my eyes, I watched horrific bruises appear on the girl’s face, arms, and neck.  Her once beautiful white dress became ragged as if a chainsaw were allowed free reign on it.  Her skin had been clearly ripped off or badly burned where the dress had been torn away.  I wanted to avert my eyes from the ghastly scene, but something kept my eyes locked on the little girl’s.  Her eyes were not open wide in burning agony, but filled with a fiery hate that could stop a heart.  The little girl looked back up at me, right in the eye, and smiled.

***

 

     I woke from the nightmare in a cold sweat.  My white sheets had become tangled with my legs, and my body was contorted in an interesting manner.  I was trembling, and tears of pure fear leaked out of my now fully awake eyes.  I was just about to turn on the lamp beside my bed, when I saw a figure out of the corner of my eye.  Someone was standing at the edge of my bed, watching me.  I could feel my hand trembling as I found the switch to my lamp, and turned it on.  The little girl from my nightmare was standing at my bedside.  Time seemed to slow down as she extended her hand out towards me.  Crimson blood dripped from her perfect porcelain fingers, and splattered onto my white bedspread.  It looked as if a small heart lie underneath my comforter, slowly bleeding its life away.  Then I saw something around her wrist that caught my attention.  It was a bracelet, my mother’s bracelet.  It had been years since I had seen that bracelet.  Against her bloodied skin, the shiny silver looked brand new.  Suddenly, my bedroom door was thrown open, and my mother appeared in the doorway.  Her face was taunt with fright.  “I thought that I heard you call...” she breathed.  Her voice died as soon as her eyes fell upon the little girl standing at my bedside.  My mother's eyes widened as she stared at the ragged girl.  A thin line of sweat began to trickle down her forehead, and her breathing became rapid.  There was something off about her expression, though.  I could There was none of the fear that I had first felt at first seeing the horrendous little girl in her expression.  Instead, anxiety was etched into her expression.  Despite my incessant terror, I forced myself to look at the little girl.  She was a younger version of myself, the bloodstains slightly concealing  a birthmark on her cheek that has been known to run in our family.  Then there was my mother's bracelet.  Its alluring shine heavily contrasted with the girl's bloodstained dress.  "Mom?" I asked, "What is going?"  The little girl smiled. 

What Lies in the Dark

  

  Something was off.  The old man could sense it.  From where he sat on the park bench, he could feel the change in the wind, the soft kiss of malevolence grazing his bare neck.  The streetlamp above him flickered suddenly and burnt out, leaving the old man alone in a night as black as the Devil’s eyes.  Fear began to creep its way into the old man’s heart, cold and menacing.  Adrenaline made his skin tingle with anticipation, yet he had no idea why.  Then he saw…something.  A light, glowing a fluorescent blue, was fading in and out just down the dark street.  Despite his fear, he felt his feet begin to move towards the fascinating blue light.  It was as if a glorious angel had come to save him from the suffocating darkness.  As soon as the old man was within 100 feet of the beautiful blue light, it changed form.  It was no longer a shining star, guiding him out of the deep night, but his late wife, Maureen.  She was calling to him, beckoning him closer.  Paralyzed by a deep array of emotions, the old man stood staring at his deceased wife, tears falling down his face.  As he was incapable to move, Maureen came closer to him, her blue light illuminating the street before him.  The last thing the old man remembers was opening his mouth to scream.

*** 

     The little boy could not find his grandpa.  He had told his grandpa that he would come right back to the park bench after he had finished trick-or-treating at the local high school across the street.  They had agreed upon meeting at the park bench- his grandpa’s favorite park bench- after the little boy’s plastic pumpkin was filled to the brim with candy.  Now, he could not find him.  After scouring the deserted street for his grandpa, the little boy eventually went back to the grey bench where his grandpa once sat, and took a seat.  He assumed that his grandpa might have wanted to do some trick-or-treating himself, as the old man did quite like his Twix bars.  The little boy sat his plastic pumpkin down on the bench next to him, and began counting his candy under the yellow light of a streetlamp.  Suddenly, it became difficult to count his candy; for, the streetlamp above him began to flicker.  As soon as the little boy looked up, the light died, leaving the little boy in utter darkness.  The boy felt his heart clench like a fist; he was afraid of the dark.  The dark is where his worst fears could come to life, and were set free.  Crippled with fear, the little boy sat stock-still on the park bench, and listened for any noise in the eerie night.  Instead of hearing a noise, he saw a fluorescent blue light off in the distance.  The little boy could not move fast enough.  All he could think about was getting away from this awful darkness.  As the boy neared the bright blue light, he tripped and fell onto the pavement before him.  At least, he had thought it was pavement.  There was a whole world underneath him, a world full of suffering, and of hate.  Writhing corpses stretched their bony hands up out of pits of raging fire.  Their bloodcurdling howls of true pain, sorrow, and envy rose up from their flaming graves.  A river of shadows flowed in between the pits of flaming torture, and the little boy could only guess what lie beneath the inky black water.  The little boy had read about this place, the Underworld.  The sight alone made his body tremble, and horror was set free to tear apart any rational thoughts he may have.  The little boy was then drawn out of his trance when he saw an eerie blue light out of the corner of his eye.  Turning his head ever so slowly, he saw that the light was in the form of a person.  It was his grandpa, but the little boy did not remember his grandpa having coal black eyes.