BLOOD GHOST

 I will tell you the tale that my  friend of mine  told me about the ghost that appeared in the hallway in the school. 

So the story happened about years ago according to him the time was 9:30 pm their class was about to end then they heard a loud scream from across the hallway so they looked outside to check out what happened they wanted to leave but the professor wanted to stay as it was worrying,  and then they heard another scream and it was revealed  by a shouting student  running outside that it was a white lady  was walking thru the classrooms.

many hearing this and seeing  students running outside as many were heard already screaming, scared shitless but having a curious about wanting to see proof  the prof didn't dismiss the class thinking it was just a prank to get the class end since there were still classes after this but   as the screams got louder the reaction was different among students there were some showing excitement and others scared but when suddenly a red dots appeared in the whiteboard  it was still blurry but other students were already silent screaming holding their breath as if they breathe it would go faster but soon a whole face appeared the prof and the class was looking at it intently as the  face appeared like pale but transparent  and then a body followed there  were screaming some can't move or speak others try hard to make a sound as its full body appear legs dangling like something was holding it up  it was a shape of a lady with blood dot eyes and she was bloody wounds  around the body it was a stab or shoot and it shows  all over its body but still remain oddly transparent  you can only see the red dot eyes and seems to be  a dirty bloody transparent thing  floating  it didn't mind anybody like anything around it was just not there as it passed silently thru the end of  the room they bolted out of the room and those who were so stunned at what they saw  awoke  from there state of shock they described it as a flying bed sheet with redness after the screaming and the shouting and panicking the professor just stood there and said they were dismissed then fainted afterward.

them and until this day my friend never took classes again at night time.

I wouldn't blame him so that all for today till next time and have a nice day

over stress or ghost visit

In our times today we have been so prone to stress because of this pandemic we are not our best self, I will tell you a story that has happened to me just last week I tell this because I believe it might be supernatural in nature or just my tired brain playing tricks on me.

I just had a long day even when we are forced to stay at home we still need to get out to do stuff at most but mostly  to remove the feeling we are stuck  and for me it is the worst one yet, So back to my story I just had a long day but I still need to finish some work to save energy I turned off the light the only light in my room was my  laptop so while I was typing I notice something in the corner of my eye it was a shadow not my stuff but a person standing in the corner but it was weird because he or whatever it was standing behind the table.

I stopped typing and look at it more closely but making sure it won’t notice me whatever it was I stared at it for a while then I was forced to blink and then it was gone, Just putting it because of overwork I saved what I was doing and went to sleep.

I suddenly felt my room feeling a lot colder like the cold is inside your body I look around and it was pitch black I tried to move my body but it wasn’t moving like I was stuck in a place I can only move my eyes so I scan the room what was happing I was forcing myself to relax and not to panic I was thinking this must just a dream.

Then my eyes adjusted to the darkness and standing at the foot of my bed was the shadow it was clearly a silhouette of a man but it was just shadow it was like a two dimensional drawing just standing there I can clearly see the flatness of it then I saw its hand reaching towards me and the shadow hand moving across my body and when it reaches my neck it began squeezing it I felt being light-headed.

Then suddenly I woke up and realized it was a just a nightmare but I was sure what I felt, Thankful I was able to move my body again, Curious to what has startled me awake the I heard a loud scratching at my door I stood up and opened it was my dog waiting outside my door and waltz in and slept near the place where the shadow was standing I extremely thanked full of my dog it must felt something was wrong in my room and made sure I was okay.

I petted my dog and he just looked at me and made himself comfy in the spot I laid down but still fear it might come back I tried not to sleep but I was exhausted and before I knew I fell asleep again.

I woke the next morning thank full that it didn’t happen again I looked around my the door was already open my mom must have let the dog out already but I promised myself to also let the dog sleep and my room and offer a prayer of thanks and protection so it might never happen again.

secret life

Secret Lives
By: Eos

Interviewing for a new job used to be a fraught experience for me. When you harbor such an intimate secret, you must be constantly vigilant, watchful for questions you might stumble over, anything that might alert the interviewer to your dark past.
But over time, after hundreds of interviews, it does become much easier. The lies roll off your tongue smoothly, and the stories grow more concrete in detail and form. You learn to steer the conversation away from the locked doors in your history.
Eventually, it becomes so natural, so easy, that you don’t even think about it anymore. You truly become those stories; and with each telling, their narrative indelibly carves itself into the fabric of your being.
And so, after what seemed the perfect interview, I got a job; and not just any job. This was the role that would kickstart my career, put my feet on the well-trodden path towards a real future. One where I was something other than a poor student with too many secrets.
So long as nobody found out who I really was.

The first day was a predictable blur; I was shown my cubicle in the old but respectable art-deco building, then hustled through the induction process so I could be put to work as quickly as possible. Everyone in my team seemed nice. All legal secretaries like myself, we shared a four-seater pod in the cubicle farm, each workstation painfully personalized by the occupant, desperate to make some mark on the beige corporate landscape.
“Gosh, you’re tall,” declaimed Trina, the slightly chubby redhead who sat beside me, “I bet you played volleyball at school.”
“Oh yeah,” I lied smoothly, “captain of the team until a knee injury got me.”
Despite all my practice, I could feel the heat creeping into my ears and was immediately thankful I’d decided to wear my hair down that day. I know that seems like an odd thing to lie about. But the story I’d claimed as my own, the story that had now claimed me in turn, was so complete that I dared not deviate from its path, lest one wrong foot contradicted the narrative.
By the end of the day, I was exhausted. I half-dozed on the bus ride home, my energy depleted from so much social interaction, from navigating so many tiny, innocent pitfalls.
But I’d done it. I’d survived my first day of work without incident.

The weirdness began after the fourth member of our team returned from a conference, a week after I started. Deborah was an older woman, unmarried, who took an instant dislike to me. She refused to shake my hand when introduced professionally, then proceeded to pile complex work on me, before I’d had enough time to learn the basics of my role.
At first, despite creeping suspicion, I tried to write it off as simple envy. I mean, I was twenty, easy on the eye, and had a boyfriend; it didn’t take a psychology degree to figure out that she probably resented me for possessing everything that was lacking in her own life. But as things took a turn for the worse, I realized her behavior had begun to spread, and the environment in the office was growing increasingly hostile toward me. No more was I greeted with pleasantries in the break room or cheery hellos in the elevator – everywhere I went, I met scowls and uncomfortable stares. After I walked in on the third whispered conversation that day, I knew the gig was up.
My secret was out there, courtesy of Deborah, who I later discovered had worked with my sister in a previous job. The sister who didn’t exist in my new narrative; the one who delightfully informed everyone she met about her ‘brother’ and flashed around old pictures of me to anyone curious enough to look. And that seemed to be everyone.
Just like that, I went from being ‘that tall new girl’ to something less than human; an object of ridicule, suspicion, and loathing.

