Always Knowing

I never asked to know about things before they were going to happen.  I didn't want to know when people were going to die.

Death, though, has its own way of doing things.

It all started when I was browsing a part of the internet I shouldn't have been, and stumbled upon a ritual.  All it needed was a couple of candles, a knife, and some of my blood and I would be able to predict the future.  It warned that the future couldn't be changed, but what the hell did I care, really.  I was going to make a fortune.

The ritual went perfectly.  Well, almost.  I was never good with pain, nor the sight of blood.  That being said, I wanted to get it over with quickly.  Too quickly.

I cut fast and deep into my wrist.  As I lay bleeding out, a hooded figure appeared before me.  Death.

He told me that in exchange for a few years of torture, I could continue living.  My torture would be knowing when people I come into contact with in any way are going to die.  I won't, however, be able to stop it.  If I try to, I will die.

I watched helplessly as my mother, brother, and wife died and there wasn't a thing I could do about it.

I can’t take it.  The torture of knowing is just too much.

I'm hiding this message here.  Hopefully he won't notice until it's too late...for him.

Dear reader, oh wonderful person.  How cruel fate is, leading you to this.  I’m sorry.

You're next.

Rewound Tape

Ever gotten a sense of déjà vu?  Ever seemed to know what was going to happen before it did?  You’re not alone.

Your life is like a movie, well, not exactly.  You see, this entire existence has happened before, and will happen again.  You’ll die and when that happens, your ‘tape’ rewinds to when you were born.  You will go back to infancy and relive this life over and over forever.  There’s no Heaven or Hell, just a reliving of the entire human experience.

It’s not a perfect method, though.  Sometimes, memories of things that will happen bleed through to people before they happen.  That’s what clairvoyance is: people remember what happens next.  Ultimately, though, like any movie, the outcome is certain.  You can scream at the characters, but it won’t change anything.

Relife

Hello, deceased customer! I’m putting this where I know you will find it. This is a simple set of instructions to guide you in case you forget how things work here in Heaven.

If you can read this, you are dead, and currently trying out our Relife program. Forgotten what that is? It’s okay. Reliving the past can make you forget while you are immersed in it.

Relife is a gift from the Lord to you. Each year, on the anniversary of your death, you may choose a single day from your life to relive. Some relive the same day, others choose theirs in a set, but whatever you choose or have chosen will end when you fall asleep. Yes, that means any all-nighters and such will count as a single day. As soon as you fall asleep, you will be back in Heaven, and able to start planning your next day to relive. (Some crafty people relive their entire lives, a day at a time over hundreds of years. But hey, when you’ve got all of eternity…)

While Relife is an amazing gift, please remember that all you are capable of doing is observing. This note will be readable in many places—books, televisions, etc.—as a reminder to you so that you do not become too immersed in the past.

Happy living, and be blessed always.

My Grandmother Lived In A Closet

My grandmother lived in a closet. She came over one Mother’s Day and just never left. I told my mother this would happen, even though I was just joking.

We’re not really sure why she chose the closet. She doesn’t talk much, just a few gasps of surprise and an echoing “hellooooooo” whenever someone calls her name.

She chose my brother’s old room, which mom had redecorated into a storage space for all her many, many clothes. My grandmother just waltzed in there, walked into the closet, shut the door, and that was that.

It’s wasn’t that bad, really. When mother went to get dressed in the morning, all she had to do was knock a few times. Then, with a great stirring from within, my grandmother would hand her an outfit before going back inside.

She did pretty well, what with being a grandmother living inside of a closet. She lived off moth balls and whatever bugs she could catch. Some days, we would even leave her scraps.

I tell this story to my children now, and they will tell it to theirs as well. Even if it isn’t true.

Join Us

Hello, friend. I’m a zombie.

Yeah, yeah. I know what you’re thinking. I should be all “BRAAAIIINS!”

Not all of us are that uncivilized. As a matter of fact, you know I’m right. You’ve been listening for days and haven’t heard any groans or shouts of bloodlust, have you?

No, you haven’t. We’ve missed you. I remember seeing you during the first few days of the infection. You would dart in and out of your kitchen, gathering cans and whatnot. I saw you and was sad you didn’t want to come join us.

Sure, we were a rowdy bunch back then. We went around yelling and hollering for blood. We were a near-mindless horde, hell-bent on eating anyone or anything that got in our path.

