Sick Cities 5: Creepy Old
People and Their Stories
In Sick Cities 5, there’s a truth we all
know, whether we like it or not: there’s always one old person in every town
who just feels… wrong. They don’t fit in. They don’t leave. They’re the ones
who’ve seen too much, lived too long, and learned the things that should never
be learned.
Each
chapter in this book is a peek into the world of those eerie figures—the ones
who haunt the corners of cities, who carry stories of things that should stay
buried, and whose gaze can freeze you in your tracks. These are the creepy old
people we’ve all met at some point, whether we realized it or not. They’re the
ones who know things they shouldn’t. They’re the ones who never leave, who
never forget, and who always get the last laugh.
Welcome
to Sick Cities 5.
Chapter List:
1.
The Memory Keeper
– Evanston, IL
2.
The Frozen Widow
– Fargo, ND
3.
The Witch’s
Familiar – Salem, MA
4.
The Clockmaker –
Detroit, MI
5.
The Funeral
Director – St. Louis, MO
6.
The Cursed Healer
– New Orleans, LA
7.
The Vanishing
Polaroid – Thornwood, WA
8.
The Haunted
Vendor – Chicago, IL
9.
The Silent Hiker
– Boulder, CO
10.
The Eyes That
Watch – Pocatello, ID
Copyright:
©
2025 Jake Bannerman / Horror Ink
All rights reserved. No part of this
book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any
means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical
methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the
case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and articles. For
permission requests, write to the publisher at Horror Ink.
Jake
Bannerman’s work is a trademark of Horror Ink, a brand dedicated to pushing the
boundaries of horror, terror, and unsettling narratives for those who crave the
macabre and the weird.
Horror Ink is a subsidiary of Unholy
Entertainment LLC.
Chapter One: The
Memory Keeper – Evanston, IL
Mason had been cruising through Evanston
for over an hour, bored out of his mind, until he spotted the old guy. The dude
was sitting on a busted bench outside some raggedy house, the kind that looked
like it hadn’t been touched since Reagan was in office. His eyes were too sharp
for a man that looked like he was about to croak any minute. He wore this long
coat that seemed to have a life of its own, dragging on the ground like a
ragdoll.
Mason flipped his hoodie up and kept
walking, but something made him glance over at the bench. The old man’s eyes
met his, piercing through the air like they were reading his soul.
“Keep walking, boy,” the man croaked,
voice like it came straight from a crypt. “But you can’t outrun what’s already
following you.”
Mason froze. For a second, he thought the
guy was talking to someone else. Maybe some ghost in the trees? But the old
man’s eyes were locked on him, no mistaking it.
“Can’t get away from your past. Not now,”
the man rasped. “But you’re about to find that out. Soon enough.”
Mason smirked. This old dude had to be
out of his mind. But it felt like the words were lingering in the air, sticking
to him like sweat in a gym locker. Whatever, right? He was just some weirdo.
But when Mason turned the corner, he
caught the old man’s reflection in the shop window, standing behind him, like
he had just popped out of thin air. He was grinning, and Mason’s chest
tightened.
The next morning, Mason stumbled out the
front door and found a picture face down on the porch. He picked it up, his
stomach sinking. It was an old black-and-white shot, blurry as hell, but there
was no mistaking the familiar figure. Him. Standing in front of the old house.
But it wasn’t the photo that had his heart racing—it was the old man in the
background, staring right at him with that same twisted grin.
The caption was scrawled underneath: “Should’ve listened, kid.”
He slammed the door shut behind him,
trying to push the weirdness out of his mind. He didn’t believe in that crap,
not really. But the picture? The words?
It was like the old man knew something.
Mason tossed the photo on the kitchen
counter, but when he turned around, there the guy was again—standing in the
doorway, smiling.
“You think this is a game?” the old man
asked, his voice low and hungry.
“Get the fuck out of my house,” Mason
snapped. He was done playing.
The man didn’t budge. “You’ll be sorry.
But by the time you figure that out, it’ll be too late. It’s already too late.”
Mason’s heart raced, his hands shaking.
He reached for the nearest thing to throw, but the man was gone, like he had
never been there.
But Mason couldn’t shake the feeling that
something—someone—was watching him. And this time, there was nowhere to run.
Chapter Two: The Frozen
Widow – Fargo, ND
Fargo, North Dakota: the kind of place
where the wind doesn’t just bite—it takes a chunk out of you and asks for more.