It was small things at first. Finding my keyboard unplugged, my papers missing, my coffee cup having an odd stain or odor. Subtle changes you could write off as nothings – accidents of no consequence. I mentioned them brightly to my team, commenting on how peculiar it was that they only seemed to happen to me. When Deb smirkingly sneered that the office ghost must not like me, my suspicions were all but confirmed.
“Must be the same ghost who was always hanging around me at school,” I shot back, with a humorless smile.
“Must be,” she retorted, “I hear this one doesn’t like men.”
“What did you just say?”
“I don’t have time for this,” Deb declared, turning back to her monitor, “I’ve got work to do.”
Forcing down the shame and anger, I swiveled my seat back around abruptly – and slammed my knees into my desk. It seemed that ‘the office ghost’ must have lowered it again while I was on my break. Concentrating on the pain as it receded from my bruised flesh, I let my rage go with it. With an ease born of practice, I watched it burn down to nothing, then extinguished it with one thought:
No matter what anyone did or said to me, they couldn’t stop me being me.

Three weeks later my swipe card stopped working on the door to the women’s toilets.
When I complained to ICT, they claimed it was a simple error, but the next morning, and the morning after that, my card access to the toilets had been canceled again.
“Maybe it would be easier to just use the men’s room,” the IT guy snarked down the phone, “there’s no swipe access on that door.”
On the fifth morning in a row that the mysterious ‘error’ occurred, I met Walt Sawyer. He found me leaning against the door to the women’s bathroom with my cellphone to my ear, wearily asking ICT to fix the fault again. Walt had been the janitor here for so long that he was practically furniture; he’d seen the company go through three mergers and countless restructures. He’d survived all of them by simply going about his business, doing his job so well he was practically invisible.
“Can’t get in again?” he asked, as I held the phone away from my ear to avoid the deafening hold music.
“Yeah.”
“I don’t think it’s right,” he mumbled, fishing in his pocket, “not right to treat a young lady like this.”
Surely the gossip must have reached even the janitor by now?
“Well, they don’t think I’m a lady, that’s the problem.”
With a small, secret smile, Walt pressed something into my hand.
“It’s my spare card. Will get you pretty much anywhere a janitor needs to be.”
Simple kindness felt so out of place in this building that I just stared at the card in my hand like it was some kind of magical token. I finally opened my mouth to thank him, but he cut me off,
“I wasn’t here. We never spoke.” He slopped a mopeful of soapy water onto the stairs. “You ain’t the only one with secrets.”
When the card reader flashed green and let me into the bathroom, I almost wept with relief.

What I expected to happen after that, I wasn’t sure. I was careful when I took my toilet breaks, making sure none of the other women saw me in the bathroom, so everyone would assume I had resigned myself to using the male facilities. You might think that this perceived win on their behalf would have de-escalated the situation, but with some bullies, any victory only emboldens them.
I saw Walt scuttling away from my office space two early mornings that week, each time carrying something under his arm. And when my colleagues arrived, after me on both those days, their behavior was even stranger than usual.
When I caught Mark – the fourth member of my cubicle family – staring at my desk, I asked him if something was wrong.
“No, nothing wrong,” he said, abrupt and defensive.
“It just that you keep staring at my desk,” I pressed, not letting it go, “as if you’re surprised about something?” But he was already typing busily, ignoring me.
Deb, especially, seemed put out. Her normal expression was less than pleasant, but today the downturned corners of her mouth practically touched her jawline, and she curled her lip like a caricature whenever I answered the phone or greeted someone entering our cubicle.

Walt was cleaning up a toner spill in one of the corridors, whistling tunelessly to himself while everyone ignored him.
“I need a word,” I hissed, when the hallway was clear, “I need to know what you’ve been doing.”
“You don’t wanna know, miss.”
“It’s Rebecca, not miss. I’m not your boss, I’m just a bottom-rung secretary. Becca, even.”
“You don’t wanna know, miss Becca,” he repeated, “they’re cruel people. You don’t need to see that stuff.”
“See what stuff?”
“Nothing. There’s nothing to see.”
My fingers gripped his shoulder, firmly, insistent,
“Walt, if they’re doing something awful, I need to see it, so I can report it. I appreciate you protecting me, I really do. But if I want to resolve this situation, I need evidence of what they’ve been doing, not just suspicions.”
He thought about that for a minute, his expression unreadable, as if he was listening to something. Then, with an abrupt nod, he headed down the corridor, beckoning for me to follow. In the janitor’s cupboard near the elevators, he gestured to the waste-paper bin beside the door.
“It’s all in there.”
Amongst the innocent rubbish were several balls of printed paper, tightly wadded up by Walt’s strong old hands. Smoothing them out on the low table against the wall, I clenched my teeth as I viewed the images.
It seemed my sister hadn’t been happy just spilling my gender history to Deb; she’d also furnished the sour old woman with intimate and painful photos from my teens – all with my old name and cartoon penises scrawled over them.
Balling them up in my fists, I threw the printouts back into the basket.
“People have done worse,” I whispered.
“They’re gonna do worse,” Walt replied, his walnut face screwed up with a concern, “this place, this building, it’s got history.”
But when I pressed him for more information, he shut down. The fear and shame I glimpsed in his eyes before he looked away reminded me of myself, and his hands shook as he hustled me out of the cupboard.

The chemical smell in the cubicle was strong and strange, but I couldn’t pinpoint it. Everything seemed in order on my desk, no more images had been taped to my monitor and chair.
When Deb arrived half an hour later, her shriek of surprise and rage startled me so thoroughly that I knocked over my coffee and smacked my knee on my desk drawers.
“You did this!” the woman shrilled, waving her hands at me above the divider. Her fingers were stained red. “You fucking did this, and I’ll see you fired for it, you pervert!”
Curious, I braved the furnace of irrational ire and walked around to her desk,
“What exactly have I done?”
But before she could sputter out any more insults, I saw for myself. Someone had slashed the seat of her office chair, through the fabric and deep into the foam, then poured a bottle of red ink into the gash. The ink which had soaked into Deb’s skirt and stained her legs as she sat down, unaware.
“Is this some kind of jealous tranny retaliation?” she squawked, waving her red hands in my face.
“Retaliation for what?” I retorted hotly, color rising in my face, “I’ve taken everything you people have thrown at me with grace and patience, yet you are accusing me of being the bad guy?”
“Pack your desk,” Deb snarled, “you’ll be gone by the end of the day.”

