Dont Go to Sleep in the Dark: Short Stories

She prayed it was just a dream…. When she turned around, she saw her own self, dressed in different clothes. Her heart went into shock and the other self gently helped her to the floor as she died. I opened my front door to the frantic pounding of my next door neighbor. To my horror it was something that was wearing his skin…. The stew I was eating was delicious, and I wanted to give my husband a taste. But today, when the crushed body of the little dead boy strapped in his car seat opened his eyes and giggled at me when I tried to peel him out of the wreckage, I immediately knew that today would be my last day on the force.

The dog sits at my gate every morning and night when I leave and come home from work. The girl pedaled quickly towards his car, droplets of water flying off her, leaving a trail on the sidewalk. My kids were excited to tell me about the day they just had with their mother. My eyes watered as I pondered how to tell them she died this morning on the way to work. When I wake in the middle of the night to the sound of cracking, I am aware that it is her rigor mortis body snapping unto itself as she crawls down the hallway. I knew it was only a matter of time before she would seek her revenge.

I thought it was a gift too, until the day I began to see it in front of every house. Audra looked across the table to smile warmly at the loving faces of her husband and children. Through moon and fog, I run, branches whipping bare legs bloody, and race the hot breath, that burp of hell, against my nape. Closer, closer, until saliva spatters my skin, and the thing with teeth wraps me in its mouth. I used to love hearing those sounds; the bathroom door opening, my girlfriend playfully drumming her fingernails on the sink, and the flat screech of the shower curtain pulling back before she stepped in to join me.

The mirror had been left to me by my late aunts estate, stored in the attic and covered in paper. I stared at my reflection, feeling that something was…off…but not knowing what — when my reflection winked at me. I breathe in the gas and count back from ten to get my tonsils removed.

I had often had a slightly irrational fear of being stalked or having someone show up in the backseat of my car after leaving a bad relationship , so I got a smaller car for sense of security. Then I realized it was only a memory. But he was already dead, and soon, she would be, too. From afar, the doll looked just like her. I like living alone. My car thumped over something in the road. I went camping with my three best friends.

But by the time we left, we were nothing but a murderer, a witness, and a dead body. But then I remembered, he was dead and I was in my apartment alone. When I checked his browser history, I found the search: I panicked when the blood started crawling up my leg. Three cheers for Santa Claus, and all the good children who believe. I just wish my hungry neighbors would leave me alone.

There was a knock on my door. Something inside told me not to open the closet. There was a photo of me sleeping on beautiful red silk on my phone. I stared at the picture of me emblazoned on the screen of the mobile phone, wracking my brain to try to understand how it got there. At the expense of the last of their ammunition, the lumbering beast collapsed. Before I could react, the man produced an ax from his long coat and brought it to rest on the table before me. My eyes were glued to the scarring images on the horrifying scrapbook I found at my new neighbors house. Before my parents left town for the weekend, they tucked me in, locked my bedroom door, and told me that there was nothing to be afraid of: If they had stayed a second longer they would have heard his laughter from inside the closet.

At least it was accurate: Before I can go to sleep, I have to check all the doors around the house. To help you do that, we created a functional backpack with the everyday artist in mind. Reblogged this on Much Ado About Tria and commented: Reblogged this on haveakitkat and commented: Reblogged this on gracedescence and commented: This shall be my new project, to finish these short two sentence stories.

With two sentences that are not mine, of course.

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Read more freaky stories here. You can try it yourself by taking a random article and using random phrases, […]. Reblogged this on engrceleres and commented: Who needs sleep anyway? Reblogged this on Oneirophrenia and commented: Reblogged this on La Prima Cosa Bella. Sign up for the Thought Catalog Weekly and get the best stories from the week to your inbox every Friday. You may unsubscribe at any time.

By subscribing, you agree to the terms of our Privacy Statement. Dedicated to your stories and ideas. A website by Thought. These two-sentence horror stories are going to freak you the eff out. There was a picture in my phone of me sleeping. She asked why I was breathing so heavily. Internet still not working. The officer finally got back to me. The call was coming from inside the house. The last man on Earth sat alone in a room. There was a knock at the door. I never go to sleep. But I keep waking up. The longer I wore it the more it grew on me.

She had such pretty skin. I looked out my window. The stars had gone away. I just saw my reflection blink. The upstairs neighbors are awfully noisy. The knife, it slices — just like butter I tried to be a loving mother. I just saw the children playing, admiring how high they have swung. I was always told not to play with my food, as it is a blessing to eat.

