Start with Part 1 of The End of The Road Here.

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…Swatting another buzzer away, he threw the axe down into an old stump, decided his sleeping bag would have to do for one night, and walked back into the cool damp of the house, the door still hanging open, waiting for him to come back inside.

But before he could enter, it started to happen again: the itching, dry, thirsty feeling in the back of his throat, the blood rushing in his ears, his eyes blurred like he was drunk. I’ve only had two beers, he thought, panicked, scratching at his neck trying to get more air in; taking a few steps further and feeling a great weight against him, as if someone was pushing him away from the door.

He needed water. Needed to get inside.

When he could finally reach it, he grabbed either side of the kitchen doorframe and pulled himself into the house, which groaned as soon as he was through. Out of the corner of his eye, down the hall, he was sure he saw a shadow move, but he couldn’t think right, could only land his hands on the kitchen tap and bend to drink directly from the faucet.

But he spit the first few mouthfuls back into the sink, coughing and gagging at the thick, blackish water coating his throat. His stomach grumbled and he could swear he heard someone laughing, a woman, a woman laughing, but in his spinning, and he couldn’t be sure. He just pushed the taps open as far as they would go, drowning out the sound, desperate for it to clear, hanging his head, spitting again, and letting his drool fall into the sink.

Finally, the water turned. He stuck his whole head under the faucet, and began to wash the gunk out of his mouth. Then he began to drink. Drink like he’d never had water before. His empty stomach sloshed with it, but he kept on drinking, drinking, drinking. Then he stood, looked back at the kitchen door, and bent to throw it all back up into the sink.

That’s two beers wasted, he thought, exhausted, standing there and wiping his mouth on his sleeve, the sour taste still in his mouth. Slower this time, he bent down again and took a few short sips of the cold, metallic water. Beer’s must’ve gone bad, he decided, shaking his head of the blur still on him and turning toward the hall, where at the end he only could see the last of the days light resting on the living room floor.

The light looked warm. Inviting even. He stepped forward, glad his steps were easy. Walked down the hall into the still-dusty living room, and once he got there, stood looking around, his legs bathed in cool light. Without the headlamp, he could see the pictures on the walls now. Some of them were of dancing women, flowers, a rabbit. But others were lewd, with bare breasts and dangling things, and all of them were covered in marker, with curse words and arrows and devil’s horns drawn all over. He smiled. Now that feels like home, he thought to himself, admiring the handiwork and wishing he had a pen.

Ah well.

He stepped closer and looked at a naked woman birthing hand-drawn lightning bolts. Something Chester would have drawn. He took in the rest of the gallery, having himself a little chuckle here or there, a balm after what had happened in the kitchen.

But soon, his gazing brought him over to the closed bedroom door…or what he thought was a bedroom door. He noticed the door had a latch on the outside, just like the one on the woodshed. There was no lock on it, so he tried the doorknob, which turned easily.

Without being able to help it, he looked quickly behind him, his senses still vigilant. Nothing there. Just the small couch, the lounge chair, the coffee table. He finally noticed the ancient, rusting wood stove, grimacing at him from a dark corner of the room. I’ll deal with you later, he muttered to the thing, turning again to the door and pushing it open.

Inside, the room was empty. Just a dusty concrete floor and shelves all along the walls, like a pantry. A drain sat in the middle of the floor, stains in various waves of brown marking different patterns all around it. The air smelled stale, as if the door hadn’t been opened in years, but he leaned his head inside to get a better look anyway, his hand still on the door knob.

There was no window here either, he noticed. No chain lamp hanging from the ceiling. He clicked on the headlamp from his pocket, and saw that the shelves inside were completely bare, or at least, the ones he could see from his height.

Then he looked behind the door and saw them: scratch marks. Up high and down low. Shallow scratch marks in the paint and splintered wood no sharp animal claws could have made.

He let go of the handle, backing out of the room and closing the door, his eyes wide, his hands shaking. What is this place? he asked as a strange feeling of familiarity washed over him, like he’d been there before.

He stayed there, completely still, as the last of the days light disappeared. His headlamp brightened in the changing dark. And still, he stood, stuck, his mind racing along with his heartbeat. What is this place? he asked himself again and again, his mind playing tricks on him, replaying its little movies of where-he’d-been-before.

Finally though, his heart calmed itself and he began to breathe. He’d gone on a long walk to get here. He remembered that. He was not where-he-was-before. There was no one here who knew him; who knew what he remembered.

He was safe. He was alone. He just needed a good night’s rest.

Shaking himself out of it, he found his rucksack and pulled a light-weight sleeping bag from the thing. He thought about sleeping on the floor, but soon saw the couch had a foldout mechanism, and brought the small, lumpy cot out from its hiding place. This, at least, was dust-free, having been tucked away for so long. He used one of the couch cushions as a pillow, draping his small towel over the thing to avoid the dust in his mouth. Pulled himself into the sleeping bag with the curtains wide open and laid down to rest, falling asleep watching the moonlight creep up the opposite wall.