The HR manager looked uncomfortable as I sat, not meeting my eye. I waited patiently as he read through the statement from Deb, which she had of course embellished for maximum effect. When he was done, I calmly refuted the inaccurate details and explained that I hadn’t vandalized any office property.
“Well, nobody else had any motivation to do it,” the manager said, still avoiding looking at me directly.
“And what motivation did I have to do it?” I countered.
He shifted in his seat, glancing everywhere but at me.
“Deborah Young claims that she, ah, discovered that someone had vandalized your desk. Late last night, after you left.”
“How was it vandalized?”
Surprised, he blinked at me, actually looking at my face for the first time since I sat down.
“Well, you must have seen it.”
I squinted at him,
“Seen what? My desk was perfectly normal when I came in.”
He blustered. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Why? Why do you find that hard to believe? What the hell happened to my desk?”
“No need to be so aggressive, Joh-ah-Rebecca,” he managed, barely correcting himself.
“Did you seriously just call me my old name?”
He blanched,
“That was an honest mistake.”
I sighed, already letting it go. This was a battle I couldn’t win, no matter how unfair it was.
“Just tell me what was wrong with my desk, so we can get this shit-show over with.”
The manager swallowed, picking his words carefully now,
“On your desk is a plush toy dog, yes?”
“Blue. From Blue’s Clues. My boyfriend gave her to me.”
“The toy had, ah, been cut open. At the… crotch. And a, ah, plastic phallus had been inserted.”
Summoning everything I had, I kept my face completely neutral.
“You mean a dildo. Someone cut Blue open and put a dildo in her.”
“Yes.”
What I had wasn’t enough. The anger rose like a tidal wave, massive and unstoppable; but instead of breaking in a torrent of destruction and violence, it collapsed, flooding out of me in a wash of hot, shameful tears. As I sobbed, eyes blurred from salt and sorrow, the HR manager must have made a hasty exit, leaving me alone, clutching the edge of the table until I cried myself dry.

Walt shook his head as I showed him the meticulously stitched plush toy, the needlework is so perfect it looked like a natural seam.
“Wasn’t me,” he said, gaze darting nervously, “can’t sew. Never saw it.”
Looking at his grizzled hands, I had no doubt he was telling the truth; Walt couldn’t have threaded a needle to save his life.
“Then who, Walt? Everyone else here hates my guts.”
“Can’t say, miss. Can’t say.”
Something told me there was more to this. Someone had fixed the vandalized toy, then retaliated by attacking Deb’s chair.
”Maybe the office ghost doesn’t like you,” I remembered Deb sneering.
“Walt. You said this place had history. You said that after I saw the pictures. What did you mean by that?”
His eyes drifted to the staircase like he was planning an escape.
“Nothing. I meant nothing.”
“Who is helping me, Walt? Because if they carry on like this, they’ll get me fired, and I need this job. People like me don’t get jobs like this. People like me aren’t supposed to succeed.”
“I know.” There was agony in his voice. “But I can’t say.”
Frustrated, I left the little man to his work, determined to figure it out myself.

My second meeting with HR was called because of Deb’s car. Someone had smashed the rear window and poured what appeared to be pig’s blood over the back seat. Her car was parked within camera range in the basement carpark, but there had been a convenient CCTV ‘buffer overflow error’ for ten minutes, right around when the event had occurred.
“I’d left work by then,” I told the HR manager, “and if I’d come back into the building, there would be a security record of it. Pull my swipecard logs, if you haven’t already.”
He started speaking over me, but I cut him off,
“Yes, I’m aware that Deb was my secret Santa, and that’s why I got beard oil, a voucher for a male-only sauna and a pair of festive-print Y-fronts. Regardless, even if that counts as ‘motivation’ to vandalize her car, I wasn’t in the building, and there’s no evidence I did it.”
I stood and put my hand on the door handle,
“You know, this is pretty serious. I find it odd that she hasn’t gone to the police about it, don’t you?”
He didn’t try to stop me as I left.

The tension in the air within our cubicle was so thick that it felt like working in molasses. Every sound was amplified by paranoia, every movement scrutinized surreptitiously. The corners of everyone’s eyes were getting a real workout. I wanted to scream at them that they had caused this situation, that if they’d just left me the fuck alone, we could all at least pretend to be professionals and just do our damn jobs without their bigotry overshadowing everything.
If I thought it would have made a difference, I would have done exactly that; but experience had already taught me people like this didn’t respond to reason, that they didn’t have empathy for anyone who wasn’t like them. I would ride this bullshit out until it was resolved one way or another.
The email from Walt caught me by surprise – I wasn’t even aware he was computer literate, or that he had access to a computer. I felt shame when I realized my own assumptions were showing.
Meet me on the seventh floor in 10 minutes, the email said, go through the door on the left stairwell. I’ll tell you everything you want to know.
Reading, then re-reading the message, I hit the delete icon and emptied the recycle bin.
The seventh floor wasn’t occupied, as far as I knew. The company owned it, but it had lain unused for so long that renovations would now cost far more than the office space was worth. There were rumors that something had happened there, a long time ago, but it was all hearsay – nobody could back up any of the wild claims about the seventh floor.
But Walt might know. The man was seventy if he was a day.