Sam had barely stepped off the bus before he was wishing for a warm blanket and
a cup of something that didn’t taste like old socks.
The diner was his refuge—a greasy spoon
serving up questionable food and weirder locals. He’d hoped to find some warmth
in a cup of coffee, but all he got was a stare from the waitress that said,
“Sit down, shut up, and don’t ask too many questions, kid.”
But it wasn’t the waitress that caught
his attention. No, it was the old woman sitting in the corner, staring out the
window like she was waiting for something—or someone—to come back from the
dead. Her fingers were like brittle twigs, wrapped around a cup of something
that smelled like burnt regrets.
Sam had seen her a few times before in
his life. You know, the kind of old person who’s always “seen too much” and
talks like they know the end of the story before it even starts. Yeah, he
wasn’t buying it.
He walked up to the counter, slapping a
five on the counter for the most depressing cup of coffee he’d ever had. As he
turned to leave, he felt the weight of those eyes on him again.
The old woman’s voice rasped from the
corner. “You’re just passing through, aren’t you?”
Sam froze, annoyed. “Yeah. What of it?”
She didn’t smile, just let out a cough
that sounded like someone kicking a metal bucket down a staircase. “Everyone
passes through. But some people... they never leave. You’ll see.”
Sam rolled his eyes. Great. Another
cryptic old fart who thought they were the human version of a fortune cookie.
“You really think I’m gonna fall for this
‘I see the future’ crap?” he said, shrugging it off. “I’m outta here.”
But the old woman didn’t let him leave so
easily. “You will. And when it happens, you’ll remember this moment. When you
see your reflection, you’ll remember me.”
Sam snorted, heading for the door. “Yeah,
right.”
He barely made it two steps outside when
the wind hit him—harder than it had before. He shoved his hands deeper into his
jacket pockets, cursing the frozen hell he was stuck in. But then, just as he
was about to cross the street, he saw it: his reflection in the diner window.
It wasn’t him.
It was his face—but twisted. The eyes
were too wide. The smile was too sharp. And as Sam stared, the reflection’s
lips twisted into a grin that made his skin crawl.
Before he could turn around, the
reflection spoke.
“You’ll be sorry,” it whispered. “You
should’ve listened.”
Sam’s heart stopped. He spun around, but
there was nothing there.
Nothing but the frozen wasteland of
Fargo, and the faint sound of someone laughing from inside the diner.
Chapter Three: The
Witch's Familiar – Salem, MA
Salem was supposed to be all about
history. Witch trials, haunted streets, spooky vibes—sure, whatever. Ash was
here for the overpriced souvenirs, the fake witches’ brooms, and maybe a weird
tarot reading if she could talk someone into it. She didn’t expect to find
herself standing in front of a real witch. And definitely not one who would
mess with her head.
It all started when she and Sam stumbled
into this dusty little shop on a street lined with half-hearted attempts at
witchcraft. The sign above the door read “The Witch’s Familiar,” and Sam
immediately rolled his eyes.
“Bet she sells scented candles and fake
crystals,” Sam muttered.
“You sound like a total skeptic. It’s
cute,” Ash said, flipping her hair out of her face. She was bored, so she had a
plan to make it interesting. “Let’s mess with her. Tell her your birthday and
watch her try to tell your future. I’ll go first.”
Sam groaned but didn’t protest. He had
learned that when Ash got bored, it was always better to go along with whatever
absurd idea she had. So, they walked in.
The inside of the shop smelled like
incense, old books, and something slightly musty. There was a giant crystal
ball on the counter, and shelves stacked with jars filled with everything from
dried herbs to tarot cards that probably didn’t have real power but sure looked
cool. Ash was instantly intrigued, walking straight up to the counter where a
woman with sharp eyes and long, silver hair stood behind the counter.
“You want your fortune read?” the woman
asked, her voice smooth like silk but with a sharpness that made the hairs on
the back of Ash’s neck stand up.
Ash grinned. “Yeah, hit me with it. I’m
an open book.”
The woman smiled—a cold, knowing smile
that sent a little thrill down Ash’s spine. “I can tell. You’ve been trying to
run from something, haven’t you? Hiding from what you truly are.”
Sam snickered behind her. “This is gonna
be a disaster.”
But Ash wasn’t backing down. “You got me.
So, what do I do? Wait for the crystal ball to magically show me something
terrifying?”