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This story is currently a work in progress.

Read Part 1, Part 2, or Part 3 of The End of the Road, or try a non-scary work of flash fiction here.

Read Part 1 of The End of The Road Here. Read Part 2 Here.

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He pulled back again on his cigarette and flicked it into an old coffee can at his feet. Sat down on the stoop, beer in hand, wondering about all them back home and what they were doing. Wondered what he was doing, now that he’d had a moment to think on it. But he was sure no one would want to see his face for a while.

The beer went too quick so he went inside to grab the other. He thought about the cheese and bread for dinner, but didn’t feel much like eating. Sat back out on the stoop to get out of the cold of the house. The sun was falling closer and closer to the mountaintops, and he knew before long it would disappear and he would be in the pitch-black. He needed a fire. Needed to warm the place up.

So he went inside. Went inside and through to the backdoor, which opened easily enough. Slugged back the rest of his beer and set it down on a stump near the woodshed with a clink. The woodshed latch wasn’t bolted, and the wood that held it up was rotting with moss on every shingle. Back there he could smell the marsh-stink. Could smell the rotting wood. Still no birds sang, but the bugs had started up, droning on in one, singular note.

He pulled up the ancient, rusted lock from its hold and the latch fell open, the heavy door swinging right along with it and slamming into the shed with an echo that would have sent the deer off, if there were any. Tools hung haphazardly all around the walls and along the ceiling, saws and chains raining down. An old hatchet lay just inside the door. He grabbed it, and turned around to look at the rotting woodpile leaning against the shed; at all the leaves, grass, and pine stuck in the cracks, like something had been living in it. Grabbed a piece of wood and it just fell apart in his hands.

He looked around for anything else to use for wood. The rest was just cattails, grass and gravel all the way to the trees he’d come through on his way up. A bad feeling started to boil in his stomach, as if someone was watching. And the marsh-stink was getting to him. The flies had found him, too. Swatting another buzzer away, he threw the axe down into an old stump, decided his sleeping bag would have to do for one night, and walked back into the cool damp of the house, the door still hanging open, waiting for him to come back inside.

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This story is currently a work in progress.

Part 4 is now available in here. Part 1 is available here. Part 2 is available here. If you can’t wait and need another creepy story to read, try reading Lita by this author!

Read Part 1 of The End of The Road Here.

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He closed the old wooden door behind him, wincing at the long creak it made in the dark quiet of the house. He shivered, putting his shirt back on and drinking the cool air into his parched lungs. It’ll be a bitch walking back into town he thought to himself, pushing his hands blindly along the dusty woodgrain walls for a light switch.

Nothing.

He squinted, his eyes adjusting to the dark, and took a few steps forward before ducking quickly out of the way. He’d felt something heavy brush his head, like a spider, or worse. But when he reached out to investigate, his fingers met cool metal.

A chain. He pulled it, and a warm yellow glow took its time lighting up the filament in the lightbulb above.

It didn’t light up much else though; only the three stairs leading up to the main floor and the first few stairs leading down to the basement. And thirsty as he was, he didn’t think much about exploring the downstairs. Instead, he went straight up the short stairway toward the dingy little kitchen at the back of the house, ignoring the dark, cramped living room and low-ceilinged hallway leading to the bedroom along the way.

He was strangely relieved to find that the kitchen door leading out back had a broken window to let some dusty light in, for this door also had black glass, just like the front, and he couldn’t see a lamp switch anywhere. It was warmer in the kitchen, too, but humid, almost wet. His shirt clung to him, and he itched for a shower. But all he could do then was walk over to the tap and push on the cold water handle.

A gurgling sound came out, but no water.

In the cupboard underneath the sink he found a couple old chemical bottles, some cobwebs. He wound these around the top of one of the bottles and found the old switch to turn the water on. The gurgling sound rose again, but this time it was followed with the splash of water.

He shook his head. The water was dark and thick, as if it had been living in the pipes a while.

He decided to let it run through to clear, and started pulling open cupboards which were just as dark and mostly empty. A jar of something he would never open. A can of something else he might. A couple pans and plates. A bowl. A cup. Two spoons, one of them with dark marks on the end. He shook his head again in the dusty half-light. Won’t be using that, he thought. He closed the drawer and took one look at the refrigerator, unsure if he would have the guts to open it. But he was pleased to find one there, at least. To keep the beers cold.

Then the sound of the running water changed behind him and he saw the black flow run white. He put his water bottle under the tap and drank.

Not bad. Touch of the pipes and the marsh out back.

His stomach had handled worse.

He looked around again. The kitchen floor was ancient tile so covered over in dirt you could barely see it. He wasn’t sure he would be taking his boots off after all, and took another drink of water before stepping over to the broken backdoor window to look through. The bright natural light hurt his eyes and he flinched, but soon he saw the tilted shed was there, and the cattails marking the marsh behind it. He saw the garden spilling with all kinds of plants he couldn’t name, ready to seed. Good thing I’ll just be here for the winter, he thought while behind him, somewhere, the house groaned.