I wasn’t surprised when my spare swipe card allowed me through the paint-flaked door and into the derelict gloom of the seventh-floor space. Cables hung from the roof, darkly curled like rotting tentacles, and piles of insulation foam clustered against the walls in curious drifts. Heaps of broken chairs and rolls of ancient carpet lurked amongst other scattered, skeletal furniture and sagging wooden shelves.
There was no sign of Walt, but a dim light shone from a dirty-windowed office, partitioned from the main floor space by naked chipboard walls and mildewed sacking.
“Walt?” I called as I pushed open the water-damaged door.
What hit me, I’m not sure, but the next thing I remember was trying to pick myself up from the rotten carpet, pain roaring in my skull and wrist. A crushing weight came down on my chest, and I realized someone was on top of me – Mark, by the size and smell of him; he always wore the same shitty cheap cologne.
Pinning my wrists, he looped plastic cable ties around them and pulled tight, while a voice protested from the gloom – Walt’s voice.
“You said you weren’t gonna hurt her. You said this was just to talk,” he said thickly.
“Well, I don’t see any her in this room other than me,” Deb said nastily, “just you, Mark and this cock in a frock.”
“I don’t have a cock,” I shot back miserably.
“A mutilated cock is still a cock.”
The anger swelled like a balloon but receded as I shut my eyes and willed reason to take over.
“What do you want from me?”
Mark propped me up against the damp wall, none too gently.
“A confession,” Deb said, “You’re going to state that you did all those things and we’re going to record it, then send it through to the CEO’s office and the police.”
“Good luck with that,” I spat.
“How hard do you think it would be for us to put a noose over one of these beams and hang you? Everyone will think you did it yourself. The suicide rate for you freaks is through the fucking roof, and it’s not like your loving family would investigate, now is it?”
“Just confess,” Mark growled, “you can fuck off and find another job.”
I shook my head,
“I’m in the right here. I didn’t do anything wrong! You people are the monsters, harassing an innocent person because of your own shitty prejudices.”
Walt moved for the door, but Deb closed it, holding the handle.
“And we know your secret too, Walter Sawyer. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why you never married, never had kids, and why you’re so sympathetic to this ugly shemale.”
The air seemed to ripple for a moment as she spoke the slur. Walt saw me notice it, too and closed his eyes, but it appeared that none of the others registered the odd sensation.
Mark thrust his cellphone in my face.
“Say that you did it all. Confess to all the crap you pulled, then we can all get out of this shithole and go home.”
Fixing my gaze on his hateful face, I spoke a single word.
“No.”
Shaking his head, Mark put down his phone.
“Deb, get the rope.”
As the last word left his mouth, the air swam again, as though the entire floor was filled with breathable fluid. Lights flickered and flashed in the rippling atmosphere and Deb cried out in fear as something fundamental changed in the fabric of the seventh floor.

Deb was still Deb, but she was also a young man, dressed in orange and brown, his bushy hairstyle as archaic as his clothing. She/he danced with Mark, who was also young, slender and long-haired, nothing like himself apart from a certain gleam of terror about the eyes. Their hips ground into each other as they gyrated to the heavy funk of music that belonged to another era. Around them the ghosts of other dancers – all male – moved with abandon, safe in a place that allowed them to be who they were, in a time when their kind was utterly condemned.
But they weren’t safe, and I knew it. I knew it because I knew who I was, and what I was. I was there to ensure that places like this didn’t exist, and my badge, my uniform, and my gun all meant I could do what I wanted here. They screamed like women when they saw my pistol, and I laughed at the faggots, reveling in the stink of their sweaty fear in the air.
I told them to get up against the fucking wall and they did; the queers and the sissies. The ones dressed as women I told to take their clothes off and they did as they were told, crying like babies. Well, all but one.
The narrative of my real self, bolstered by stories, yes, but built from knowledge and pain and truth, thrashed and fought against the alien mind I was occupying. I heard the voice of the police officer – my voice – yell at the offender to take off his dress.
“No.” The sissy said, eyes so bright and defiant and beautiful and… revolting.
The rage that flooded through me was far beyond anything that could be controlled. It was irrational, it was potent and it was unstoppable – the righteous rage of a person who had never really been told ‘no’. Someone who never needed to be careful with their truth, who had never wanted in life; someone who had never been dismissed as garbage for simply being.
The trigger was light under my finger and the blossom of red from the groin of the sissy filled me with such heady elation that for a moment, I stared at my pistol in wonder. Screams rent the air and the faggots ran for the door of the gay speakeasy, sobbing in terror. Two huddled under a table – Deb and Mark ghosted through them – and I kicked the table over before shooting them again and again until my gun was empty.
Out in the stairwell, I could still hear them, running and shrieking, and I followed, baton in hand. A young man in overalls ran into me, raising his arms defensively as I turned on him.
“I’m just a janitor!” he squawked, “My name’s Walt Sawyer. I-I work on the eighth floor.”
“You saw nothing,” I told him, as I pressed my empty gun to his neck, “you hear me? And if you ever tell anyone you saw me here, I’ll hunt you down. I’ll ruin you in ways you can’t even imagine.”
I saw the light of decision dawn in his brown eyes just a fraction too late. At that moment, he changed his story forever and ended mine.
The world upended as Walt’s strong young hands pushed me down the stairs. The last sound I heard was the horrifying crunch of my neck snapping on the risers as they rose to meet me, and as awareness faded, the whole scene rippled again, the air-fluid and nauseating, rank with the stench of urine and blood.

What was left of my breakfast came up quickly, splattering the fetid carpet? Walt was beside me, cutting off the cable ties with a pocket knife, apologizing over and over. Curled up on the floor beside each other were Mark and Deb, the former shivering uncontrollably and the latter whimpering like a dying animal.
We left them where they lay and stumbled out of that place, the ghosts of the massacre still clinging to us, the personas not wanting to give up their temporary flesh, even now their truths had been heard. The officer’s phantom hatred burned like a virus in my soul; the antithesis of everything I’d ever been and wanted to be. Walt seemed lost in his own recollections, of his own actions that night, barely responding when I pushed him up the stairs and back to the sanity of the eighth floor.
In the bathroom I cleaned myself up as much as I could, trembling hands blotting away mascara, quivering lips slowly stilling as I bathed my wrists in cool water. I knew that whatever happened, one way or another, my time in this place was coming to an end.
Holding my head as high as I could and straightening my skirt, I walked out of the bathroom, back into the office, and sat at my desk.
Deb’s cubicle was empty, and so was Mark’s.