The woman’s gaze turned to Sam, then back
to Ash. “You think it’s a joke, but the truth is darker than you can imagine.
Your reflection is not your own, girl. It’s only a matter of time before it
comes for you.”
Ash raised an eyebrow. “Uh... you watch
too many horror movies, lady. I’m not worried about some doppelgänger coming to
get me. Maybe just a strong coffee and a nap.”
The woman’s face softened into something
almost sympathetic. “You’ll see. And when it happens, you’ll wish you’d
listened.”
Ash shrugged and was about to make a
sarcastic comment when something strange happened. The lights flickered. A low
hum filled the air, vibrating through the floorboards, and then—just like
that—the door slammed shut.
“What the hell?” Sam shouted, but the
woman didn’t flinch. She just stood there, her eyes fixed on Ash, her
expression suddenly cold.
“You’ve entered a space where the
boundaries between worlds are thin. Your reflection… it’s not just a mirror
image. It’s waiting for you.”
Ash frowned. “Okay, weirdo, you’re
creeping me out. I’m gonna head out—”
But before she could finish, her
reflection in the nearby mirror twitched. It wasn’t a smooth, steady motion. It
jerked in a way that made her stomach drop. It looked like her… but something
was wrong. The reflection’s smile didn’t match hers. It was wider, too wide.
And when she blinked, it didn’t blink back.
Sam noticed too. “Ash? You okay?”
The reflection grinned and raised a hand
in an exaggerated wave, just as Ash moved.
But when she moved, the reflection
didn’t.
It stayed still—still waving, still
grinning.
“Shut up, Ash. You’re scaring yourself,”
Sam said, sounding more nervous than Ash had ever heard him. He grabbed her arm
and yanked her toward the door, but the door wouldn’t budge.
The woman behind the counter chuckled.
“You shouldn’t have ignored the signs, dear. The mirror is only the beginning.
You’ve invited it in now.”
“Great,” Ash said, her voice dripping
with sarcasm. “I’m stuck in a creepy witch’s shop with a possessed mirror. As
if my life wasn’t weird enough.”
She turned to Sam, about to crack another
joke, when the lights flickered again, this time longer. The reflection behind
her grinned—no, it smirked—and then,
to her horror, stepped out of the mirror.
“Well, shit,” Ash muttered, but she
couldn’t stop the chill creeping down her spine as the reflection, now solid
and grinning like a devil, stretched out its fingers toward her.
“You should’ve listened,” the reflection
said, its voice mimicking hers but colder. “Now, you’ll face the consequences.”
Ash didn’t wait for the reflection to
finish. She pushed past Sam, shoving her shoulder into the door with all her
might, and the door finally gave way, swinging open with a creak.
As they ran out of the shop, Ash glanced
over her shoulder. The woman was standing in the doorway, watching them. The
door slammed behind them, but not before Ash saw the reflection—her
reflection—standing in the shop, grinning wider than ever.
Chapter Four: The
Clockmaker – Detroit, MI
Detroit’s streets were like a bad
memory—a place that tried to hold on to something good but just couldn’t do it.
Graffiti covered every building, rust ran through the cracks, and the air
tasted like burnt oil and broken promises. Sam had seen a lot of places in his
life, but Detroit? It hit different.
And then he met the clockmaker.
He didn’t know much about the old man at
first—just that he had the weirdest little shop tucked away on a corner. It was
small, cramped, and smelled like old wood and something faintly metallic. The
sign on the door read "Jacek’s Clocks and Timepieces" in faded gold
letters. Sam thought it was just another weird antique shop for the tourists,
so he almost passed by.
But something made him stop.
Maybe it was the fact that the store was
always open—no matter what time it was. Maybe it was the peculiar hum coming
from inside. Whatever it was, Sam pushed the door open, the bell above the door
jangling like it was welcoming him to a place he wasn’t sure he wanted to be.
The shop was filled with clocks—big ones,
small ones, antique ones, and some that were so ornate they probably cost more
than Sam’s entire life savings. They ticked and tocked, their hands moving at
different speeds, making the air vibrate with a rhythm that was both soothing
and unsettling.
And then there was the man behind the
counter.
He was old, with a long, white beard that
looked like it had been around longer than the clocks themselves. His eyes were
sharp—too sharp for someone his age—and they seemed to study Sam like he was a
specimen under a microscope.
“You’ve come for the time,” the old man
said in a voice so soft it barely reached Sam’s ears.
