Tales of mystery and horror

As If I Were…

I was lying on the conc­re­te. The ground was hard but not cold. In fact, it was bur­ning hot. I ope­ned my eyes but had to shut them im­me­di­a­te­ly. The sun was blin­ding. I was blin­king trying to get my eyes to ad­just to the light. I tried to ca­re­ful­ly move my limbs. Eve­ry sing­le musc­le in my body was ac­hing. I ma­na­ged to get up on all fours. The pa­ve­ment made my hands feel as though they were on fire. As soon as I ma­na­ged to lift my gaze so­me­o­ne jam­med a kni­fe through my brain. At le­ast that is what it felt like. The pain was like a slash of a whip.

That was three days ago. I had wo­ken up wit­hout any of my be­lon­gings. I had no idea whe­re my keys were, whe­re my pho­ne was and worst of all, whe­re I was. The only thing I did know, was who I was, and I had ba­re­ly even re­mem­be­red that. I had been out with my friends. We were par­tying and de­ci­ded to take a car ride. The win­dows were down, we were blas­ting our fa­vou­ri­te mu­sic and I was thril­led by the speed and the sen­sa­ti­on of the wind thro­wing my hair around. I have no re­col­lec­ti­on of what hap­pe­ned af­ter that.

I have been wal­king this road I woke up on for a few days now. My legs are sore, and my mouth is dry as the Sa­ha­ra-de­sert. I have yet to see a sing­le car, a hou­se or frank­ly, any sign of life at all. I have sca­ven­ged for food and ma­na­ged to find some ber­ries. I had no in­sight into we­at­her or not they were poi­so­nous, but I was beyond ca­ring. The hun­ger was over­po­we­ring. I would re­al­ly love to find a spring.

Fi­nal­ly! My pray­ers have been ans­we­red. Af­ter ki­lo­met­res upon ki­lo­met­res of wal­king it was just the­re. A be­au­ti­ful hou­se that ap­pe­a­red to be lod­ged in bet­ween to cliffs. It was on the sho­re of a lake. The wa­ter was glis­te­ning in the sun­light. It loo­ked so cle­ar and was just cal­ling my name. With what litt­le strength I had left I ran into the lake. I drank what felt like lit­res. The cool wa­ter was­hed away the dirt and swe­at.

Af­ter bat­hing in the lake, I drag­ged my­self into the dri­ve­way. I was sure the kind pe­op­le li­ving in that hou­se would be wil­ling to help me. So­me­o­ne step­ped out of the hou­se and I wa­ved my hands at them. They were wit­hin twen­ty met­res but did not seem to no­ti­ce me. I wal­ked clo­ser. An el­der wo­man was wa­te­ring flo­wers on the front porch. She must see me by now I am just three met­res away. I tried to greet her, but to my surp­ri­se, not a sound es­ca­ped my lips. The lady tur­ned to face me but loo­ked right past me as if I were in­vi­sib­le. Then she just tur­ned to­wards the door and step­ped in prac­ti­cal­ly slam­ming the door in my face. I took the last few steps to the door and knoc­ked. Right as I was ex­pec­ting for my knuck­les to hit the door – they did not. My hand went right through. Is now an app­rop­ri­a­te time to start pa­nic­king?

Kert­tu Kyl­lö­nen 19B

The Night Before

Here I am again. Trap­ped in­si­de a cage. It is not the first time. He so­me­ti­mes puts me in here, for a chan­ge, I gu­ess. It is not too much room here. I will sur­vi­ve. That’s what I keep tel­ling my­self. It will be over. He ne­ver asks me anyt­hing. Not that I could res­pond. Ho­we­ver, it would be qui­te nice to ack­now­led­ge his con­cern so­me­ti­mes. I won­der if he ca­res about me at all. The same way he ca­res about the ot­hers. I doubt that. He does not want me any­mo­re. He just uses me to show off to his friends. And to be ho­nest with you, I think I am ne­ver get­ting out of here.