He turned, listening hard, not sure why. Old houses settle. They have their sounds. He had, he realized just then, decided to stay, and no sound was going to scare him off. The price was exactly right, and he could make do for a season. Lay low. Disappear until everything back home died down.

The house groaned again, but this time he ignored it. Instead, he worked up his courage and pulled open the fridge, which was surprisingly empty and clean, though it wasn’t on. He found the plug and plugged it in, the rumbling noise of it comforting in the dark silence. He put his beers inside, a block of butter, some bread and cheese that badly needed the cold and closed the door. Then he looked around and realized he wouldn’t be keeping much in the cupboards, opened the door again, and started unloading the rest of his stores into the thing.

Fuck it, he thought, grabbing one of the beers back out and cracking it with a lighter from his pocket. He pulled a smoke from a pack in his bag then put those in the fridge too, putting the single in between his lips and lighting it.

The first drag calmed him down. The second made him a little dizzy, but it was the good kind. He took a sip of beer, put the smoke back in his mouth, closed the fridge, and dug around in the depths of his bag to find his headlamp. He switched it on, quickly turning it away from his eyes.

Shadows jumped and changed along the walls and floor as he walked back through the house to the living room, cigarette smoke trailing behind him along the way. As he walked, the house rumbled. He could hear his own footsteps echoing as if there were two of him walking and stopped to listen, the hair on his neck up from the chill. Then he moved on again into the sparse living room, which held a small couch, a coffee table, and a single lounge chair. He shone the light along the walls, where someone had hung pictures torn out of magazines and calendars. The glossy pages reflected his headlamp back at him, making what was on them invisible. He brought the light to the ceiling where another tiny lightbulb hung, but there was no chain or switch to be seen.

The windows, he thought, finally seeing the giant drapes over the front windows for what they were. The shadows played there too as he moved closer and pulled at the endless black fabric, allowing in the first natural light that place had seen in who-knows-how-long. He coughed as the dust swirled all around and went to open the front door to get a breath of fresh air.

At first it wouldn’t budge.

But with a good, hard pull, he got it free and gratefully breathed in the sour heat of the dying afternoon.

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This story is currently a work in progress.

Part 1 is available here. Part 3 is available here. If you can’t wait and need another creepy story to read, try reading Lita by this author!

He was just looking for a place. A place to put his hat, as they say. A place to kick off the old shoes for a while. Just for the winter. Didn’t have to be long. He just needed the quiet. The alone time. A break.

So they pointed him up the road, those who had been in that town a long time. Up to the end of the road, they said with a smile that fell as soon as he turned his back. But he never looked back, he just picked up his bag and followed that old dirt road to its end.

He hadn’t known how long he would have to walk. Sweat pilled on his brow and in his boots. September had never been this hot. Some of the trees had lost their leaves, but they lay crisp on the ground, burned by the sun. He wiped his head with the rag from his pocket, took off his shirt and shoved it in his bag, and kept on going, thinking of memories he’d rather not.

He shook his head of them. The gravel turned to grass. But he trusted those town folk and kept on going.

Kept going until the house saw him; saw him and his unshaven face, his dirty jeans, his clear hazel eyes looking for home. It saw his bag half open, tumbling out with clothes and food and a beer or two. He was planning to bring the rest along with a friend’s truck next week. But he couldn’t have stayed where he was any longer. Not one second.

He shook his head again, and finally saw the house. A little charcoal house with red shutters and red flower boxes all around the windows. Or at least, they had been red, once, to an old painter’s eye. Now they were bleached and grey with barely a hint of red left. But he liked the look. Liked that the roof was covered in moss. Liked the little half-tilted woodshed. Liked the overgrown garden and dark-paned glass set in the front door. And it was quiet. Not even the birds sang. As if the wind had forgotten the place completely; though he did hear the trickle of a creek nearby.

He followed the sound of it through the long grass all around the house, leaving a trail behind him. But before he could see the creek, the ground began to soften. Cattails cropped up around him and the stink began of a marsh not too far off. He held his hand to his nose and turned around. His boots had seen enough for one day. He just wanted to take them off.

As he traipsed back to the house, he wondered where the owners were. The tracks up to the place hadn’t seen action all summer. And no one had said anything about people, as if the place was just his for the taking. He scratched his dark hair and looked back down the hill, where he knew the little town hid amongst the trees. At least no one would bother him here. No one from his old life would find him here, either.

He shrugged and turned to go inside. Yet with every step he took toward the house, his throat became drier and drier. It became hard to swallow, as if something was caught in his throat. He coughed, reaching for his water bottle. The house spun in front of him, hazy in the great heat. He gulped the last drops like a fish out of water, feeling his legs wobble beneath him. As he reached for the doorknob, his skin began to crawl, as if every inch of him was trying to move backward, away from the place.

But he’d come this far, and was sure this was all just the heat. So he stepped inside and felt the cold, clammy air as a welcome.

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Ready for Part 2? Keep reading here.

Cover photo by Jessica Barratt