Deborah Young was found dead in her apartment three days later, several empty pill bottles beside her bed, and her rigid face a blue-black rictus of agony. Mark hadn’t returned to work, but he officially resigned the day we all found out about the suicide. Trina and I watched with mixed emotions as Walt cleared out both of their desks. He didn’t look at me, but his strong hands no longer shook; they were steady and sure as he taped shut the boxes that contained all that remained of my workmates’ time in this place.
“I’m sorry I didn’t do much,” Trina explained, her lip quivering, “I tried to say they should leave you alone, but they wouldn’t listen.” She leaned in, glancing at Walt and lowering her voice like she was divulging a secret. “I think you’re really lovely.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I soothed her, “they’re gone now. They can’t do any more harm.”
Mark’s parting gift was a confession – not mine, but his. He admitted to all the harassment, and more – awful things I wasn’t even aware of, things which had inexplicably and impossibly been cleaned up before I’d even seen them. And not by Walt Sawyer. I brought an employment suit against the company and settled for a sum that I can’t disclose, though I can tell you that it was more than enough for me to go back to school and start my own business.
We’re tiny, and there’s a hell of a lot of work to do, but once I’ve finished my degree, look me up if you ever need a human rights lawyer. Or if you need really bad jokes from a really good janitor, one who’s just like a Dad. Walt’s on the payroll for life – and our new office has no stairs.
I wish the story ended there, that this wholesome fade-to-black is where we cut to the credits, but for those of you that want to sit through to the cut scene at the end, there is more.
I know exactly what Deb and Mark Felt.
I know why she killed herself. And I know why he became a homeless alcoholic, begging for booze money on Main Street. The feelings they had when they were inside those two young gay men – the unending terror and pain – wouldn’t go away. They would never go away, not with drink, nor with therapy. It would only end with their own deaths.
Just as the feelings I’d felt while I was the police officer won’t ever leave me.
The righteous anger lurks in the dark, waiting. It whispers that with a gun in my hand, with enough power, I can do anything. I can get away with murder, so long as I kill the right people. But even more than that, it remembers what it felt like to take a life of someone you have every right to hate absolutely, and the heady, intoxicating rush that comes with it. It tells me that if I kill just one person, my thirst will be quenched, and for a while, I can go back to being normal, to who I was before. To just being Becca.
I saw Mark yesterday, sleeping outside McDonald's, a tattered hat in his hand and a cardboard sign beside his head, begging for change. Ever since I saw him, there’s a picture in my head; my hand putting a gun to his stomach and pulling the trigger until the gun is empty.
I really struggled to know why the ghost of the seventh floor put me in the shoes of the cop, why I was chosen to contain the memory of him. But I think I’ve finally figured it out.
Anyone else would have given in to the hatred by now. It would have taken them over – and the mistakes of that night in the 60s would have been repeated, over and over, echoing through the ages, turning story after story into a tragedy, until its power finally faded to nothing.
But I already knew how to live with hate. I know how to rewrite it.
You might think it’s not fair, that I’ve already had enough struggles in my life. But this is a burden I will willingly bear. It’s worth it to change that narrative, even if it’s one drop in an enormous sea. And I have help, now. I gave Walt the absolution that he’s craved for the last fifty years, but he gave me family.

the fire that wouldn't burn

The Fire That Wouldnt Burn
by: NoSleep

“Are we theeeeeere yet?” asked Mike, in an obnoxious, nasally tone.

“You’re the navigator,” Andy replied flatly, “You tell me.”

Cynthia grunted. “I swear to God, Mike, if you say we’re lost and we wind up in a creepy cabin in the woods and getting picked off one by one…”

Mike fiddled with his phone. “Relax. I’m just kidding. We’re almost there.”

I wrapped an arm around Cynthia’s shoulders and pulled her close to me. “Well I can’t imagine a more romantic way to die than slowly being dismembered by my favorite person on earth.”

“Aww babe,” she cooed.

Mike craned his neck back to look at us. “Uhhh, he meant me.”

Cynthia kicked his seat as hard as she could.

I could hear the annoyance in Andy’s voice as he replied, “Settle down, kids.”

The three of us answered in unison, “Okay, dad.”

He sighed and rolled his eyes. “I should just leave you all on the side of the road.”

“Take the next left,” said Mike, “Not me, though, right? You’d never get rid of me!”

Andy grunted. “Especially you.”

Mike let out a whimper. “I’m hurt. I thought we had something special. All those late night cram sessions…”

The car turned left, onto a narrow gravel path.

“You mean the nights I spent studying and you spent getting drunk in my dorm room hiding from your creepy roommate,” Andy replied.

“Hey! I’m not creepy!” I shouted.

Mike cackled. “HA HA. Buuuuuuuurn!” He stretched in satisfaction and settled back into his seat. “Just keep going straight. The parking lot should be at the end of this road.”

Mike closed his map app and switched to social media. My phone dinged. I’d been tagged in a post. ‘OVERNIGHT CAMPING TRIP WITH THESE LOZERS’. All caps. Losers spelled with a ‘Z’. Classic Mike. Cynthia’s phone dinged seconds later. She looked at the screen, and then at me.

She winked. “I got this.”

She kicked Mike’s seat again. He toppled forward a little bit, then settled back in the seat and chuckled.

Andy pulled up to a slightly wider gravel area. “This looks about right.”

There were a few cars there already, half on the gravel and half on the grass. One of them was so caked in fallen leaves, I couldn’t see inside. It must have gotten caught in the storm a few days before. I remembered having to peel leaves off my own car in the morning. Of course, it hadn’t helped I parked right under a maple tree. My mistake.

We got out of the car and grabbed our camping gear.

“Got everything?” asked Andy.

Mike lifted a case of beer. “Everything that matters!”

I checked the back seat to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything.

“Ok, so where’s the campsite?” asked Cynthia.

Andy looked around. “There should be a trail somewhere around here.”

I closed the car door and joined the three by the hood. I looked for the trail, but, since the ground was covered in leaves, nothing stood out. It’s hard to find the one dirt path when there’s a blanket of red and yellow all over the place.

Mike pointed towards an opening in the trees. “There!”

Cynthia quirked a brow. “Are you sure that’s the trail? Shouldn’t there be a sign?”

Mike shrugged. “Might have blown away in that storm this week. The wind was so strong, my umbrella flipped THREE times walking from the library to the social sciences building!”

Andy turned towards him. “Wait. What were you doing in the social sciences building?”

Mike turned redder than a tomato dipped in tomato sauce. “Uh. I. Um. I like the fen shui of their study hall?”

Cynthia snickered. “’Ol Mikey over here has a crush on the barista working there.”

“You don’t say,” murmured Andy.

I could see the cogs in Andy’s head start to turn.

Mike waved his arms dismissively. “I-it’s more of a mutual understanding and respect for the art of coffee!” He took a few steps towards the treeline. “It’s really not important. What’s important is setting up camp before dark. Come on, I’m sure this is the way.”

Cynthia grunted. “We are soooooo getting murdered, aren’t we?”

