#wriblr

[hugging-blavingad]

9 inches is hot but do they deserve it?

[voxisme2]

"Taylor I just chucked a pillow at you, how did you have no reaction?"

"I was typing"

[viburnum-worldbuilds]

Why is English such a casual language no those characters are not on first name basis they shouldn't be saying you but also they are roughly on the same level they wouldn't really use sir damnit I miss causal formalities and having 10 different forms of address. How do you construct a sentence around mister? You've got a well behaved grandson, mister Peter. Does this sentence sound good? Does it???!!!

[sorayacormier]

Roots Between Worlds

Horror/paranormal romance short story

The first illogical thing I noticed about the house next door was the smell- a dry rot and old fabric sort of smell as if its insides were bursting open. However, when I glanced over there, its white walls, dark shutters, and perfectly manicured lawn met my gaze with an innocent glint. A chill raced down my spine, even though the humidity pressed all around me. Little hairs on the back of my neck lifted, a quiver in my stomach.

Mom nudged her shoulder with mine, smiled. “You okay?”

“I’m okay,” but my voice was shaky. I shook my head. Maybe there was something rancid in the trash, like really rancid, I thought as I swallowed down this invasive restlessness. I continued helping to unload boxes into our new house- a modest thing in comparison. Still, it felt way too big without Dad around.

When I carried some boxes to my room, I took a moment to survey it, imagining where I would hang my posters, where I would hang pictures of the friends I could only connect with through Skype and phone, and where I would sit my retro stereo. That familiar chill down my spine returned in full volume, and I whipped my head to catch the eyes of a White woman pruning roses. Her eyes were not warm or earthy. Instead, they were reflective of my own unease. I let the blinds down, but those eyes haunted me. I lost myself in a text conversation with my best friend.

Mom and I finished unpacking some time in the evening. She made dinner- a comfort meal: spaghetti and meatballs. “How’s college going so far?” Mom asked.

I pushed a meatball around. “Fine.”

“That’s good, what are you studying again?”

“Computer science.”

“Figures, you always love being on that computer.”

“And how else are you feeling?”

“I miss Dad.”

“I know. Me too.”

We sat together sharing grief, sharing food.

After my food settled, I stuck my head outside to see if the smell was still present. I smiled to the odorless air, and I went in our backyard to get a clear scope of how I could practice soccer some days. The White woman was not around, which sent a light feeling in my body.

Once I finished up with the backyard, I went upstairs, listened to music, and drew some portraits of random pictures I found via Google until I fell asleep, drooling on my sketch pad. I woke in the middle of the night to a disturbing child’s cry. Tree branches scarped at the windows, creating a loud scratching sound. My shoulders tightened as my hands clammed. I threw the coves off me as beads of sweat peppered my forehead. I opened the blinds, wondering if maybe it was stray cats or something that could be quelled. All I that faced me was that perfect house. However, this time golden orbs hovered around roses that looked even more pristine, like something straight out of a storybook.

I dragged myself back to bed, tried to get some sleep, but sleep would elude me that night. When I woke, my mom was downstairs, a steaming cup of coffee in her hands. “Did you-?”

I nodded. “What’s up with our neighbors?”

“I’m not sure, but maybe it’s best if we don’t interact with them too much.”

“Thought you said you wanted to bake them cookies.”

“Not after last night.”

“So you heard them too?”

She nodded. “It’s okay. Maybe the noises we heard were animals because we’re grieving and we’ve gone crazy,” Mom offered.

I shrugged and grabbed some coffee. I drank it black and hoped the bitterness would make me extra alert for my online class. “Who knows.”

“You stay away from that house.”

I snorted. “That sounds like my plan.”

Mom nodded. “Good.”

Mom put on her scrubs. When she left, I buried myself in the video lecture, checked on some grades (straight A’s and B’s, an occasional C, but C’s got degrees). After I poured much concentration on my studies, I ventured outside to dribble my soccer ball. And then that’s when I saw her- the girl that would drag me down to a world I once considered was only for people who believed in that sort of thing: ghosts and monsters and magic.

The next night, I could not sleep. I wished I could have blamed the odd phenomenon next door, but not that time. So, I grabbed my soccer ball and my head phones. The night was humid as almost every night on the coast was. I kicked my ball too hard, and it landed in the neighbor’s rose bushes.