It is 8 a.m. in the mor­ning and I can hear him wa­king up. I am al­ways awa­ke be­fo­re him. The­re are ti­mes that I wish I wouldn’t wake up at all. The­se 7 ye­ars with him has been a di­sas­ter. I will tell you more about it la­ter. His tiny toes touch the floor gent­ly. His step is as light as a fe­at­her. I won­der how he is so small, but so strong at the same time. I can feel eve­ry move, touch, and sound. He just do­esn’t know that. He thinks I am just an ob­ject. That I don’t have fee­lings. May­be I don’t. But let me tell you so­met­hing. He is not what he ap­pe­ars to be. This sweet, hand­so­me young man that eve­ryo­ne knows as in this city, is out­ra­ge­ous. Pe­op­le have no idea what he’s ca­pab­le of.

He is co­ming clo­ser. I must pre­tend to be as­leep. Ot­her­wi­se, he will know my sec­ret, and I will be gone fo­re­ver. All my friends, or room­ma­tes, are put be­si­de my tiny cage. Some of them are even put in the same one with me. Poor ma­tes. He tre­ats them so well though. He dres­ses them and ma­kes sure they are com­for­tab­le. Why not me? How am I so dif­fe­rent from them? Of cour­se, he choo­ses me. It might be be­cau­se I am the big­gest. Or I am the ea­siest to hand­le. He puts his hands on my thro­at, squ­ee­zes, and lifts me up. That ea­si­ly. It is nice to see light. Being In a dark, small cage is dep­res­sing. He rips my clot­hes off, sha­kes me, and throws me against the wall. So­me­how, I’m not even hurt. Per­haps I am fi­nal­ly get­ting used to this.

I have a coup­le of scratc­hes. Eve­ry part of me is ac­hing. Should be at le­ast. I’m laying on the floor. He just left me here to suf­fer. In­ca­pab­le of mo­ving. It hasn’t al­ways been like this. When we met, he was ado­rab­le. I was the only one he wan­ted. No one else. Du­ring ye­ars he be­ca­me agg­res­si­ve. I still ha­ven’t found out the re­a­son be­hind it. Once I he­ard him spe­a­king on the pho­ne, saying he was done with eve­ryt­hing. I gu­ess he just men­tal­ly snap­ped. Ever sin­ce, the vi­o­len­ce hasn’t stop­ped. Punc­hing, thro­wing, hit­ting. I still ma­na­ge to stay ali­ve. He locks me in his room eve­ry day, I can’t get out. And I wouldn’t. I pro­bab­ly couldn’t even sur­vi­ve in the out­si­de world.

It’s been a whi­le sin­ce he left the room. My room­ma­tes are sta­ring at me qui­te shoc­ked. I think they’ve ne­ver seen anyt­hing like that. I can’t know what they ac­tu­al­ly think. We don’t spe­ak. The pic­tu­res on the green walls of his room ma­kes me miss him. The days we used to go out for a walk, and dri­ve around with his bike, were the best time of my life. We were best friends. Just me and him.

I can’t bre­at­he. I don’t know if I ever did. He is hit­ting my head against a tab­le with his both hands. He seems ext­re­me­ly ang­ry. I’m bre­a­king into pie­ces. Al­most. This time I might not make it. He scre­ams, and in the flee­ting mo­ment he cuts my thro­at open. Against your ex­pec­ta­ti­ons, I’m not blee­ding. He throws me and my han­ging head in the left cor­ner of his room. He cal­med down. You ne­ver know when his out­bursts launch. Tho­se are quick and pain­ful. Pain­ful for him. I can’t fi­gu­re out what he’s going through.

He wa­kes me up and for my surp­ri­se he is ta­king me out. I think we’re going to the park ne­ar­by. He seems to be kind and hap­py. He is laug­hing and sin­ging as we make our way clo­ser to an ice cre­am stand. To­day feels nice again. I feel like I’m his fa­vo­ri­te, like back in the old days. His inc­re­dib­ly strong, tiny hands are drag­ging me like a dead body on the streets. We’re soon going back home.  He won’t let me walk by my­self. It’s been fo­re­ver like this. I wouldn’t even know how.

The day is tur­ning to a night. I’m sit­ting on his bed. I think so­met­hing re­al­ly chan­ged to­day. I think I have sur­vi­ved. I can’t feel any pain af­ter all. Con­si­de­ring eve­ryt­hing I wouldn’t want to le­a­ve him. I like the at­ten­ti­on. I am me­ant to be in this world for at­ten­ti­on. To make pe­op­le hap­py. He grabs my arms soft­ly. Just like the night be­fo­re, he puts me back to the toy­box among ot­hers.