We followed Mike because, honestly? Even if no one was sure he knew the way, no one else wanted to take the lead and be wrong. Mike was an easy scapegoat. We figured we’d double back to the car if he led us down the wrong path and make him wear the proverbial cone of shame for the rest of the trip. It’d be a great team-building exercise. Unfortunately, it looked like he was right, because after trudging along for half an hour, we came across a clearing.

“Well, well, well, look who didn’t lead you right into the arms of an axe murderer?” Mike asked proudly.

“This is your greatest achievement yet, Mikey,” I replied.

The clearing was surrounded by tall pine trees which, based on the amount of pine needles on the ground, hadn’t fared much better in the storm than their non-coniferous brethren. There were two tents around the site. I assumed the muddiest and…uh, pine-needleliest…one belonged to the driver of the truck covered in leaves. There was a large fire pit in the middle of the site with a still roaring fire and a few logs stacked in a circle around it. If the other campers were around, they didn’t bother to say hello.

"Man, these are some messy sons of bitches," Mike said loudly.

He motioned to a few piles of ash and come discarded pieces of clothing scattered around the site.

Cynthia set her gear down and started sweeping pine needles with her foot. “Could be worse. Could be pee jugs.”

Mike shuddered at the thought.

Andy started unloading the tent. “We might fill some tonight.”

Mike’s face drained of color. “Are you serious? Do you know how disgusting that is?” He gagged. “Nope. Not going there. Change of subject. Cynthia, how’s school?”

Cynthia shrugged. “It’s fine.”

It didn’t sound fine, but neither Mike nor myself were going to push her for answers. We were here to relax, not worry about college. I grabbed the assembly instructions while Cynthia finished clearing a spot to pitch the tent. Andy ripped the instructions out of my hands and tossed them in the tent’s carrying case.

“Hey!” I shouted.

“We don’t need that,” he replied flatly.

“You might not need that, but I-”

He pulled a band off the flat tent, and it suddenly exploded into its proper shape.

“In my defense, no one told me you bought a pop-up tent,” I mumbled.

“Pass me the stakes,” answered Andy.

He nailed the tent in place while I helped occasionally by handing him another stake. At least I was being more helpful than Mike, who meandered around the campsite kicking stranger’s dirty clothes into a single pile. I guess he needed the peace of mind of knowing they were all in one place and he wouldn’t be walking on them. Cynthia, in the meantime, tossed our sleeping bags and other belongings in the tent, and then set up our electric grill.

We cooked ourselves hot dogs and sat around the campfire making idle conversation for most of the evening. There might have been a bit of drinking involved.

“Where is everyone anyways?” Cynthia asked.

OK. Maybe a lot of drinking.

I huddled up closer to her to steal her body heat. “What do you mean? We’re all here, babe.”

She pointed to the extra tents. “The sun’s been down for HOURS.”

Andy, sitting on the other side of the flames, narrowed his eyes. The angle of the light made him look sinister. “There’s an old legend around these parts about a dark shadowy creature that crawls into tents in the middle of the night and eats campers alive.”

Cynthia rolled her eyes. “You are so full of shit, Andy. I’m serious. What if they went hiking and one of them, I don’t know, slipped on a mossy rock and fell over the side of the mountain and his friend tried to save him but also slipped down and now they’re both almost dead at the bottom of a canyon, quietly trying to scream for help but their throats got crushed and they can’t make a sound? Or, I dunno, they’re lost? Shouldn’t we try to find a ranger?”

“I don’t think this park has rangers, does it?” I asked.

Mike shrugged. “No idea, man.”

Cynthia started shivering, so I held her tighter.

“Ok well, whatever. We’ll let those poor souls suffer and die at the bottom of a cliff,” said Cynthia.

Andy stared at the crackling fire in front of him. “I’m sure they’re fine. They left just before we showed up, so I guess they’re used to hiking in the dark.”

Mike snorted. “How d’you figure that, Sherlock?”

He motioned to the fire. “The fire was burning when we got here. That means someone was around to tend to it.”

Cynthia shivered. “Brrrrr! I’m going to get my sleeping bag.”

She pried herself free and stumbled to the tent. The sudden absence of her body heat made me shiver.

“It really is cold,” I mumbled.

Andy shrugged. “Get closer to the fire, then.”

I got up, rolled my log a few feet closer, and sat back down. It didn’t help.

“You’re still shivering,” Mike said.

“Yeah, well, it’s still really cold,” I replied.

He grinned and tossed me a beer. “This should warm you up!”

I popped the cap off and chugged it like a nerd trying to prove he’s cool enough to join a frat. I felt a flush of warmth radiating from within me, but it didn’t keep the cold from seeping in.

“There’s something odd about the fire,” Andy said.

Mike looked up. “Huh?”

“Has anyone fed it since we got here?” Andy asked.

I shook my head, so did Mike.

“Didn’t think so,” he replied. “Either one of you up for a game of fire chicken?”

“Fire what?” asked Mike.

“It’s when you play chicken with a fire. Two people slowly move their hand towards the flame. The first one to pull away loses,” I explained. I looked at Andy. “I’m game.”

I didn’t understand what Andy had in mind, but I was always up for drunken shenanigans. We stood on opposite ends of the fire. The look in Andy’s eyes was intense. I’d only ever seen that amount of focused determination during midterms. He stared at that fire like he’d just caught it in bed with his girlfriend, mom, and grandma. We stretched our arms out.

“Ready?” asked Andy.

“Ready.” I replied.

Mike bounced in his seat. “Set. GO!”

We mirrored each other in speed, but not in intensity. Andy was trying to prove something, while I was just having dumb fun. He took a step, I took a step. My arm felt cold. Or was it hot? It was hard to tell. There was something heavy in the air, overwhelming me with dread.

“This is stupid,” I whispered.

Andy didn’t pull away, so neither did I.

“Christ almighty, what are you DOING?” shouted Cynthia.

I started to turn to look at her, but Andy, with his damn cat-like reflexes, reached through the flames and yanked my hand in.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I screamed.

He held me there for a good thirty seconds before I realized something: the flames didn’t burn. I looked at Andy incredulously. He let me go and focussed his attention on the fire. He knelt down and hovered his hand at the bottom, where the flames were supposed to be hottest.

Cynthia hopped over to us like a kid in a potato sack race, with her sleeping bag zipped all the way up to her neck. She was speechless.

“Dude, doesn’t that hurt?” Mike asked.

Andy wiggled his fingers. “No.”

“The fire’s not hot,” I told Mike.

Mike stared at us. “What do you mean the fire’s not hot? It’s FIRE!”