My chest tightened like a fist as my stomach quivered. My hands clammed up as I paced, wondering if I should just dash over there to go get it or wait until morning. I shook my head. I was being ridiculous, I thought at the time. I stepped onto the cobblestone path way that stretched out like a tongue, and I entered the mouth of my neighbor’s garden. The temperature plummeted. I shivered in response and rubbed my hands over the fresh goosebumps overgrown on my skin.

A weight slammed my neck as if a heavy hand had me captured. I whipped around, but there stood a girl. Her hair was a cloud of dark curls in some sort of vintage dress. She was taller than me, and she was pretty. As normal with pretty girls, my stomach turned into butterflies, and I couldn’t meet her eyes. So I didn’t notice how pallid her skin was. “H-Hi, sorry, I’m just- my ball just flew over here.”

“Silly things flying places they shouldn’t go.”

I retrieved my ball, and the girl was just staring at me. “So, uh- how long have you lived here?” I asked. I still wasn’t sleepy and the night was young. “It’s a nice garden your mom has here.”

“I’ve lived here forever it feels like, and I hate this stupid garden.” Her tone was deep, her voice raised.

“Can’t say I hear that often about gardens.”

“Sorry for being so emotional,” she said, wringing her hands. “I just feel so trapped here.” She slumped into one of the lawn chairs next to a dainty, white table.

I nodded and sat beside her. “Yeah the suburbs can feel isolating sometimes.”

The girl laughed, but there was an edge to it. “The suburbs aren’t holding me prisoner.” She glances towards the roses.

“Then, who do you mean?”

“Do you ever wish someone would come and just take you away somewhere?” she asked. “Where would you go?”

“That’s a good question, um, dunno I think I’m a little worn out from going anywhere,” I replied. “I just moved here.”

“That’s unfortunate, you seem like a nice person.”

“Ouch, alright, I can take a rejection.” I raised my hands, an amused glint in my eyes.

The girl’s eyes widened. “Oh, I’m not- no that wasn’t a rejection. It’s just my mother, she-” She clamped a hand on opposite sides of her arms. Her voice had dwindled into a whisper. “You must leave.” Then there were a lot of whispers along the edge of my ears, crawling along my skin, causing my insides to churn and churn. A solid brick of pressure squeezed my sides, but it was still so cold.

“What about your mother?” I frowned. “Are you okay?”

“Go!”

A surge of adrenaline rushed through me, my body breaking into chills. I backed away, but even then, some part of me wanted to toss this girl over my shoulder, and carry her away from this house. Something about it just wasn’t right. I would grow to learn the whole truth soon, and I would wish I never had.

When I ran out of the garden and glanced over my shoulder, the girl was gone. I rubbed my eyes, but there was no trace of her as if I had been speaking with a ghost. I slipped back into the covers, but all I could think about was that girl. Even during class and homework and lots of coffee, I kept worrying and wondering if she was okay. I was pestered with questions. Was her mother abusive? How old was this girl? What was her name? I tried peaking through my window to see if I could catch any sign of the girl, but she was no where. I was starting to think I had simply imagined her due to sleep deprivation. However, I was proven wrong when I met her again on another night I couldn’t sleep and had decided to play soccer.

This time, the girl watched from the mouth of the garden. She was staring again. “Hey, want to play?” I finally asked. “Do you like to play games?”

She smiled. “I like games, but my mom doesn’t let me play.”

“How old are you by the way? And what’s your name?”

“I am-” Her gaze flickered to the ground. “Let’s just say I’m eighteen, and my name is Elizabeth.”

“Cool, I’m eighteen too, and my name is Maria.”

“Maria.” I liked the way she said my name—like something sweet.

I surveyed her skin for bruises or scratches or marks, but all I saw was perfect brown skin. “What kinds of games do you like to play?”

“Haven’t played games in so long, I’ve forgotten which ones I enjoyed,” she said, brows furrowed. “Mom says games are a waste of time.”

My lip curled, flicked a challenged gaze towards the house, and crossed my arms. “Then, let’s waste time.”