Sam raised an eyebrow. “I’m just looking
around.”
The old man smiled, showing a mouthful of
crooked teeth. “Everyone who comes in here is looking for time. Some want to
fix it. Some want to forget it. And some… well, some want to steal it.”
Sam chuckled nervously. “Uh, sure. I’m
just passing through.”
The clockmaker’s smile didn’t falter. “I
can help you with that, too. You seem like the type who doesn’t belong in this
city.”
“Really? How’s that?” Sam asked, feeling
a chill creep down his spine.
The old man didn’t answer right away.
Instead, he pointed to an old clock on the wall—one that seemed to be ticking
in reverse, its hands moving backward like time itself had forgotten the rules.
“That clock,” the clockmaker said, his
voice low, “has been here for as long as I can remember. It’s special. It
doesn’t keep time the way the others do. It keeps the time that should’ve been,
the time that could’ve been. People come in, they ask for it, but they always
leave before they get what they really wanted.”
Sam stepped closer, intrigued despite
himself. “What does that mean?”
The old man’s eyes narrowed. “Time is a
tricky thing, boy. It can bend, twist, and break in ways you don’t understand.
But the truth is, the more you try to fight it, the more it fights back. And
eventually… it catches up.”
Before Sam could respond, a faint ticking
sound echoed through the shop—louder than the rest. It was coming from behind
the counter, where the old man had been standing. He reached down and pulled
out a small pocket watch, its face cracked, the glass almost completely
shattered.
The old man held it out to Sam. “This is
the key,” he said, his voice suddenly serious. “Take it, and you’ll be able to
change the way things are. But be warned—time is a jealous mistress. She
doesn’t like being messed with.”
Sam took the pocket watch without
thinking, his fingers brushing against the cold metal. It felt oddly warm in
his hand, like it had been waiting for him.
“What happens if I take it?” Sam asked,
his voice barely above a whisper.
The old man smiled again, but this time
it wasn’t a comforting smile. “You’ll never know until you try. But
remember—time doesn’t forget. It just waits.”
Sam shoved the watch into his pocket and
backed away from the counter, his mind racing. “I should probably get going…”
The old man’s gaze followed him as he
walked to the door. “You’re never really leaving, you know. You can run all you
want, but time has a funny way of finding you.”
Sam stepped outside, the door swinging
closed behind him with a soft click.
The cold air hit him like a slap, but it didn’t shake the unease that had
settled deep in his chest.
He glanced down at the pocket watch,
still tucked safely in his pocket.
The ticking was louder now.
It was almost like the watch was alive.
And it was waiting.
Chapter Five: The
Clockmaker’s Curse – Detroit, MI
It wasn’t until Sam’s phone died on
him—mid-text to his best friend back home—that he realized something was
seriously off. The moment the screen went black, the air around him thickened,
like the city itself had taken a deep breath and decided to hold it in.
And then the ticking started.
It was subtle at first, like the distant
sound of a grandfather clock—steady, rhythmic. But soon, it was all he could
hear. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. It echoed in his head, rattling his thoughts,
warping everything around him. Every step he took, the sound got louder, like
the clocks in Detroit had synced up and were playing a twisted game with him.
Sam glanced down at the pocket watch he’d
taken from the old clockmaker’s shop. The damn thing was still warm in his
hand, and for the first time since he’d pocketed it, he wondered if maybe he
had made a huge mistake. The watch was ticking louder now, a deep, throbbing
sound, like a heartbeat trapped inside metal.
“Damn it,” Sam muttered, running his
fingers over the edges of the watch. “I should’ve left this thing in the shop
where it belonged.”
But then, a thought hit him.
What if the watch was the key? The key to
escaping the eerie web the city had wrapped around him. What if the old man
wasn’t just some batty clockmaker—what if he was right?
No. Sam shoved the thought away. He
wasn’t going to get all metaphysical. He was just in a bad mood because he was
stranded in a city that felt like it was trying to eat him alive.
“Just get it together,” Sam whispered,
walking faster.
But the air kept thickening. Every corner
he turned, the sound of ticking followed, and no matter how fast he walked, the
ticking only grew louder.
It was the kind of noise that made you
feel like you were being hunted.
Then, just as he rounded the corner, Sam
spotted it.
A streetlamp flickered. Then another.
Then another.
Every streetlamp on the block went dark.
And in the sudden pitch-black, Sam heard
it.
