Need Nothing

He was trying to get to bed early tonight. He'd felt off all week, and knew that it usually meant he hadn't been getting enough sleep. He wasn't tired yet, so he put on some instrumental music and stared at the wall. Off-white, knockdown-textured drywall. He would imagine shapes in the ridges and plateaus of the paint. A skyscraper. The head of a horse. A clawed hand reaching down. 

He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. Except... He could still see the wall. He opened and closed his eyes again. Still, the wall was there. He pressed his fingertips against his closed eyelids. 

He was wondering if he was dreaming when the clawed hand he has seen in the texture of the paint began peeling itself away from the wall towards him. 

Towards his face. Towards his eyes. 

He froze in terror. 

A searing pain, and then he saw nothing. 

The End

Author's Note: This was going to be about the mental strain of not being able to close your eyes and enjoy peaceful darkness once in a while but I quickly realized that being able to see clearly at all times is kind of a superpower and would become a whole thing and I didn't want to deal with the logistics of that right now. Goodnight!

*Note to self: it's twenty minutes later but why you don't you have him only see the image of the last thing he saw clearly? That could work. 

A Time Machine

You can travel to the past, if you really want to, but no one is there anymore. It's just an empty shell, a scaffolding holding nothing up anymore. In a past life, we met for the last time and hugged until we cried. I went back, once, and saw the tear drops on the ground and our footprints in the dust. 

You can go forward, too, but nobody is there yet. You can see amazing new places, cities and mountains and towns and architecture that means nothing to you, nothing to anyone, not yet. 

If I were trying to warn you against it, I would say "Time is like a river, and you can only step into a moment once" or something quasi-profound like that. 

But I'm not going to stop you. You've already gone, and I've already gone, but we didn't go at the same time. And we missed each other again. 

And I can go as many times as I like, for as long as I like, just hoping. But time moves on without us, unwavering, resolute. It will take longer and longer to get back to the present. Until one day, when you just won't make it. 

This isn't a warning. You've already done it. You already know this. 

Because you're the one who told me this. I read the message you left, written in the dust. 

The End

Author's Note: I was thinking about a story about a werewolf but then this happened. Goodnight!

Care To Go Around Again?

Shit. I'm finishing my second glass of Macallan 12 year single malt scotch when I realize that its September 30th. Nothing special about today, except that it usually means tomorrow is October 1st. That's the day I have a problem with. 

Exactly a dozen Octobers ago, I got a doppelganger. A double, almost an exact duplicate. I don't know how it happened. I was torn, I guess, wanting to be in two places at once. Then, I was. Staring directly at myself, like looking into a mirror. I had attacked him immediately. He had hesitated, I remember, which makes me suspect that even then, we weren't exactly the same. 

Other Me got in a lucky kick to my knee and I fell, and he ran. 

Haven't seen him since. 

But I know that he's still out there. I also know, somehow, that I'm completely safe for eleven months out of the year, but every October, for those 31 days, he gets a chance to destroy me. 

It's been so long now, and I haven't seen him at all. 

I stretch half-heartedly. I've been exercising, mostly. Partly. I'm ready for another physical fight anyway. My knee still bothers me, but I've got a brace for it. 

It's getting late, and I'm drowsy. He wouldn't attack right at midnight. That is, we wouldn't. It's too obvious. Plus, the dogs would bark. The dogs are the reason I don't just put booby traps all over the place. Also because, statistically, your booby traps are more likely to harm you than the actual intruder. Most major accidents happen in the home anyway. 

I hope we get to talk a little before we do battle. I have so many questions. Presumably, we have now had the chance to learn from double the amount of mistakes, so why not share that hard-earned wisdom with whoever wins? 

Whomever wins?

I'll also have to thank him, I suppose. These 13 years have been a lot of things, including a huge pain in my ass, but they haven't been boring. 

And I've got a good feeling about this October. 

The End? 

Well it begins. I'm going to attempt to write something fictional and spooky (or at least autobiographical and horror-adjacent) every day this month. Since I don't do NaNoWriMo. This one isn't that. Spooky, I mean. This isn't really writing; this is merely swirling the water a bit, as they say. 

I don't know, I don't like doppelgangers. We might be friends and I guess clothes shopping would be fun because we could share a closet. Still, imagine the pointless arguments. Everyone around us would probably kill us first. 

Goodnight!

The Oldest Story

A ringing bell, elsewhere in the house. Never seems to be at the same time of day. Or night. I've chased it deeper and deeper. 

Some music has lyrics we don't understand until it's too late. 

I don't have time for that kind of music.