Elizabeth bit her lip, stroked the back of her neck, just below her right ear. “I dunno.”

“If you get in trouble, I’ll take the rap.”

“Maybe one game.”

I smiled. “That’s the spirit.”

The game we played melted away the leeching sadness. I tucked away my ball, and I went to go count as she hid. As I searched for her was when I started experiencing the garden’s true skin. The dirt shifted beneath my feet. The thorns between the rose bushes stretched further every time I looked at them. Then there was the whispers. When I stepped close to one of the rose bushes, I was startled by a child’s cry. I stepped back. My eyes squeezed shut as I clamped my hands over my ears. I was crushed by a heavy wave of tightness and pain. Time froze. I felt almost planted there.

“Maria,” Elizabeth called, but her voice was distorted as if she had a bunch of rubble in her throat. My skin tingled with fresh goosebumps as my limbs shook. I went to her. I shrugged off that rooting feeling, and there she was at the safe spot. Innocently, she smiled at me, and her smile made me forget everything that made me so uneasy in this creepy garden. She tilted her head. “Where’d you go?” Her voice was normal this time. “I beat you so easy.”

I took a deep breath. “You scared me,” I said in an accusatory tone.

Her smile dropped from her face. There was a vacancy in her eyes this time. “No, I beat you.”

I shook my head. “Forget the game for a sec,” I snapped. “You sounded like you were--?”

Suddenly, this girl seemed much older, much more ancient. “What?”

“Choking, like someone buried alive.”

She laughed, and there was that edge again. “This was fun,” she said dismissively. “But I think you should go now.”

I swallowed hard, despite my fear. “Did I do something wrong?”

“The garden has grown restless,” she said, turning her back. Her voice was broken this time.

I stepped forward. I wanted to follow her, but there was a quaking in my body, my eyes wide and haunted. I glanced at the house again just in time to see a curtain closing. My heart was pounding, even though everything around me seemed so still. In the end, I ran towards my house where the air was humid (not cold). I almost wanted to never go back, and maybe I should have stayed away, but I knew I would return. I was trapped in my desire to keep seeing her: the mysterious Elizabeth.

The next few nights passed like this. I would take naps during the day just to have enough energy to meet up with Elizabeth to play hide and seek, tag, dribble the soccer around, and for the most part, she was normal. There was the occasional voice change, but whenever I tried to press, she walled up. Even though she kept her secrets, there was some part of me that felt she needed a friend, and I was happy to provide (wouldn’t have minded if we became more than that too). Sometimes putting her wall up meant flirting with me, and unfortunately, that was all too effective. I was quite powerless against pretty women.

One morning, I dragged my feet downstairs, the weight of last night’s time together heavy on my bones, and mom was talking to someone. When I made it to the last step, my neighbor’s sharp glare shot at me. She and my mother were sitting on the couch. “Honey, we need to talk.”

“Okay?”

“I need you to stay out of my garden,” my neighbor snapped as she jumped to her feet, towering over me. The woman’s face reddened like wine, and she was drunk off a wild rage. Her gray hair tied back in a bun had stray strands of hair sticking out of place. “Next time you trespass, I will call the police.”

My chin, my lips trembled. My shoulders tightened under the violent ice storm that was my neighbor’s eyes. What scared me the most, though, was that despite my fear, I knew I wouldn’t stop seeing Elizabeth.

My mom’s eyes widened. “Now now Ms. Emily, I’m sure Maria has a perfectly good explanation for why she’s always in your garden.”

“What do you do to her?” I was visibly shaking, my fingers balled into fists. “Why is Elizabeth always scared of you?”

Emily’s eyes were bulging now, but then she shook her head. “What are you talking about?”

Then, I crumbled. “I just—Elizabeth—she always seems so scared, so lonely,” I said. “I just wanted to show her what it was like to have a friend.”

“Stop saying her name,” she screamed. “She can never have friends you stupid girl.”

“Ms. Emily, I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.”

“My daughter—Elizabeth—she’s dead.”

It was my turn to be shocked. I grasped at the couch for support, and dropped onto the cushions. “That’s not possible.”

Emily marched away from me, left our house, but it felt as though she had slapped me and something in me was bruised. Tears welled up in my eyes. I hadn’t cried since Dad got deported. My mom reached for me, but I refused breakfast, slid back under the covers and cried myself into an early morning nap.