The soft creak of wood. The shuffle of
footsteps that didn’t belong.
“Not funny,” Sam muttered under his
breath, but his legs had already started moving. His body was reacting before
his brain could even catch up.
He ran.
Down the street, past rows of decaying
houses, past abandoned storefronts, the sound of footsteps behind him only
growing louder. Sam didn’t dare look back. He didn’t want to see whatever the
hell was following him.
He reached the end of the block, and
that’s when he saw it—the old clock tower, towering over the city like a broken
sentinel. The hands on its clock were frozen, stuck at twelve o’clock, and the
tower loomed like a monster waiting to swallow him whole.
The ticking was deafening now.
It was coming from the tower.
Without thinking, Sam rushed toward the
tower’s entrance. He didn’t care if he was running straight into the belly of
the beast. He had to do something. Anything.
He pushed open the door and was greeted
by the sound of a thousand clocks. Every wall was lined with them—old clocks,
new clocks, broken clocks, clocks with no hands. The ticking filled the air,
surrounding him, smothering him.
It was too much.
Sam staggered back, his breath coming in
quick gasps. “This is insane,” he muttered. “I’m losing it.”
But then, there it was. A single clock on
the far wall. It stood out from the rest. New. Polished. Its hands moved in
perfect synchronization with the beat of his pulse.
Sam’s hand shot out without thinking, and
before he could stop himself, he grabbed the clock off the wall. As soon as his
fingers touched it, the ticking stopped.
Dead silence.
And then—
Everything
froze.
The world around him stopped. The hands
on the other clocks stood still. The air went thick and suffocating, like time
itself had turned its back on him.
He turned, panicked, only to find the
entrance door had vanished, replaced by a wall of cracked mirrors. And in those
mirrors, Sam could see—no, he could feel—the
reflection staring back at him.
But this wasn’t him. Not entirely. It was
a version of him with eyes that were too wide, lips stretched into a grin that
was nothing short of maniacal.
It reached for him.
Sam spun around, heart pounding in his
chest. But the reflection followed, mimicking his every move. It was like the
mirror was his prison, its cracked surface holding him captive.
“No, no, no!” Sam shouted, smashing his
fist against the glass, but the reflection grinned back, undeterred.
“You took the key,” the reflection
whispered, its voice cold and unfamiliar. “And now you’re part of the clock.
Time’s already got you.”
Sam’s breath hitched. “What do you mean?
What’s happening?”
The reflection’s grin widened, its eyes
glinting with something dark and dangerous. “You’re not leaving, kid. Not
unless you fix it.”
Suddenly, the ticking started again.
But this time, it wasn’t coming from the
clocks. It was coming from the mirrors.
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
And then, the room shattered.
Chapter Six: The
Storyteller – Charleston, SC
Charleston was one of those cities that
looked like it came straight out of a postcard—old brick houses, ivy crawling
up every wall, and streets that smelled like saltwater and secrets. The kind of
place where everything seemed stuck in time—except for the people. The people?
Yeah, they were a little... off.
Sam and Ash had only been walking for an
hour when they met him.
The old man was sitting on a bench in the
park, holding a cane like it was the last thing keeping him from sinking into
the earth. His face was so weathered it looked like someone had used it as a
map for the apocalypse. But there was something in his eyes—something that made
Sam slow his step.
Ash, of course, wasn’t having any of it.
“Great. Another weirdo trying to tell us our fortunes.”
“No way,” Sam said, his curiosity piqued.
“Let’s see what he’s got. Maybe he’s got a good ghost story.”
The old man’s head turned toward them as
if he’d been waiting. “You come for a tale, children?”
Ash rolled her eyes. “No, we came for the
world’s most uncomfortable bench.”
The old man chuckled, his voice crackling
like dry leaves. “Ah, yes. The benches here are made for waiting, not sitting.”
Sam wasn’t sure what that meant, but he
didn’t care. The guy seemed harmless enough. He’d seen worse in the cities he’d
passed through—people who were more interested in stealing your wallet than
your soul.
“We’re listening,” Sam said, shrugging,
and settling next to Ash on the same bench. “What’s the story?”
The old man smiled, and for a second, his
grin was so wide it looked like it belonged to a skull, not a man. “The stories
here never end,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “They loop. Just like the town.”
Ash shot Sam a skeptical glance, but Sam
couldn’t help it—he was intrigued.