Jan­nii­na Kor­pi­saa­ri 20B

Tales of mystery & horror

Da­niel wa­kes up in a huge, whi­te room. It’s so big that he can’t even fi­gu­re out whe­re the walls are. The first thought that co­mes to his mind is whe­re am I and why. The last thing he re­mem­bers is ha­ving din­ner with his pa­rents. How long ago was that? When Da­niel has gat­he­red enough ener­gy, he stands up slow­ly. He feels fine, ot­her than the ra­ging he­a­dac­he that’s ma­king him feel sick to his sto­mach. He ig­no­res the pain for now and starts wal­king. He ta­kes a few steps un­til he re­a­li­zes that he has no idea whe­re to go, sin­ce all he sees is whi­te. What if he ac­ci­den­tal­ly starts wal­king furt­her away from the door? Af­ter a litt­le bit of thin­king, he de­ci­des to just start wal­king in a straight line. He fi­gu­res that he will even­tu­al­ly find a wall or so­met­hing.

Af­ter wal­king for what feels like days be­cau­se of his he­a­dac­he and diz­zi­ness, but in re­a­li­ty, it was may­be a coup­le of hours, he falls down. The he­a­dac­he is get­ting too much. He needs to stop for a se­cond, so he do­esn’t faint. Af­ter laying down for a whi­le, he gat­hers enough strength to stand up again and keep going. He has to get out of here. He can’t just die here. That’s all he can think at the mo­ment.

More time pas­ses. Da­niel is star­ting to lose hope. His he­a­dac­he has cal­med down, and he is fee­ling bet­ter, just a bit diz­zy still. But he has not made any prog­ress. That is un­til he no­ti­ces a small black dot in the dis­tan­ce. He feels a litt­le bit of hope light in­si­de of him. He prays that the dot is ac­tu­al­ly the­re, and it’s not just his diz­zi­ness mes­sing with him. He starts wal­king a litt­le bit fas­ter. The dot gets big­ger, slow­ly but su­re­ly. In the back of his mind Da­niel ho­pes that the dot in the dis­tan­ce is a door or so­met­hing. Sud­den­ly eve­ryt­hing goes black. For a se­cond Da­niel thinks he fain­ted, but he re­a­li­zes that he is ful­ly cons­ci­ous, he just can’t see. He lifts his hands in front of his face, but he can’t see them, no mat­ter how clo­se to his face he holds them. Then he he­ars a loud bang co­ming from be­hind him. He turns around so fast he win­ces in pain. He tries to find out what made the sound, but he can’t see anyt­hing. When he’s about to turn back around, he he­ars the bang again, this time a litt­le bit clo­ser. He thinks if he should shout into the dark­ness, but he de­ci­des against it. Anot­her bang can be he­ard, and its clo­ser again. The bangs just keep going and they are get­ting inc­re­a­sing­ly clo­ser. When one bang sounds a bit too clo­se to him, he starts to back away from the noi­se. When he starts mo­ving, the ban­ging picks up the pace as well. Da­niel de­ci­des that he has had enough and starts run­ning. He can hear the ban­ging loud and cle­ar right be­hind him. It sounds like it’s catc­hing up to him. He is now run­ning as fast as he can, trying to ig­no­re the he­a­dac­he cree­ping back into his head. He feels like he has been run­ning fo­re­ver, and he is star­ting to won­der if the dot that he saw re­al­ly was just his own ima­gi­na­ti­on.

Af­ter a whi­le the ban­ging stops, but Da­niel do­esn’t. He keeps run­ning. He do­esn’t know if it’s the ad­re­na­li­ne cont­rol­ling his body, but he de­ci­des that he can’t stop now. He keeps going. He is star­ting to lose hope un­til he sud­den­ly runs face first into a hard sur­fa­ce. He stumb­les back, rub­bing his nose in pain, un­til he re­a­li­zes what just hap­pe­ned. He has done it! He found one of the walls of the room! He starts fran­ti­cal­ly loo­king for so­met­hing, anyt­hing that could get him out of the­re. And then he feels it. So­met­hing is stic­king out of the wall. It feels like a doork­nob. He’s so hap­py he could cry. He goes to pull the door. But then so­met­hing grabs him from be­hind and pulls him back. Da­niels scre­ams and then he ac­tu­al­ly blacks out. He was so clo­se to es­ca­ping.

Alma Kank­ku­nen 19B