For the next few nights, I stayed out of the garden. When I slept, I had nightmares of about Elizabeth. In my nightmares, she was crying, but the tear stains upon her face were trails of blood. Each night she appeared with a thorny vine entangled around her arms, her legs, her stomach. Every time I closed my eyes, the thorns multiplied until it was a bush that enclosed Elizabeth, and she would be held at odd angles, her arms unnaturally crooked, crying those bloody tears. And there was nothing I could do. By day, when I would do homework or listen to lectures in my room, I always felt like someone was watching me. Sometimes, I saw Elizabeth, and she would just stare into my window. She had no shadow. I was too scared to confront her. I was too scared that I wouldn’t be able to—that she would just disappear the moment I approached. At the same time, I was constantly drowning in thoughts of her. Was she alright? Was Emily really abusing her? Was she really dead?

The nightmares got even worse. Instead of cries, Elizabeth started screaming, and no matter how hard I cupped my ears, I couldn’t drown her out. Finally, I relented. I had intended to go into Emily’s backyard again, but Elizabeth met me at the gate, and she was crying, but these tears were normal. “Are you--?” I stepped close, hands shoved into my pockets. The moon was bright and full. I shook my head. “I can’t see you anymore.”

“I’m glad you are here.”

“Are you real?”

Her gaze fell to the ground. “I—”

“Tell me the truth!”

“I am kinda dead.”

I shook my head. “What do you mean kinda dead?” My voice was shrill, disbelieving.

“As you may have experienced, this garden is enchanted.”

“Enchanted?”

“Yes, all these roses—they are my heart,” she said, her chin, her lips trembling. “My mother uses magic to keep me alive. I died when I was eighteen, but my mother didn’t want to let me go.”

My heart hammered in my chest, but nothing seemed assembled in proper order. “That’s—how can I—”

“This is why I did not wish to tell you,” she said, sighed. “I liked it better when we played our games—when I finally felt less alone in years—I didn’t want things to change.”

The heart in her words melted away all my anger. She was lonely, and I was her only friend. “I understand why you didn’t want to tell me, but now what are we supposed to do?” I asked. “I can’t believe this, the girl I like is dead.” I kicked the dirt.

“You like me?”

I blushed, my eyes flicking towards the moon. “Anyways, your mom said I can’t see you anymore. I’m already taking a huge risk just doing this.”

Elizabeth’s eyes fell to the ground again. “Right.” She sighed, her shoulders slumped. “I didn’t want things to change, but I see there’s no other way.”

“What?”

“I need you to help me.”

“How can I help?” I asked, my eyes wide. “I don’t know anything about enchantments or magic.”

“That’s not true,” she said, a gentle smile on her face, more pallid in the moonlight. “I think you have capacity.”

“Why me? Has no one tried before?”

“Because you’re the only one who has listened to me, played with me, and really seen me.”

“No one else has seen you before?”

“Well, yes, but sometimes they won’t listen—” Elizabeth shook her head. “You can do it, though, I wouldn’t have kept reaching out to you if I didn’t think you could.” She kissed my cheek, and it felt like a light poke on my skin.

“Thank you for the vote of confidence, but that still doesn’t answer the how.”

“You!”

Elizabeth and I craned our necks. Emily bulldozed towards us. “Get away from my garden,” she sneered.

“Mama, please stop this.”

“My precious bloom, don’t make me ground you.”

I winced at what that could possibly mean for a ghost. “You can’t keep me forever like this.”

“Leave,” she snapped.

I frowned, glanced at Elizabeth, and retreated. That day I was restless. I drank way too much coffee. My mom kept asking me if anything was wrong (if only she knew, if only I could tell her, and she believe me). That night, I slept, but I waited at the same time. I suspected Elizabeth would be there, in my dreams. And she was. “Sorry about my mother.”

“I want to help.”

“What you’ll have to do is go into the garden, destroy my core heart, and I will be free.” She explained to me where I would need to go.

It sounded easy, but I suspected it wouldn’t be. “What will happen?”

“I do not know,” she said. “I imagine I will disappear.”