Read this after the day is nigh. I was never more scared or more filled filled with dread, Than the night the police found, her dismembered head. As I played in the basement, Mother called me upstairs. I watched you play whilst at the park. I travel here and there so suddenly, and never make a sound. And from the grave, where my father was put And hand reached up and grabbed my foot. I saw the children playing, watched how high they swung.

Roses are red, violets are blue. I held her in my arms, dying What could lie in her crib, crying? Can you hear the beautiful ring of the bell? You see, I stand on my box. Muscles now relaxed, and still in her bed; young Timmy and Zax leaving all left unsaid.

Wrapped in sheets and cuddled in bed. You taught how me to be a man, but today I feel so all alone. I once had a girlfriend named Jill, I buried her under that hill. I kept calling my girlfriend the day they buried me. My cat is asleep beside my computer in his favorite spot. I woke up to the smell of copper in the air. I had done it again.

I see a face staring at me from my window. I live on the 3rd floor. The cloven hoof prints were fresh. They were in sets of two, staggered like a man running. It felt like his stomach was filled with razor wire. The insects chittered as he spasmed and moaned. It was only when he felt a terrible squirming feeling beneath his skin that he realised the insects hadn't been protecting him.

They had been protecting their young. Everyone loves the first day of school, right? New year, new classes, new friends. It's a day full of potential and hope, before all the dreary depressions of reality show up to ruin all the fun. I like the first day of school for a different reason, though. You see, I have a sort of power. When I look at people, I can A colored outline based on how long that person has to live. Most everyone I meet around my age is surrounded by a solid green hue, which means they have plenty of time left.

A fair amount of them have a yellow-orangish tinge to their auras, which tends to mean a car crash or some other tragedy. Anything that takes people "before their time" as they say. The real fun is when the auras venture into the red end of the spectrum, though. Every now and again I'll see someone who's basically a walking stoplight. Those are the ones who get murdered or kill themselves. It's such a rush to see them and know their time is numbered.

With that in mind, I always get to class very early so I can scout out my classmates' fates. The first kid who walked in was basically radiating red. I chuckled to myself. Too damn bad, bro. But as people kept walking in, they all had the same intense glow. I finally caught a glimpse of my rose-tinted reflection in the window, but I was too stunned to move. Our professor stepped in and locked the door, his aura a sickening shade of green.

It has been said that the definition of insanity is "doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results". I understand the sentiment behind the saying, but it's wrong. I entered the building on a bet. I was strapped for cash and didn't buy into the old legends of the hotel to begin with, so fifty bucks was more than enough to get me do it. Just reach the top floor, the 45th floor, shine my flashlight from a window. The hotel was old and broken, including the elevator, so that meant hiking up the stairs. So up the stairs I went.

As I reached each platform, I noted the old brass plaques displaying the floor numbers. I felt a little tired as I crept higher, but so far, no ghosts, no cannibals, no demons. I can't tell you how happy I was as I entered that last stretch of numbers. I joyfully counted them aloud at each platform. I stopped and looked back down the stairs. I must have miscounted, so I continued up. And then down ten flights. And so it's been for as long as I can remember.

So really, insanity isn't doing something repeatedly and expecting different results. It's knowing that the results will never ever change; that each door leads to the same staircase, to the same number. It's not knowing whether you've been running for days or weeks or years. It's when the sobbing slowly turns into laughter. My daughter woke me around My wife and I had picked her up from her friend Sally's birthday party, brought her home, and put her to bed. My wife went into the bedroom to read while I fell asleep watching the Braves game.

My wife and I have been up with her for almost 8 hours. She still refuses to tell us where she got them. He had been given the watch on his tenth birthday. It was an ordinary grey plastic wristwatch in every respect except for the fact that it was counting down. As the watch ticked away, the boy, now a man, lived life to the fullest. He climbed mountains and swam oceans. He talked and laughed and lived and loved.

The man was never afraid, for he knew exactly how much time he had left. Eventually, the watch began its final countdown. The old man stood looking over everything he had done, everything he had built. He shook hands with his old business partner, the man who had long been his friend and confidant. His dog came and licked his hand, earning a pat on the head for its companionship.

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He hugged his son, knowing that he had been a good father. He kissed his wife on the forehead one last time. The old man smiled and closed his eyes. The watch beeped once and turned off. The man stood standing there, very much alive. You would think that in that moment he would have been overjoyed. Instead, for the first time in his life, the man was scared.

When my sister Betsy and I were kids, our family lived for awhile in a charming old farmhouse.

Sleep well.