But now, it’s been weeks and we have changed. We’re smarter, faster, and stronger than we ever were alive. We are the next evolution of humanity. I want to share this new life with you.

I saw you again today, sitting at your computer, looking at your email. You’re hoping for good news aren’t you? Well, this is the best news you’ll get.

It’s been over a month. Surely you’re tired of being cooped up in your room. Don’t you want to come outside? Don’t you want to be a new man? Don’t you want to join us? Be one of us? Go outside?

Come on. You have to be out of food. I know you have to be almost out of fuel for the generator I always hear chugging away out back. Surely it’s going to get to you. You’ll realize I’m the sane one here. You’re going to lose you mind anyway.

Why not come out with us?

I will be watching you read this, maybe from inside your house again. It’s only a matter of time. Join us.

Hear that? It might be me. Join us.

You’re losing your mind anyway. Why not go outside. Yeah, it’s safe to go outside.

You’re just rationalizing now. Don’t even bother hitting send. You can hear us out there. Join them. What other choice do you have? Do I have? You shouldn’t have locked yourself in here for so long. You should have been taking the medication. But enough of that. Time to go outside.

Join them.

Mary's Myth

Bloody Mary!

Bloody Mary!

Bloody Mary!

Everyone, I am sure, know the story about how if you say her name three times into a dark mirror at night, the infamous Bloody Mary will emerge from the mirror and slash your throat.

What few people know is that it is a myth. Well, the part about saying her name three times. Not every invocation attempt works. Mary appears in mirrors as she sees fit.

Just keep that in mind next time you go to the bathroom at night.

Turn on a light will you? Mary’s watching.

That Feeds You

I woke up to the sound of padded feet and click-clacking nails on the hardwood stairs leading up to my bedroom. I let out a weak ‘oof’ as the dog jumped onto my chest and began to sniff me. He then licked my hand until he had coated it with a thick layer of drool.

“My,” I whispered, trying not to wake my wife, despite the fact that she’s a moderately heavy sleeper. “You’re a heavy boy, aren’t you?”

The dog growled at me an unceremoniously leapt off the bed.

“I figure you want a walk,” I said, getting out of bed and slipping into my fuzzy bunny slippers. As much as they were tacky, they were the same amount comfortable.

I groped around the dark hallway downstairs, trying to find the leash, but wound up deciding he was big enough to fend for himself. “Sorry,” I told him with a shrug. “No leash tonight.”

The dog—as big as it was—then tried to squeeze through the cat door. “Excited, aren’t we? Now, now. You’ll have to use the door like the rest of the big people.”

After extracting the dog from the poor cat’s door, I ushered him outside, whereupon he promptly—much to my dismay, moreover since the outcome should have been obvious—ran off, barking madly and running in a staggering, zigzag pattern. It was something like what a drunken person would do walking.

Cursing, I turned to go back inside but was shocked to see my wife coming down the stairs. “What’s going on in here? What’s with the smell and all the barking?”

“Oh, the usual,” I told her, still barely half awake and drying my hand off. I stupidly used hot water instead of warm, which only aggravated the gash on my hand I got that morning repairing a barbwire fence.

“I just took the dog outside for a walk, and he ran away. He should be careful, there’s a rabid dog out there. I was just about to go get the flashlight and find him.”

I looked up from my hands and the towel to see my wife dialing a number on the phone. She stared at me with an odd look.

“What? What’s wrong? I’m sure he’ll come back. I was jus—.” She cut me off.

“It’s not that,” she said, the phone in her hand shaking as it rang slowly. “We don’t have a dog.”

Dog Found

“Damn it, Spanks,” I cursed as I made my tenth lap around my neighborhood. My girlfriend wasn’t far behind, trying her best to call the stupid animal in her cutest, sing-songiest voice, with a few cluck of her tongue for good measure.

“I think he’s staying gone this time,” I called back to her, though I don’t know if she was choosing to ignore me or was just busy shaking a nearby bush. Yeah. Like the dog was napping in a damn shrub.

It was a Christmas present to her from her folks, who didn’t like me and knew I didn’t like dogs. I think they figured it would drive us apart, but I have managed to tolerate the smelly, drooly animal just to spite them.

As I passed each telephone pole, I thumped each of our “Lost Dog” posters. I wanted to take them down, and stop all this frantic “worrying” about the animal’s wellbeing.