I pursed my lips. “I will miss you a lot.”

Elizabeth cupped my cheek, pulled my gaze to her own. “And I you.” The smile she gave me imbued me with all the dumb courage to commit. We shared a sweet, ghostly kiss that I only felt by way of tingles on my lips when I woke.

I went through the motions of classes, homework, and midterms. I visited the library more often to read about paranormal stuff, witchcraft, and pagan practices. I decided to wait until the new moon to make my move. In the mean time, Elizabeth and I chatted in my sleep. The more we hung out, the more I dreaded setting her free. But she deserved to know what a love without force should look like. She deserved to be free.

On the night of the new moon, Elizabeth left the gate unlocked. I crept inside, but the garden was different. Where there once were beautiful roses and herbs and sunflowers, there were distorted faces. The dirt beneath my feet shifted, and I swallowed. I stayed the course on the cobblestone pathway until I spotted where I needed to go. I bolted for the place, and the thorns followed. When they spoke, their words were garbled, their voices guttural. Sweat trickled in rivulets. As I made my way towards the place where Elizabeth’s heart would be, bushels of thorns descended on me. I bit my lip from crying out. Now it was blood that trickled in rivulets. “You will learn the consequences of defying me,” Emily said, her voice laced with venom. She was standing in her doorway, her fingertips glowing. The brighter the glow, the more pain I felt.

But, I continued. Just when the pain felt unbearable, I made it to the spot. I used my nails to dig and dig and dig. Then, I pulled out the heart—a live beating thing in the shape of a single rose. Emily surged towards me, and I tore Elizabeth’s heart. Emily screamed. “What have you done?”

“I’ve set her free,” I clipped. There was this sticky residue on my hands, and it clung to me.

Emily grabbed me by the throat, hoisted me with strength I didn’t know an old woman could have. “You will pay for this.”

“Mother?”

Emily turned and raised her arm to shield her eyes. Elizabeth was there, glowing, her eyes full of light like the moon when it was full. She raised her hand, and Emily screamed until she was reduced to ash. The thorns receded, and the garden was ordinary again. All that stood there was Elizabeth. “Thank you, Maria.”

She kissed my lips, and she disappeared.

No one came looking for Emily; it was as if she had never existed. Since then, I had been plagued with ghosts visiting my dreams, reaching out for release too. Setting Elizabeth free imprisoned me in the world of the supernatural from which I could never escape. Was it all worth it? I still thought so. Sometimes I still caught glimpses of Elizabeth in my dreams, but every time she was smiling; she was happy; she was free.

A new person moved into that house. When she showed up at our door with a plate of cookies, curly hair, and a modern dress, I smiled. “Hi, I’m Elizabeth, and I’ll be your new neighbor.” I clasped a hand to my heart, felt its racing pulse.

“Welcome back.”

She returned the smile.

[sorayacormier]

Horror Short Story

A Ravenous Home

Dear Ava,

I am writing this letter to you, my baby sister, so that you know my side of things. I am not the monster, but, I made them. Perhaps that makes me equally guilty. Do you think that when God made monsters of the deep or anything large enough to make Man feel threatened, did He feel so crushing a guilt? Let me tell you my story.

It truly was the perfect gift, I thought. A perfect dollhouse on the edge of a brown shelf filled with miniature monsters. I tilted my head, leaned forward- I even pushed the door a little, and little did I know I had opened a door of a different sorts. My heart was beating wildly in my chest when I laid eyes on its walls painted in the color of warm adobe, a cross planted above the doorway, a homey porch, lights pouring through the window panes. The light punctured a haze deep in the recesses of my mind.

My husband, Carlos, tapped my shoulder, and I jumped. “That looks cool.”

“I’m sure Maria would have loved it.” Immediately when I said it, a vacant look shadowed my husband’s face. I stroked his cheek as we shared the pain of the child that would have been here.

Carlos placed his palm on top of my hand, and gazed upon this thing I had once called a treasure. I placed a hand over my heart as if to quell its wild rhythm, my shopping bags flopping around like bird wings.

