Christmas parties at work. Always held during the day. I lift my head from my desk, shuffle to the lunch room, punch out.

No booze, no music. A potluck. This close to Thanksgiving in a soup kitchen. The owner of the company is a well-known philanthropist and a lesser-known miser.

The meal's adequate. Warm soda floating in the ice of a wet cooler. Outside, the rain falls. The ground's as soggy as the bread slices set beside the ranch dressing.

Merry Christmas. Back to work. I see Caesar in the hall and thank him for his salad.

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In hindsight, the solution was obvious.

Anyway, that's what I thought when I awoke, face and hands already sweaty, the dark and humid air beginning already to claw at my face.

There was no light. I didn't have one on me. Didn't think I'd need a phone, with no reception. No, that wasn't part of the plan. And I don't smoke.

So, unlike the movies where there is in-scene lighting when the hero is trying to claw his way out of the coffin, it was nothing. It was dark and moist and stiflingly, oppressively silent.

The plan had been easy:...

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Giles inhaled the drink and closed his eyes, fluttering his eyelashes.
“A hint of dark oak definitely.”
“Perhaps a deeper bouquet like a rusty copper,” Lynton replied.
Giles cradled his cigar lovingly, and crunched on some spare ribs.
“Why would you call a a fine cigar a Cuban he mused? The Cubans were incredibly common
and impoverished. I mean it’s a symbol. It stands for something more.”
“Why would you call a decrepit decaying old bat a Queen?” Lynton replied, that’s the English
language Giles, cut a vowel here twist a syllable there; it’s a kind of phonetic prostitution,”...

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There's somebody standing in the corner of my room. His hair is dark. He just stands there watching. I call out to him asking his name, but he doesn't reply. He just stares.

A can't take my eyes off of him. I stand there too, staring at him. Our deep eyes meet and a chill flashes down my spine. As I gaze into the windows to his soul, my breathing quickens as does my heart beat. Here we are, two different entities separated only by the distance of a metre or so. I can't describe the deep dread I feel...

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A swing. I found my self under one as i awoke to the devestation. Fires raged every which way, how the playground was not on fire I will never know. I decided to walk out, mostly out of fear, and I was horrified with my decision. Right outside the playground, where children played not so long ago, were burned, rotting corpses. They layed therewith out motion, without life, but not without smell. As i hurried back to the playground to retch, I saw out of the corner of my eyes. A woman. Dazed and confused as i was, but still...

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May crept silently - or as silently as the fallen leaves and cracking twigs would allow – towards the old house. It was one of those places that every kid knows; full of mystery and the promise of ghosts, ghouls, dead bodies, mad old ladies in wedding dresses, or maybe just nothing, all of which was exciting in its own frenzied way.

May would not normally be any where near the house in usual circumstances, but truth or dare at a sleepover was a serious business and since, at eleven, the truths were all about boys and love and kissing,...

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The wagon was now about 100 feet away. I was rooted to the spot with fear. Perspiration ran down my face and my heart was pounding in my head, I was shaking and powerless to move.

I looked at my son who was stood just a few yards away, His face full of fatigue and fear. I thought I could hear his thoughts..."this is hopeless," we can't do a thing and there is no hope.

If only someone could come and help I thought and screamed it inside a hundred times.

I don't remember the trip to the hospital.But, I...

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My feet ached, but it was well worth it. There was blood on one of my insteps, the left one, and when I walked around the floor I tracked her blood around with me. The room, nothing more than an abattoir, had fit the bill perfectly. There was the pen I'd led her to. I said nothing more than, "You'll like it. It's the spookiest little spot." And she had crawled inside without the least hesitation. And as soon as she did so, the smile left my face, and the grimace reappeared, and I thought, "This is for all those...

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The bird took off. The mail was delivered. A red car drove past. An old man with a cane walked past on the sidewalk.

Every day, these things happened in exactly the same way, at exactly the same times.

Other things were the same, too: the news, the conversations she had, the expressions on the faces of the people she met. The bus to work was always four minutes late, like clockwork.

But there were differences, too.

After about ten days, she started to notice things disappearing. First it was her keys, then her couch. Then the maple tree in...

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She'd always come running when I called.
It didn't matter what it was, she always came. At first, it was out of gratitude, I had taken her off the streets, gave her a home, food and clothes, but lately, I've been re-thinking my position. I couldn't be considered her guardian, for she was about the same age as me. She wasn't my lover, for our relationship rarely went beyond providing her with what she needed, while the rest of the time she rested, healing from her injuries. But I found myself, awake at night, asking myself when I'd be rewarded,...

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