“There’s a tale about this town,” the man
began, his voice quiet, like it was an ancient secret he’d been carrying for
centuries. “About a woman who didn’t listen to the warnings. They say she
wanted to stay in Charleston forever. She loved it so much she couldn’t leave.
And so the town made sure she never did.”
Ash snorted. “Sounds like every tourist
ever.”
The old man chuckled again. “Not just a
tourist. A woman who believed she could control time. Who thought the town was
hers to keep. They say she found the secret—the one that lets you stay
forever.”
Sam leaned in. “The secret?”
“Yes,” the old man said, lowering his
voice. “The one that lets you live as long as you want—at the cost of never
leaving. Once you’re here, you’re part of the town. Forever.”
“And?” Sam asked, his curiosity growing.
“What happened to her?”
The old man’s grin widened. “She got
exactly what she wanted. She stays. Forever.”
Sam felt a cold shiver run down his
spine. “Wait, you mean she’s still here?”
The old man’s eyes gleamed. “Oh, she’s
here alright. But you’ll never see her. She’s a part of the town now. A ghost
in the walls.”
Ash rolled her eyes. “Right. So, where’s
the real ghost story?”
The old man didn’t reply. Instead, he
turned and pointed toward a house on the edge of the park, one that looked a
little too perfect, a little too pristine. “That’s the house she lives in now.
In every corner, in every brick. She’s part of it. She’ll never leave.”
Sam glanced at the house, then back at
the old man. “How do you know all this?”
The old man didn’t answer. He simply
leaned back and closed his eyes, like he was done talking. Sam and Ash shared a
glance, both thinking the same thing.
“Yeah, this is creepy as hell,” Ash said,
standing up. “Let’s bounce.”
But as they walked away, Sam couldn’t
shake the feeling that someone was watching them. The air had grown heavier,
colder, and for a split second, he could’ve sworn he saw something—someone—in
the window of that house, standing perfectly still, just behind the glass.
The old man’s voice echoed behind them.
“Don’t worry. She’s watching. She always is.”
Sam looked over his shoulder one last
time.
And saw nothing.
But the feeling? It stayed.
Chapter Seven: The
Funeral Director – St. Louis, MO
St. Louis had always given Sam the
creeps. Maybe it was the way the Gateway Arch looked like a weird, futuristic
attempt to poke a hole in the sky, or maybe it was the fact that the whole city
felt like a relic from a different time. Either way, it wasn’t a place Sam
would choose to hang out if he had any other options.
So, of course, he ended up in a funeral
home.
And not just any funeral home. No, this
one was different. The sign out front, old and rusted, read “Everlast Funeral
Home,” and the whole place looked like it had been around since before the city
was even built. The stone steps creaked under Sam’s feet as he stepped inside,
the smell of incense and stale air mixing with something… darker.
“You here for a viewing, son?” came a
voice from behind the counter.
Sam spun around to see the funeral
director, a man with skin so pale it looked like he’d never seen the sun. His
suit was too tight, and his tie was a little too short, like he was pretending
to be something he wasn’t. He smiled too wide—like his teeth were just waiting
to break free and start biting.
“No, uh, just passing through,” Sam said,
trying to back up, but the door slammed shut behind him. He didn’t remember
hearing it close.
“You’re in the right place, then,” the
director said with a gleam in his eye. “We’re all just passing through, kid.
This is the last stop.”
Sam’s heart skipped a beat. “Last stop?”
The director’s smile didn’t waver. “You
don’t have to worry about it, boy. You’ll be just fine. We take care of
everything. But sometimes…” He leaned in, lowering his voice to a whisper.
“Sometimes people forget to leave. They stay here longer than they should.”
Sam was about to make a run for it when a
bell rang from the back of the house. “Another one’s arrived,” the director
said, more to himself than to Sam. “I’ll be back in a minute. You just stay
right here.”
Sam didn’t want to stay. Hell, he didn’t
want to be there at all. But his feet felt like they were glued to the floor,
and as much as he wanted to leave, something was holding him in place. Maybe it
was the smell of old roses or the constant, dull hum of the overhead lights,
but Sam couldn’t shake the feeling that something was waiting for him.
Then he saw it.
The mirror on the wall. It was framed in
gold, chipped around the edges like it had been here for centuries. Sam’s
reflection looked… off. It wasn’t him.
His eyes were too wide. His lips were too thin. And his expression? Empty. Like
he was already dead, just waiting to be buried.