“Curious find.” The shopkeeper appeared, his smile carved into his face, hands innocently pulled behind. To this day, I wondered if he knew more than what he was telling about what we found that day. And on a day I would feel more anxious, I ran away with thoughts that that oddity shop was full of items with some sort of paranormal history. I liked to say Carlos was my Eve that day. We had been ambling along El Paso Street as he vomited its history all over me. I nodded along, as long as he bought me more pretty blouses. And then we stopped here for his love for the odd and creepy. I would have turned away had I not been lured by the gleam in his eyes. But El Paso was like that. You looked, you found gems.

“Oh? What’s the story behind this?” Carlos probed.

The shopkeeper rubbed a meaty hand over his gray beard. “A story?”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t mind him, he’s a history junkie.”

“History,” the shopkeeper said. “is in the eye of the beholder.”

My stomach fluttered as a tightness wound in my chest. “Right,” I replied dismissively. “So, how much for the dollhouse?” My question surprised me. What was I to do with it? Carlos and I had no children. However, it was as if I were possessed by desire, a seed soon to bloom into obsession—madness.

“Something like this usually runs for about five hundred bucks, but for you, I will charge only two hundred.”

I should’ve suspected something then. But the tightness in my chest turned to ash, and I was carried away by the rush of my adrenaline. “Dear, let’s take it.” My voice sounded not like my own as if someone had planted the words on my lips.

Carlos didn’t take notice though. He simply shrugged. Perhaps he thought this was just another eccentric way of my coping. “Can’t beat that anywhere.”

“Interesting choice,” the shopkeeper remarked, but his eyes lingered on the dollhouse, and he nodded as if they were engaged in a private conversation- the dollhouse and he. When he noticed our staring, the corners of his ears turned red, and he scurried off to go retrieve a cart.

I took Carlos’ hand, kissed the back of his palm, and said, “Thanks for this.”

“No problem,” he said, eyes softening. “I know it’s been a hard year for us both.”

I nodded, gave his hand a gentle squeeze, and waited eagerly. The shopkeeper returned with a small metal wheeled cart. Carlos, the shopkeeper, and I worked as a team to move the dollhouse. Carlos paid for the dollhouse and we packed it away into the car. It wasn’t until we drove away that I realized the windows were no longer lighted, but it wasn’t plugged up so how were they…? I should’ve known then not to take that thing home. I wished I had tossed it in the Rio Grande. Instead, I was giddy in the front seat, like a child who just received an early Christmas present. People often want to know why bad things happen to good people, and sometimes, it’s just being at the wrong place at the wrong time.

When we got it home, we placed it in the room that was supposed to be Maria’s. I turned the cold doorknob and entered, my tennis shoes grazing over soft carpet. Carlos set the dollhouse in the corner, opposite the narrow, empty bed piled with pillows and stuffed animals. “She would’ve loved this,” my husband said as he wrapped his arms around me.

“You think so?”

I opened the doll house, a slight chill raced down my spine. The inside looked exactly like our house. It had two rooms upstairs with the kitchen and dinning room downstairs, the living room by the door—even the chip on the kitchen counter. Also there was this faint stench of rot. “What’s the matter?” Carlos asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Just didn’t expect the resemblance is all.”

“No way,” he said shaking his head. “It’s missing a room.”

“You’re right,” I conceded. “Maybe I’m finally losing it.”

Then my eyes settled on three doll-shaped items torn at random parts: arms, legs, and heads were torn and dangling over the chairs. They sat at the dinning table all broken up. I winced. An ache welled in my chest, my body cold, a desire to mend—wanting to end this ghost of pain. “Ana!”

I glanced at Carlos. How long had I been sitting there doing nothing? Enough time for my husband to be annoyed and worried. “Sorry.” I shut the dollhouse and stood.

“Are you okay?”

I nodded. “Fine.”

“So dinner or take out tonight?”

“I’ll get started on dinner.”

I heard a small click, like a lock turning. I turned, but the dollhouse looked innocently back at me. I cooked Chicken Pozole. Carlos ate while he clicked and clacked on his laptop. That man loved to work, even more so after Maria died. I took out my phone and browsed on Facebook, all my older sisters happily married with their kids. I sighed heavily, the taste of seasoned meat turned to mush in my mouth. “How’s work?” I finally asked.

“Good.”

“Okay.”

