This flash fiction piece is one of the first I posted to this blog.
I'm very proud of it - not only because it can stand on its own, but also because it led the way to greater stories and paved the way for scarier tales.
I also favor it because of this line -
"I don't know how the trouble got it."
My Gram said that to me once, years and years ago, and for some reason it stuck with me.
It resonated somewhere in the recesses of my mind and fought its way back to the surface and into this story.
I hope you enjoy this little narrative of the macabre.
Hit the Like, Love, or Creep button below to let me know what you think.
The amount of blood was impressive.
Roger laid in a fetal position, coughing up clots and trying, with all of his might, to remain brave. He reached for his cell, pulled it out of his back pocket and slid the unlock icon, seemingly unaware of the massive surge of light it cast into the dark hallway. His fingers dialed the magic numbers, leaving red smudges across the phone's screen.
It rang four times.
"911. What is your emergency?"
His voice shook out a whisper. "I don't know how it got in."
"Hello? Sir? Speak up. What is your emergency?"
He spat another clump of blood onto the hardwood floor. "I don't know... how the...the trouble got in..."
"Sir? Are you okay? Is someone in your house?"
"Not someone...something," he choked.
"Sir? We don't take kindly to pranks-"
"-this isn't a prank," he interrupted. "Please...help me."
"Sir. Are you hurt?"
He stared at the pool of blood billowing around his body. In shock, and unable to believe his fate, he tried to speak. Swallowing hard, Roger cried out, "Oh, God. I am."
The operator giggled. "Sir. God is your only hope right now."
A loud crash boomed from the next room. A shadow emerged and filled the door frame ~ its silhouette large, ominous and shifting; its eyes were the only feature Roger could make out. And he tried not to stare into them; into those blanched eyes that burned white hot into his own.
"Please," he spoke to the dark figure, raising his bloodied hand as a feeble move to defend himself. "Please," he whispered into his cell to the operator on the other end.
"Please," the operator mocked him in a childish tone and chuckled. "Roger. Be strong. This will all be over in another minute."
The cell phone went dead.
Then, the light from its screen shut off.
The pitch blackness was back and all Roger could make out were those eyes.
Those white hot eyes.
And they moved towards him.
He mumbled a half of a prayer, wondering if God would hear him; would even know him.
Those malicious white eyes were level with his own now and he could feel the heat that radiated from them.
A tear slid down his cheek and landed at the corner of his mouth. He welcomed the salty taste.
Roger closed his own eyes.
He drew one more breath.