Short Stories

Chills

It was a cold wintery night as I walked through the forbidden forest park. The ground was soaked by the rain that had fallen earlier. The place smelt of rotted corpses everywhere. I gulped and continued very carefully. The odor started to worsen, I stepped on tiny branches and over logs. The cold breeze hit my skin, sending shivers down my spine. I sometimes felt hands around my neck. Or fingers, scratching my collarbone. Chill voices whispering in my ear, down to my neckline.

“Mother,” my shrill voice called out. It came out as a tiny whisper. My foolish self tried to look around, but as I thought, I could barely see the sight I wanted to.
My head started to feel a little dizzy and my ear started to hurt a bit.
I put my hand on my shoulder, just in time to feel a nail retract itself from it. My heart gasped in fear as it sped and I tried to monotonously play it off, my eyes searching for any sort of light to counteract my fear.

But the place was pitch black.
“Henry.”
I spun around, tears filling my eyes.
“Sister?” I shivered.
“Why lie to us? Why be such a narcissist? Why did you sell us out for your newspaper?”
I trembled, as I heard my mother's voice.
“Hen....ry...my only forsaken son...was I not enough?”
“F-father?” I choked.

“Selling you was our only option. You said you understood.”
My mother said, her voice dripping down my ears like kerosene.
I dared replied to the voices.
“But it hurts to feel unwanted....unloved by your own family.”
The voices mumbled unwanted gibberish.
I looked to the shadows as if I were looking at someone.
I then felt a nail scrape my nose. A second after, I felt a substance start to drizzle down my lips.

My blood.
I took my hand, up and felt it being touched by a softer version of mine.
I looked up and saw a brown, edged mirror.
Inside that mirror, I saw myself as a small boy, red eyes.
My hands were being held by my smiling sister, as my parents giggled behind me.
“Try all you might, but you'll never get rid of us.” My father whispered, his eyes turning black.

“You'll never live peacefully after what you did, ungrateful brat.” My mother gave a sinister grin, her eyes white.
I felt a small pull on my hair.
“You'll never be happy, brother. Suck it up.” My sister muttered coldly, her eyes doll-like.
The three giggled haughtily. And the person in the mirror, who was supposed to be myself, smirked.
“You'll never get rid of these bastards if you don't stop being a weak bitch.”

I rose up with a scream, my wife taking my hand and hugging me. I felt for the locket around my neck.
And surely it was still there.
The locket with four compartments. Four compartments for each ration of dead ash.
My sister, my father, my mother,

And myself.