“Hey, babe,” my girlfriend called to me. “Can you go a street over to the café and get me a hot chocolate. It’s so cold, and I don’t want to freeze out here. Thanks!”

Oh, well, then maybe you should go back in, dearest, I thought. So you’re worried about freezing in sixty degree weather, but not the dog first? Jeeze.

“Sure thing,” I replied in a half-sarcastic voice, looking over my shoulder to see her peeking behind a fire hydrant. I love that woman, but hell. She can be pretty damn stupid sometimes.

As I rounded the corner on the next street over, about half a block from the coffee shop, a flyer caught my eye.

“DOG FOUND,” was what caught my eye first, and then the picture of a lab that looked just like ours. I drew myself closer to read it, and made a mental note to see an eye doctor for new glasses.

“Female lab found at 5:20 pm on Thursday, May 14th on the corner of Liberty and Franklin. The dog is about a year old. Black lab with a white, heart-shaped patch of fur under its chin. Slightly crooked tail, and a limp on the left hind leg. Brown collar, but no tags. Very friendly.”

Amazing! I thought. Someone found this damn mutt. There was something in smaller print below all the text, but I figured it was the contact info of the person. Filled with relief—not for the dog being found, but rather for the searching to be over—I called my lady over.

“What is it?” she asked, placing her head on my shoulder. “Oh!” she said, excitedly, finally noticing the poster in front of her. “Look! It’s Spanks!” she said, reading the poster out loud, for confirmation that the dog pictured was indeed ours.

“Oh my god!” she screamed and stumbled backwards, and began to cry very suddenly.

“The hell is wrong with you?” I asked. “Someone found the dog.”

She didn’t say anything, only pointed weakly at the poster.

“I don’t get it,” I said, turning back to the poster, and reading it out loud, thinking I missed something.

Nothing struck me as odd until I looked closer at the smaller text.

It read, “Tasted like chicken.”

My Favorite Part

Dave opened the door to his apartment with a slight stagger. He was just coming home from a late-night party. All he wanted to do now was relax and fall asleep. Not feeling the energy to head upstairs to bed, he decided to crash on his couch for the night. He turned his television to MTV, and managed to drift off to sleep quickly.

After what seemed like only a few seconds of restful sleep, Dave bolted upright when the music on his television was suddenly louder than normal. He grabbed the remote and went to investigate.

Before he could solve that mystery, he noticed something out of the corner of his eye: something in his sliding-glass door to the back yard.

Not sure if it was his mind playing trick on him, he decided to investigate further.

“Damn,” he said, forced to press his face against the glass as he pocketed his remote. “I can’t see anything out there.”

He cupped his hands around his eyes as a last-ditch effort to try to peer into the darkness when suddenly a bearded man appeared in front of the window. The man smacked the glass with bloody hands. Dave shrieked and fell backwards, scrambling on all fours to hide behind his sofa.

The man outside wailed in terror and then was silent. After a few minutes, Dave got the courage to grab his baseball bat and investigate what was going on outside.

The man’s bloody handprints were smeared on the glass of the door, and when he went out, the light from his living room illuminated the grass. There before him was a bloody mess, one that looked like someone had been ripped apart.

Dave stepped out further when he found himself unable to move. “Greetings,” a voice spoke to him, one that seemed to echo from all sides.

“What’s going on?” he said through gritted teeth.

A man appeared from the darkness before him. He was well-dressed in a top hat and suit. A golden pocket watch was in his hand, attached to a chain. The man regarded it fondly before looking at Dave and smiling.

“You’ve met with an unfortunate fate,” the man said, grinning more and more as he spoke. “I am a demon and am going to kill and eat you as I have this other man. However, we demons like games, and I hear humans like a challenge. If I can torture you for, say, 84 years, I will send you back to a few minutes ago and you can try to stop yourself from leaving the house to investigate. If you can save yourself, none of this will have happened. If you fail, however, I get to devour you. How does that sound?”

Dave agreed to the man’s terms fearfully. He didn’t want to die and—seeing as how he was unable to move—he was inclined to believe he was a demon.

The demon laughed and clapped his hands. For the next 84 years, Dave was tortured in hell, growing old and weary. Finally, when his torture had ended, the demon came to him. “Time to go back, Dave,” he said as he snapped his fingers.