“Can you clean the dishes tonight?” he asked without looking up from his screen. “I have a lot of stuff to catch up on.”

“Of course, dear.”

He returned to typing away on his laptop. Lightning struck. Gushing winds wailed against the door as dark clouds swallowed up the beauty of twilight. Monsoon rain slapped against the walls.

I gave up on conversation, wrapped my bowl in plastic wrap, and retreated to Maria’s room. I opened the dollhouse again, and I was overwhelmed with the same sadness as before. I tenderly picked up the pieces of the dolls and stitched them back together. It gave me something to do, and it gave me a decent distraction from my crushing sense of loneliness. Once I put them back at the dinning table, a sharp, slicing sensation slit my thumb. A cool drop of blood trickled and dropped onto one of the dolls. A smile ticked across its face, which made me gasp and back away. My mouth fell open as I watched the doll’s features melt into features more human-like. And it was staring right at me, smiling doused in my blood. Whispers came from underdeveloped mouths uncurling like a fist.

I shut the dollhouse and dashed out of the room. At first, I didn’t believe what I just saw. I rushed to my room, cracked open my bible, muttered many prayers. I asked the pastor to pray for me. When Carlos wasn’t working, he would tell me how worried he was about me. How could I tell him what I saw that evening? So, I didn’t. I told nobody. And yes, I was scared, but there was some part of me that was thrilled? Excited? Did I just bring something to life?

One night when I felt heavy with grief, I visited Maria’s room. I didn’t notice it then, but the air inside had warped. While I was heavy with grief, the room was heavy with presence (some would call it demonic). My eyes were puffy, and my throat scratchy. I laid in her bed, ribbons of tears falling all over the pillow we carefully selected. My grief had clouded me to that heavy presence, or maybe I didn’t want to acknowledge it.

My head betrayed me, and I let my eyes glaze over to the dollhouse. The windows were lighted again, like tea lights during a ritual. If the light had fingers, it would crook one at me. I rolled over—from it, covered my ears with the edges of the pillow. But my stomach rolled with me, my heartbeat heavy. I still heard it calling my name. How did it know my name? “Ana.” The voice was warm, inviting, but the room itself had a chill I felt in my bones.

I sat upright, hugged my knees, glaring at the glowing dollhouse. “What do you want?” I said, a strained whisper.

“Come home.”

I shook my head, my limbs just as shaky. My hands clammed, and my shoulders crashed together as the lighting struck across the sky. I covered my ears with the palm of my hands, but I still heard it. I hated that I gave in, that I ever accepted the call.

I heard movement—little feet ticking against wooden floorboards. Goosebumps peppered my skin, and I rubbed my eyes. When I opened the house, the dolls were shaped like cloth dolls, but where there was supposed to be cloth—there was flesh. There was hair and eyes and lips. They bore a strong semblance to Carlos and me. I shuddered, a hard thud growing loud in my chest. The dolls were moving. The doll that looked like me rummaged around the kitchen—chicken pozole sweeping under my nose. The one that looked like my husband held a small brown thing of cloth, and it was disturbingly cooing.

I took a deep breath then, trying to swallow a scream. I glanced at the door, every muscle in me itching to run. However, there was some part of me that was energized. I had created this. I laid a hand on my breastbone. I bit my lip to fight down a smile. Instead of running, I watched them. They looked like a Facebook video. For once, I didn’t cry the whole night. I couldn’t help but feel relieved. I made up in my mind that this was a dream. I was so distressed that I must have dreamed of a happy family inside of that dollhouse.

[holygroundhearth]

My fingers may be quiet but my mind isn't.

[jannahfiqalbi]

Hum kehty hain k humein Zindagi nahi jeeni, to phir jab marny lgty hai ya marny k Liye zehar khaty hain to taraptay kyun hain? ye tarap is baat ka saboot hai k hum Zindagi khatam nhi krna chahty thy blky us Zindagi mein maujood kisi gham kisi adat kisi majboori ko khatam krna chahty thy!

[apparentlyviburnum]

Being a writer and an artist is awesome. I'm struggling with writing a moment I have conceptualised and then I remember I can just draw it.

Being an artist and a writer is awesome. I'm struggling with drawing a scene I have conceptualised and then I remember I can just write it.