He jerked his gaze away, but the mirror
seemed to follow him, the reflection stretching out, its arms growing longer
and thinner, until they almost reached him.
A creak from the back of the house. The
director was coming back.
Sam forced himself to move, stepping
toward the door. But as he reached for the handle, it wouldn’t budge. It was
locked.
The director emerged from the shadows, a
strange smile on his face. “Oh, you’re still here. Don’t worry, son. I promise
it’s not so bad. You’ll get used to it.” His voice was soft, too soft, like he
was talking to someone who wasn’t really listening.
Sam’s stomach churned. “What the hell are
you talking about?”
The director raised an eyebrow. “You
didn’t think it was going to be easy, did you? You came to us for a reason,
after all. Everyone who ends up here is running from something. But the truth
is, you can’t outrun it. Not forever.”
Sam shook his head. “No, I’m not staying
here. I’m leaving.” He grabbed the door handle again, but it still wouldn’t
move.
“You’re already here,” the director said,
his voice tinged with something darker. “You’re already a part of it. Welcome
to your new home.”
The air grew heavy, the lights flickered
once, twice, before they went out entirely. In the pitch black, Sam felt a cold
hand settle on his shoulder.
But when he turned around, there was no
one there.
The director’s voice echoed in the dark,
cold and final. “Time’s up, kid. You can’t leave until you accept it. You’ll be
one of us soon enough. You just have to wait.”
Sam’s breath caught in his throat. His
reflection in the dark window—was that him? Or was it someone else? Someone
who’d never left?
Suddenly, the lights flickered back on.
The director was gone.
And the door was wide open.
But Sam didn’t move. Not right away. He
couldn’t. Because when he glanced into the mirror, it wasn’t just his
reflection staring back at him anymore.
It was someone else. Someone with a
twisted grin, their eyes hollow and dark.
And then, just as the door slammed shut
behind him, the reflection winked.
Chapter Eight: The Cursed
Healer – New Orleans, LA
New Orleans was everything Sam expected
and more. It smelled like a mix of gumbo, whiskey, and something ancient—like
the city had been built on secrets and spells. The streets were alive, the
music flowing out of every corner bar, the air thick with humidity and history.
But despite the city’s vibrant energy, there was a shadow lurking. A thing that
made you feel like you were always being watched, like the walls were
whispering things you weren’t supposed to hear.
And that’s how Sam ended up at Madame
Celeste’s house.
It wasn’t the plan, really. He just
needed a place to chill for the night after losing his map in the French
Quarter. But when he’d wandered down the wrong street, he saw it—the old shop
with a neon sign flickering that said “Healing and Fortune.” Yeah, he wasn’t
buying it, but he had nothing better to do.
When he walked inside, the smell hit him
first—incense and herbs, a little musty, but mostly calming. The shop was
small, packed with all kinds of weird trinkets. Bottles of potions, old tarot
decks, and crystals stacked like they were trying to escape the shelves. But
what stood out most was the woman sitting behind the counter.
She was ancient. Wrinkled, with long,
flowing silver hair, dressed in a purple robe that looked like it had seen too
many Mardi Gras parades. Her eyes were sharp, though, like she could see
straight through Sam’s entire life.
“You’ve come for a cure,” she said, her
voice smooth and hypnotic. “Or perhaps a truth.”
Sam didn’t know how to respond. “I’m just
looking around.”
She tilted her head, her eyes glinting in
a way that made him feel like she knew way more than she was letting on. “Don’t
lie, child. You’re here because something’s broken. And you think I can fix
it.”
He didn’t say anything. How the hell did
she know that?
“Sit,” she said, gesturing to the chair
across from her. “You need answers. But be warned—some truths come with a
price.”
Sam hesitated but sat down anyway.
“Alright, whatever. Fix me up with some magic then. I’m all ears.”
Madame Celeste chuckled softly, her eyes
never leaving his. “Magic? No, child. Not magic. The truth.” She leaned
forward. “You’ve been running from something. Something inside you. You think
you can outrun it, but it’s already caught you.”
Sam stiffened. “What the hell are you
talking about?”
She didn’t answer right away. Instead,
she pulled a deck of tarot cards from under the counter, her hands slow and
deliberate. “Let’s see if we can get to the heart of your problem, hmm?”
She laid the cards out in front of him,
each one more bizarre than the last—twisted images that made Sam’s stomach
turn. A hand with too many fingers. A skull with glowing eyes. A bleeding
heart.