I backed away and stumbled, landing on my log. It was like I’d waved my hand through thin air. Scary thin air, like the kind you find in a dark room as you paw around trying to hit the light switch, but thin air nonetheless. Cynthia dropped next to me, her eyes on my arm rather than Andy’s. I could tell she was trying to size it up to see whether I’d burned myself. When she saw I was fine, she unzipped her arm free and whacked me upside the head.

“What the HELL were you thinking?” she screamed.

“Nothing, I-” I whispered.

“How stupid can you be? Do you know how PAINFUL third degree burns are? Do you have any idea how hard they are to treat?”

I should have known her internship in the burn unit was bothering her. She hadn’t been the same since she started it.

“Look, I’m okay,” I whispered, wiggling my fingers.

She looked away coldly. “I worry about you sometimes.”

“Duuuude this is so fucking cool,” screamed Mike.

He’d joined Andy by the fire. Andy pulled his arm out and gave Mike room to play as he inspected his skin. It looked fine. Mike swung his arms horizontally, cutting through the flames. He looked like he was having the time of his life.

“How’s this even possible?” Cynthia asked.

Mike jumped into the fire pit. “Maybe it’s a hologram?”

“I don’t see a projector,” answered Andy, scanning the area.

Mike shrugged and began to dance a weird fake tribal dance in the middle of the fire pit. “Fear me, mortals,” he bellowed, as he waved his arms and stomped his feet to an unheard beat, “I am Ra, god of FIRE!”

“Sun,” corrected Andy, “Ra is the god of the sun.”

Mike ignored him. He spun around and lifted his arms to the sky, “I AM RA! GOD OF FIRE!”

Through it all, the flames never seemed fazed. They never faltered, never weakened, and never swayed as a direct result of Mike’s movements. Maybe he was right about it being a hologram.

“We need to document this,” said Andy, pulling out his phone to record what was happening.

You would think the novelty of the fire wouldn’t wear off too quickly, but it did. You can only stare into a funhouse mirror for so long before it stops being funny. With the night getting colder and the fire not providing us anything in terms of warmth, we retreated to the tent about an hour later. A tent which might have struggled to fit four adults comfortably, but definitely didn’t fit four drunk adults comfortably. I found myself pinned between Cynthia and Mike, with each snoring in my ear, and Mike drooling in my hair. He kept twitching and smacking me in his sleep. Suffice to say, I didn’t get much rest that night.

Come morning, Mike was holding me in a lover’s embrace. I might have pushed him away, but I’ll take my body heat where I can get it, I guess. Andy was the first to “officially” wake up, and he left the tent before I even had the chance to whisper hello. Cynthia was next, and as soon as she saw the giant slug holding me captive, she whipped him with a shirt like a football coach with a towel in the locker room.

Mike grunted and unhooked from me. “I was having such a nice dream.”

“How d’you sleep, babe?” asked Cynthia.

“Pretty well,” answered Mike.

“Annnnd I just threw up in my mouth. Thanks, Mike.”

I laughed. It was great seeing my friends and girlfriend getting along.

“Where Andy?” Mike asked.

“Outside,” I answered. “I’m joining him. Come out when you’re ready.”

I yawned and got up. Well, crouched up. There wasn’t enough room to properly stand in our tent. I left the tent and heard all my bones cracking in protest as I stretched myself straight. Andy was sitting by the fire taking a million photos.

“It’s still going?” I asked.

“Yup,” answered Andy. “I think I’m going to come back with some equipment. Try to figure out what’s going on here.”

“Ok, well in the meantime, you want to help me pack up? I’m dying for a shower.”

“Yeah.”

We kicked the two sleepier ones out of the tent and started rolling up sleeping bags and disassembling the tent. Sans-instructions, might I add. Within about an hour, we were ready to leave. Andy snapped a few extra photos, and we went back down the trail.

We never did see the other campers.

We dropped Cynthia off first, and then headed to the dorms. All I could think about was my bed, with its warm down comforter, fluffy pillows, and all that glorious room to sprawl out on. Once home, Mike made a beeline for the fridge, and I went right for my bed, throwing my coat in the laundry hamper before passing out on my pillow. I vaguely recall hearing my phone ring at some point, but I was off in dream land.

A sharp, stinging sensation woke me up a few hours later. I opened my eyes, but the smell hit me before my brain could process the images. Something was burning. I felt a spike of adrenaline as I saw smoke rising from the laundry hamper. I jumped to my feet and ran to it, finding flames chewing up my coat’s right sleeve. I pulled it out and quickly tossed it in my bathtub before it could spread to anything else…or so I thought. Now that my attention wasn’t split anymore, I noticed the fibers of my shirt’s right sleeve slowly sizzling with microscopic ambers.

My entire arm was in agony. I couldn’t tell if it was searing hot or frozen cold, I just kept getting hit with wave upon wave of terrible, radiating pain. The only thing more sickening than the feeling was the smell. A disgusting scent like rancid beef on a frying pan. My sleeve had become a wick, and the wick was burning, no, melting. I ripped the shirt off without thinking. I could feel my skin pulling as I did it. Pieces of skin stayed on the shirt, pieces of shirt stayed on my skin. I could see the melted, woven fabric embedded into the reddened surface of my skin. My arm became a patchy mess of red and sickly yellow, like a blanket of autumn leaves on a forest floor. I didn’t know what to do. I needed someone to tell me what to do.

My phone went off.

Somehow, through the agonizing pangs of pain blurring my mind, I managed to grab the phone.

Andy was calling, and I had a new voicemail.

I picked up.

“Get Mike to a doctor NOW,” he shouted, with no regard for my well-being.

But I think he’d figured out what was happening, whereas I could only think about how much pain I was in and how nothing I did could make it stop. The burn didn’t get worse, but the pain wasn’t letting up for a second. It was excruciating.

“The doctor, Mike, now,” Andy insisted.

I could hear him say it through gritted teeth. He was choking back the tears that were already falling from my eyes. The authority in his voice was enough to snap me into action. I ran out of my room, whining at every air current that licked my raw, bubbling skin.

“Mike,” I whimpered.

Why was it so hard to speak? My arm was burnt, but my throat worked just fine. I think the problem was having to speak through the need to scream. Mike was sitting in front of the TV. He looked at me, then winced at the sight of my arm.

“Holy shit, dude. What the fuck happened?”

“Doctor,” I stuttered.

“Yeah man, I’ll call an ambulance. Holy fuck.”

