#fl horror

[abalonetea]

Little Grove

  The alarm blares, shrill and cutting. Evan groans as he rolls over, slapping at it without opening his eyes. He wants to sleep longer – like he used to when he was a kid – but he’s not a kid anymore, not by Little Grove’s standards. He’s seventeen and that means he has to act like an adult, which means cracking open his eyes to try and peer through the gloom.   Outside, the sky is black. Murky darkness seeps into the room. It’s eleven in the morning and the world has not yet woken up. That’s a good thing, he thinks, hauling himself out of bed. The carpet is damp under his bare feet. When he flicks on the bathroom light, it’s to be met with the sight of dark, damp patches forming on his ceiling.   At least the mold isn’t back, he thinks, splashing water on his face, pulling his hair back, grabbing his rain slicker from the hook on the back of the door. The muck boots come next, too big and too bright, a glaring splash of orange against the gloom of the world.   He hates orange, but it’s a good color to wear in Little Grove.   People are more likely to find you this way.

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the first patron only story (rain in little grove) is published! purchase the $1 tier to get access!

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Welcome To Hastings

  Cathy drives between rural towns, hoping that she never has to stop until she reaches her destination. The back seat is piled full of hastily packed bags. Her GPS isn’t working but an old fashioned map is spread out on the passenger side seat and she thinks that as long as she gets out of one town, and then the next town, and then the next town, everything will be alright.   A large hand painted signs welcomes her to Hastings; where Jesus loves you and where GOD is still GOD and SIN is still SIN. It’s starting to get dark and every time the wind blows, great whirls of dust get ripped off the side of the road and form demons that chase down the truck.   “Almost there,” says Cathy. She turns the radio up louder and hums along with the classic rock that comes on. It’s littered with static and barely there words.   They make her feel cold, so she turns it back off. Even with the windows rolled up, Cathy is positive that she can hear banjos in the distance.   Cathy pushes down harder on the gas pedal. She’s going twenty miles over the speed limit. The loose gravel screams under her tires. “Almost there,” she sing-songs again. “Just a little bit longer!”   It’s getting dark quickly.   Quicker than it should, even.   Cathy slows down. Rocks settle in her stomach. The air tastes vaguely like brimstone. When the road curves, she realizes that the sun isn’t sinking. There’s a massive billboard rising up above roofs of the houses. The brimstone taste is stronger.   “Almost there,” says Cathy, panic lacing the words now. She doesn’t stop. If anything, she slams on the gas again. The tires crunch as she rips around a corner. The banjo music is getting louder, faster. No matter what street she’s on, the shadow of the billboard covers her.   White letters scrawl across the black billboard. She can’t find the road out of Hastings. Every time she glances in the rear view mirror she sees it.   SIN is SIN. Welcome to Hastings.   “Almost there.” The words are a whine, now, a desperate gospel sung to no one and everyone. The streets are empty. She’s almost out of gas.   Cathy will have to stop soon.   She thinks that she might stay in Hastings.