Dave tried to protest, but he was too weary from the torture to speak. By now, Dave was old, bedraggled, and bloody, and his memory was shot from the years of constant abuse. The demon was true to his word, though. Dave had been transported to right before he had gone outside.

He peered into his house and saw himself sleeping on the couch. He reached into his old jeans and pulled out the remote to the television he had pocketed all those years ago. He raised the volume, thinking that would get past-him to wake up.

As soon as the volume shot up, so did past Dave. As his past self went to investigate, Dave tried to shout to him to not go outside. However, after all those years in Hell, his vocal cords were fried from the heat. Panicking as his past self went to look outside, he ran up to the glass door and frantically beat on it, trying to signify to his past self not to come outside.

His past self ran away and Dave sighed, thinking he had scared him off. He turned to walk away when the man appeared in front of him. “You have failed,” he said with a broad grin.

It was then that Dave remembered what happened those many years ago.

“Ah, now you’ve got it,” the demon said as he opened wide his mouth and attacked Dave. Dave wailed, crying out in a mixture of fear and sorrow.

Leaving a bloody mess, the man cleaned himself off and chuckled. “Now comes my favorite part.”

IDE-O-MATIC

To whoever finds this, I am sorry. I don’t know who you are, and I doubt you will know who I am. Let me say this first, if nothing else. The rest of this is an explanation. I hope you find comfort in my sincere apologies for what I have done.

I am a writer, but not a very good one. You see, reader, I have never been one for writing fiction, but I have milked all my life experiences for all their worth.

I got this crazy idea in my head that I could write fiction, but without anything to go on mindwise, I was at a loss. I just stared at my pad of paper and I watched the ink leak from my pen.

It wasn’t until a few months ago that I went to a mall that all my troubles were both solved then started over with fresh ones. You see, my poor reader, I found a discarded newspaper on a bench in front of the taco stand where I had placed my order. I love tacos, but probably a bit much.

But let me try not to digress too much. As I waited for my order to be up, I grew bored. The newspaper looked filthy, and the idea of touching it repulsed me. Though that soon changed; the longer I sat there and looked at it, the more my curiosity urged me to read it.

I wish I hadn’t, because what I did with the information it had to offer changed the whole world. Yes, the world.

The paper was open to the Classifieds, and I quickly spotted an ad that I knew to be too good to be true. However, I was desperate and willing to try anything.

IDE-O-MATIC! PROBLEMS COMING UP WHAT THAT NEW PRESENTATION? WANT TO WRITE THE PERFECT PAPER, BUT DON’T HAVE THE RIGHT IDEA? TRY IDE-O-MATIC TODAY!

The picture made me think of some ‘60s science fiction devices. It was a hideous device with an array of buttons and a mess of antennae. Again, I was desperate, and had the fifty dollars to spare to try this device.

When I arrived back at my house, I sent off for this device. Much to my delight, it arrived not but a week later. It was just as scary as the picture portrayed it to be. The instructions were short and simple: Turn on, Relax, Sleep, Dream, and Write.

I followed these stupidly simple instructions, and the next morning woke up with an idea in my mind. I wrote a story about a great technological nation that was nearly destroyed when a great flood wiped out most of their population and electronics. It then got worse when their power plants—all nuclear reactors—started leaking radiation.

I’m sure that by now you realize this is all about Japan and the tsunami, but when I wrote this, it simply hadn’t happened yet.

It wasn’t long before I wanted to write again, so I used the device, and came up with another great idea. This time, it was the story of how a massive tornado outbreak tore apart the lives of a good many cities. It was a touching story, but ultimately tragic.

This, as I hope you are aware, was the April tornado outbreak. Again, when I wrote this none of it had happened yet. I wrote about children dying! How could I?

So, as I said in the beginning of this letter, I am sorry. I am not just sorry because I wrote about these horrible tragedies. My main lament is that once I used the device, the ideas tore at me—mind and body—until I finished writing them.

I wish I could have stopped myself, but all I could think about after using the device was writing the story. It was as if that was all that mattered to my body. I couldn’t eat or sleep. Eventually I broke down and wrote them, graphic details and all.

Now, I am sure you noticed I called these ideas ‘great’ before. Maybe that was a bit unexplained on my part. You see, when I started with these, the ideas seemed wonderful. As I began to write, though, I began to visualize gory images and graphically explicit scenes. That was when I discovered what not writing would do to me.