We loved exploring its dusty corners and climbing the apple tree in the backyard. But our favorite thing was the ghost. We called her Mother, because she seemed so kind and nurturing. Some mornings Betsy and I would wake up, and on each of our nightstands, we'd find a cup that hadn't been there the night before. Mother had left them there, worried that we'd get thirsty during the night.

She just wanted to take care of us. Among the house's original furnishings was an antique wooden chair, which we kept against the back wall of the living room. Whenever we were preoccupied, watching TV or playing a game, Mother would inch that chair forward, across the room, toward us. Sometimes she'd manage to move it all the way to the center of the room. We always felt sad putting it back against the wall. Mother just wanted to be near us. Years later, long after we'd moved out, I found an old newspaper article about the farmhouse's original occupant, a widow.

She'd murdered her two children by giving them each a cup of poisoned milk before bed. Then she'd hanged herself. The article included a photo of the farmhouse's living room, with a woman's body hanging from a beam. Beneath her, knocked over, was that old wooden chair, placed exactly in the center of the room.

On Monday, I came up with the perfect plan. No one even knew we were friends. On Tuesday, he stole the gun from his dad. On Wednesday, we decided to make our move during the following day's pep rally. On Thursday, while the entire school was in the gym, we waited just outside the doors.

I was to use the gun on whoever walked out first. Then he would take the gun and go into the gym blasting. I walked up to Mr. Quinn the guidance counselor and shot him in the face three times. He fell back into the gym, dead. The shots were deafening. We heard screams in the auditorium. No one could see us yet. I handed him the gun and whispered, "your turn. I followed a moment after. He hadn't hit anyone yet. Kids were scrambling and hiding. I ran up behind him and tackled him. I wrenched the gun out of his hands, turned it on him, and killed him. I closed his mouth forever.

On Friday, I was anointed a hero. It was indeed the perfect plan. All things must have balance. Without one, the other cannot exist. Of course he fights evil. I am Dartalian, one of His most Holy and Righteous angels. I roam the Earth, disposing of evil wherever I find it. I kill the monsters you don't ever want to know about.

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I crush them completely so you can sleep at night. You humans have no idea how many of you live because of the work I do. The ones I destroy are What's funny, is while I would wager you never have heard the name Dartalian in any relegious texts, I bet you have heard of me. Americans, for example, have their own name for me. Sudden Infant Death Syndrome.

There was no pearly gate. The only reason I knew I was in a cave was because I had just passed the entrance. The rock wall rose behind me with no ceiling in sight. I knew this was it, this was what religion talked about, what man feared.. I had just entered the gate to hell. I felt the presence of the cave as if it was a living, breathing creature. The stench of rotten flesh overwhelmed me. Then there was the voice, it came from inside and all around. I've lived as good as I could". The silence took over the space as my words died out. It seemed like an hour went by before the response came.

I never believed any of this", I uttered "Is that why I am here? The cave trembled with the words: It was one a. He hadn't moved for over an hour. The accident earlier that evening kept playing over and over in his mind. The light turned red, but he was in a hurry and accelerated. An orange blur came from his right, and in a split second there was a violent jolt, then the bicyclist rolled across his hood and fell out of sight on the pavement. Horns blared angrily and he panicked, stepping on the gas and screeching away from the chaos into the darkness, shaken and keeping an eye on his rearview mirror until he got home.

Why did you run, you idiot? He'd never committed a crime before this and punished himself by imagining years in jail, his career gone, his family gone, his future gone. Why not just go to the police right now? You can afford a lawyer. Then someone tapped on the front door and his world suddenly crumbled away beneath him. There was nothing he could do but answer it. Running would only make matters worse. His body trembling, he got up, went to the door and opened it. A police officer stood under the porch light.

He let out a defeated sigh. Let me —"I am terribly sorry, but I'm afraid I have some bad news. Your son's bike was struck by a hit and run driver this evening. He died at the scene. I'm very sorry for your loss. Have you ever walked into a room and found a vampire? No, not the sexy kind, but a foul creature with bony limbs and ashen skin? The kind that snarls as you enter, like a beast about to pounce? The kind that roots you to the spot with its sunken, hypnotic eyes, rendering you unable to flee as you watch the hideous thing uncoil from the shadows?

Has your heart started racing though your legs refuse to? Have you felt time slow as the creature crosses the room in the darkness of a blink? Have you shuddered with fear when it places one clawed hand atop your head and another under your chin so it can tilt you, exposing your neck? Have you squirmed as its rough, dry tongue slides down your cheek, over your jaw, to your throat, in a slithering search that's seeking your artery?