I was shaking. I wanted it all to stop. I wanted someone to knock me out so I wouldn’t be able to feel the pain anymore. Mike called 9-1-1 while I stuck my arm in the freezer, feeling very little relief. I couldn’t even tell you how long it took for the paramedics to get there. I was in shock.

When they arrived and ripped me away from the freezer, I remember hearing Andy’s voice again in my head. Get Mike to a doctor NOW. I was dazed. Disoriented. I couldn’t think. I could barely breathe, but at the pit of my stomach, I knew I had to get the message across.

I pointed to Mike and screamed, “Him!”

They all seemed very confused, even Mike. One of them said he could ride along. That was enough. I tried to give in to my need to pass out, but the spikes of pain refused to let me. I simultaneously remember every single minute of agony spent in the back of that ambulance, and yet I couldn’t tell you if it took two minutes, ten, or thirty. I just remember, at some point, Mike’s screams drowned out my own.

My admittance into the ER was a blur. People kept asking me questions. Something about chemicals. I couldn’t answer. I remember seeing Mike thrashing in the background. I remember seeing Andy sitting on a hospital bed. I remember a needle.

The pain in my arm started to decompress, and the panic slowly subsided. Then, it hit me. Whatever happened to me probably happened to Andy, and would probably happen to Mike.

And then my stomach dropped.

Andy and I had put our arms in the fire. Mike had jumped in. Mike had danced in the flames that wouldn’t burn. He’d spent so much time in there dancing and laughing and making a royal ass of himself.

“Make it stop!” he screamed. “It hurts!”

I could hear him all the way down the hall. I jumped to my feet and ran out of the room. All I cared about was Mike, and trying to help him in whichever way I could. I met a wall of orderlies who held me back. Doctors and nurses were running into Mike’s room.

“Let me through! I need to see my friend!” I screamed.

I had enough adrenaline pumping through my veins that I actually thought I could overpower them, but I guess that was just in my head. They were accustomed to dealing with grieving family members. It wasn’t any effort on their part to hold me back.

A bright, flickering light poured out of the doorway to Mike’s room. I heard gasps and prayers and panic all around, but nothing was louder than Mike’s last scream. It poured out of him in one, long, horrifying stream. It started rough and primal, but tapered off into the cry of a child looking for his mother. The light went out, and smoke took its place.

All that was left of Mike was a pile of ash, and the stink of burn that spread to every corner of the hospital. It felt like it happened in an instant, but I heard it took over half an hour, and there was nothing anyone could to do stop it. I heard the nurses talking about it. They said his skin melted away, his blood boiled, his fat melted, and he finally caught fire. It all happened very slowly, and he was alive and awake to suffer through it all.

I hope to god that’s not true, because I finally got around to checking that voicemail on my phone.

“Hey babe, just letting you know I’m taking the girls to see that fire! I’ll be back tomorrow. Love you!”

By now, it’s already too late. I know, because I saw the photos she posted online of her and her friends dancing in the flames.

The late night messenger

The late-night messenger

From: something scary

Victor fathers Recardo as a mail and message man it was back when people communicate thru letters or morse code because not everyone was literate he was hired by people to write there letter for them sometime he would be called to read aloud letter that has been received.

One day he received an urgent request from his employer via morse code.

"family needs you to read  immediate need of assistance reading a letter double pay"

It was the middle of the night and the address was at least an hour walk away but Ricardo was fine with it as it meant more money so he put on his coat grabbed and a  lantern and headed out.

It was pretty chilly that night the wind was gently whistling the crickets were softly singing and the only light was from the moon and Recardos lantern he decided to take a shortcut to the wooded area of the town the tree mostly blocked the light of the moonlight but Ricardo wasn't scared of the dark, He was walking for about 10 mins when he noticed a very small flickering light ahead curious on what it was Ricardo picked up speed towards the light as he came closer he saw a handsome sharply dress middle-aged man trying to light a cigaret.

"Hey" the man called to him " want to lend me a hand"

Ricardo walked up to him and shielded the man's cigarette so the flame wouldn't be put out he stunk of tequila,

"You probably shouldn't be smoking" Ricardo mentioned.

The looked at him with a smile "You sound like just my wife, What are you doing here in the middle of the night anyway" 

" I could ask you the same thing, Ricardo said bluntly he was a one that never shy away from expressing his thoughts.

The man chuckled and held out his hand and introduced himself as Havier he gestured with his cigarette "what the wife won't hurt her, so where you heading"

"The street by the old church" Ricardo answered and Havier said "I am heading that way too i will walk with you"

So the two men began to walk side by side Havier was very chatty and opened up to Ricardo he confessed that he has gotten himself  in  a very bad situation and owed a lot of terrible people a lot of money but tom he was going to confront the boss and negotiate a deal there was pretty high chance that it won't end well.

Ricardo asked him if his family knew any of this and Havier laughed "My wife thinks i am a traveling salesman if she ever found out where our money actually came from I am a dead man".

They reached the church and Ricardo spotted the house he was looking for it was a modest house surrounded by a low fence covered in unique decorations that Ricardo has never seen before as he knocked on the door Ricardo has fully forgotten his companion but when he turned around to say goodbye Havier had already left the door was opened by a small boy who led him inside there he was greeted by a very upset woman the home was decorated with more strange amulets and charms, The woman thanked him for coming on such a late hour and shoved a letter into his hands Ricardo read the first line out loud.

"To the family of Havier Garcia", He paused silently reading the rest of the letter to himself with every word his eyes grew wider and his heart dropped deeper.

"Your husband was a worthless piece of shit his now underground where he belongs and if you don't send the rest of the money he owes us you'll join him too"

Ricardo stared in total disbelief at the page in front of him the woman was pestering the Ricardo to read the rest of the letter aloud he turned to Haviers family and said "Your husband is fine he was sent in the last min very important business trip it won't be long before you see him again".

" I am sorry i have to go goodnight" Ricardo left the house with a knot in his stomach the family was in danger but he couldn't just bring it to himself  to tell them the truth and ruin the image of Havier, ones he reached the fences he found Havier  he was just standing in the other side of the fence but he no longer looked clean cut and put together his face was battered and bruised his suit drenched in blood his limps were contorted in inhumane ways he saw Ricardo and lifted his unlit cigarette  with his mutilated arm.

"hey want to give me a hand"

end.

source  for more scary story like this visit

 http://somethingscary.com/something-scary/the-late-night-messenger-scary-story-time/