That is not the other reason that I am sorry. I have only recently put what I have written and what has happened in reality together. I also believe it is a bit late for that.

I am sorry, dear reader. I used the device one last time, and I can’t hold off writing any longer. I just cannot get this image of a large meteor out of my mind.

Busses Suck

Hello, my name is Randy. I am a survivor of a demon attack.

Yes, you read correctly. A demon attack. Let me explain:

It all started when she got on board my Greyhound bus. She was tall, blonde, busty, and wearing all leather, right down to her knee-high pumps. The studs on her eyes said trouble and the one on her tongue—something she casually flashed my direction—told me she was dangerous.

She took the pair of empty seats next to mine and I could feel her looking over toward me periodically. I didn’t dare look her way. She smelled of roses and incense, the telltale scent of a succubus.

Although I tried my best, I could not stave off sleep forever. This connection was just another part in what had already been twenty sleepless—and otherwise uneventful—hours of busing.

I awoke to find her undressing me, bending forward, to try and, well, all I will say is “suck” the life from me in a manner most fitting of a demoness that preys on sexual energy.

Like I said, I am a survivor of a demon attack. I won’t go into detail as to how I managed to escape that encounter with my life, but I will say this: never before have I been so glad to have had to pee.

Posted No Trespassing

Everyone has a few skeletons in their closet, they say. I just assumed from hearing that phrase that it’s not uncommon. Though, the more I think about it, I don’t think everyone has as many as I do. Well, to be fair, that’s what they got for trespassing. There’s a sign, after all.

Sheep's Clothing

“Ah! Welcome! I haven’t had a visitor in quite some time. Please, come in. I am so glad you have found my humble tailor shop. Not many people know how to find it.

“Oh, I see. One of my associates referred you to me. Excellent. I am the finest tailor in the town, if I do say so myself. What is it you are looking for?

“Why, yes! You need a nice suit. Why don’t you come into the back, here, and I’ll get you all measured up.”

And that’s the last time I saw that poor gent. I even believe that was the last anyone would see him. That is alive, anyway.

I’m quite excitable when it comes to getting new customers. I don’t often get to make new suits. I find it sad that I don’t get repeat customers here, but it comes with my level of artistry.

You see, when I make a piece of clothing, it’s one-of-a-kind. I don’t do repeat performances. I used to work in a clothing shop. There, I made generic and bland clothing. I tired of that, and quit my old job to move out here to start my own business.

It’s quiet and remote here, so I can safely be as eccentric with my trade as I wish. I believe you may have seen some of my works at the museum. They are the most unique and unsolved garments and I am proud to see people admire them, even if they don’t know it’s my genius.

But I digress in telling you that. Now hold still while I measure you.

Tinted View

William McDaniel was known around town from the mysterious bruises that would show up on his wife, night after night. She would always credit them to her being a klutz, but the townspeople knew better. She, too, knew better.

She knew to keep her mouth shut. William was a rich and influential businessman in the town, so no one was really looking for trouble with him. The police were among the few people willing to risk their jobs and even their lives to tryto put away William.

It wouldn’t be so bad if it were just him. The grim truth was that he had a penchant for extending his arm towards his two children and their housekeeper.

Having long sense been fed up with the abuse and eager to do something about it, the sheriff hatched a plan. He contacted Miss McDaniel and the town’s reining fabric queen, Miss Sweeny. Together, they made the most beautiful curtains anyone in town had seen.

The next day, Miss McDaniel went about hanging the curtains around the house, replacing the older, less fantastic ones. That evening, when William came home, he was angered by the sight of such colorful drapes, but was on the other hand pleased that they still obscured the view of the inside of the house.

A few nights passed, and eventually he grew tired of seeing the fabric. It wasn’t long before his dislike turned to rage and he pulled his wife into the living room. Flipping the lights one, he started to beat her, yelling at her about how she had ruined the house with her terrible curtains.

It didn’t take long for the police, who had been keeping close watch on the house at night, to storm in and arrest a stunned William.

“How,” he asked, fighting the two officers that were dragging him outside. “How did yo-.”

And then he saw it.

The curtains, by day, obscured the view from the outside looking in. But, at night, when the light was behind them, they offered up a perfect view of the living room.

Always live life as you are being watched. That veil you cast upon yourself isn’t always as opaque as you might like it to be.