Have you felt its hot breath release in a hiss against your skin when it probes your pulse—the flow that leads to your brain? Has its tongue rested there, throbbing slightly as if savoring the moment? Have you then experienced a sinking, sucking blackness as you discover that not all vampires feed on blood—some feed on memories? But let me rephrase the question: Have you ever walked into a room and suddenly forgotten why you came in? The doctor pulled the stethoscope ear tips out and hung the device around his neck. Weatherby, all of your tests have come back negative and my examination shows nothing abnormal.

A psychologist can help They seem to have a life all their own. I can't hold a job. I'm under investigation for assault. I almost killed my neighbor. This can't go on. I'll try anything at this point. He was convinced that despite what the doctors said, it was not a psychological problem. That night, a frustrated and angry Adam sat in a chair and drank bourbon.

Drunk and hopeless, he stumbled to the garage and started the table saw, then slowly lowered his wrists toward the screaming blade. Detective Armstrong entered the garage where several uniformed officers stood over the blood-soaked body. He apparently chopped off his hands with the table saw and bled to death. I don't know why I looked up, but when I did I saw him there. He stood against my window. His forehead rested against the glass, and his eyes were still and light and he smiled a lipstick-red, cartoonish grin.

And he just stood there in the window. My wife was upstairs sleeping, my son was in his crib and I couldn't move I froze and watched him looking past me through the glass. His smile never moved but he put a hand up and slid it down the glass, watching me. With matted hair and yellow skin and face through the window.

I couldn't do anything. I just stayed there, frozen, feet still in the bushes I was pruning, looking into my home. People started falling from the sky by the close of the decade. They were never clothed, always naked, always a petrifying grin on their faces. It had been just a few at first, but then hundreds and thousands would fall at a time, destroying cars, homes, blocking off highways.

Strange discoveries were made upon research; they were human, but lacked any blood, intestines, even a heart. No one could explain the hideous grins they had, or even where they came from. It was a woman in Costa Rica who made the latest and most disturbing discovery. She recognized one of the fallen bodies as a long dead relative, one who died back when she had been a teenager.

Then more and more identifications were made. Soon people were picking out their long dead loved ones amongst the video feeds, cadaver piles, and crematoriums. No one could explain why they were coming back, falling from the sky. Even more distressing, after disposing of the bodies, it wouldn't be long until that same body came plummeting from the sky again. You could not get rid of them, no matter what. People were getting killed by the higher volume of falling bodies, and soon after burial, they too, began to fall. My mother was killed when a body landed on her car, crushing her.

The next week, the news reported on a body that had gotten lodged in an airplane windshield. They say when hell is full; the dead shall walk the earth. I watched as my soon to be father-in-law held his daughter's hand as he walked down the aisle. Tears streamed down his face as the wedding march that played in the background reminded him that, in a few minutes, he would be watching me hold his daughter's hand and slipping on her ring. He walked up to the altar and I took hold of her hand, grinning from ear to ear. It was the happiest day of my life.

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My bride's father got down on his knees and started begging. Just please give my daughter back. Panicked, I run through the abandoned farm. I can't find her. Not in the old house. Not in the barn. I run into the empty field, heart racing. As I scan the area, I run into a mound of dirt and trip, sprawling to the ground. Getting up, it hits me. I tripped over freshly tilled earth. Crouching down, I start frantically clawing with my hands.

Scooping handfuls of dirt, I hit something hard. I hear muffled cries. I start digging again, but realize it's taking too long. Looking around, I see a garden shed. I sprint to it, ripping the door open. I see a shovel, still caked in dirt. Probably the same one that bastard buried her with. Running back, I started digging with purpose. Soon the wooden box is exposed. I toss the shovel, and rip open the crate.

She stares back at me, eyes wide. I sigh with relief. I reach into my bag, pulling out my rag and chloroform. I crouch down, placing it over her face. I toss her over my shoulder. You almost had me though! Where did you put her? Drowning's an issue though. I smile, watching him go. I love adult Hide and Seek. Look, I'll be the first to admit I'm a complete bastard.

I'm only here to find the idiot, because there's almost always an idiot. This support group is pretty typical. We connected online, decided on a quiet place, and now we're all sitting cross-legged in a circle. Jerome takes the lead, pouring everyone a cup of tea as he starts talking.

You can drink your tea, but only after explaining why you're here. I can see why—the guy's ugly as sin. He sips his tea while the mousy chick speaks next.