“The thing you’re running from,” she
said, her voice low, almost a whisper. “It’s not a person. It’s not a place.
It’s yourself.”
Sam felt a cold wave wash over him.
“What? No. I’m fine. I just need to get out of here.”
But Madame Celeste wasn’t finished. She
laid one last card out on the table—a twisted image of a mirror, cracked down
the middle.
“That’s you,” she said. “The reflection
you see is not the one that’s true. But you can’t run from it forever. It’s
coming for you.”
Sam’s heart skipped a beat. His throat
went dry. “This is bullshit,” he muttered, standing up, ready to walk out. “I’m
done with this weird crap.”
But as he turned toward the door, the
room seemed to grow darker, heavier. His feet wouldn’t move. He looked back at
the counter, and Madame Celeste was gone. The only thing left was the broken
mirror on the wall, its shattered pieces reflecting fragments of Sam’s
face—distorted, twisted.
He stumbled toward the door, desperate to
escape, but as he reached for the handle, a sharp voice stopped him.
“You can’t run anymore.”
He froze.
When he turned, Madame Celeste was
standing right behind him. But she was different now. Her face was twisted,
contorted, and for a split second, Sam could’ve sworn her reflection in the
mirror was smiling at him.
“You’ve made your choice,” she said, her
voice now a haunting whisper. “Now you’ll live with it.”
Chapter Nine: The Story
of the Vanishing Polaroid – Thornwood, WA
Thornwood was the kind of place you only
found if you took the wrong turn. Not that anyone would ever want to go there
on purpose—unless you had a thing for ghost stories, dilapidated houses, and
suspiciously cheap gas station snacks.
So, of course, Ash and Sam ended up
there. By accident. Or maybe fate, depending on how dramatic you wanted to get
about it.
They had been driving for hours,
following some poorly drawn map Sam had found on a crumpled piece of paper in
the back of the bus station, when they came across the town. The streets were
empty, save for a few old trucks parked on the side, rusting away like
forgotten relics of a time no one remembered. The town had one main road, and
on that road, there was one store. And, of course, the creepiest old woman Ash
had ever seen.
She was standing outside the store,
holding a Polaroid camera like it was a weapon. When Ash and Sam walked by, she
didn’t say anything at first. She just stared. And when Ash made the mistake of
looking back, the woman raised the camera, snapped a photo, and then smiled.
“Uh, thanks?” Ash muttered, her curiosity
piqued.
The woman didn’t answer. She just stared
at the photo in her hand, as if something was happening in the picture that
wasn’t happening in real life. Her smile widened.
“You’ll want to take this,” the woman
said, holding the photo out toward them.
Ash glanced at Sam, who shrugged, clearly
as confused as she was. “Uh, I’m good,” Ash said, but the woman didn’t move.
Her eyes never left Ash’s face.
“Take it,” she said again, and this time,
her voice wasn’t so sweet. There was something more insistent in it—something
unnerving.
Ash reached for the photo, but the moment
her fingers brushed the edge, the air around her seemed to get heavier, colder,
like the weight of the photo was pulling her down into something dark. She
snatched her hand back.
“I said take it,” the woman snapped, her
voice sharp now, cutting through Ash like a blade.
Without thinking, Ash grabbed the photo.
The moment she did, the woman’s grin twisted into something unnatural. “You’ll
see,” she whispered, and with that, she vanished into thin air, like smoke
caught in a breeze.
Ash and Sam stood there, staring at the
photo. It was blurry at first, but then it cleared, revealing a picture of Ash
and Sam standing right there, outside the store. They were smiling—too wide—and
in the background, the store’s windows were dark. But there was something else
in the photo. Something wrong.
A figure. Standing just behind them. A
shadow.
Ash’s stomach dropped. The shadow wasn’t
hers.
“I’m out,” Sam muttered, backing away
from the photo. But Ash couldn’t move. She couldn’t stop staring at the figure
in the background. It was too real, too solid, like the photo was trying to
show her something she wasn’t supposed to see.
But when she looked up again, the shadow
was gone. The street was empty. No sign of the creepy old woman. No sign of the
figure in the photo.
“Sam, do you—?”
“Yeah, I saw it too,” Sam said, rubbing
his neck like he was trying to shake off the weirdness. “Let’s just go, okay?
I’m done with whatever weird crap is happening here.”
Ash didn’t argue. But as they walked
toward the car, she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone—or something—was
watching them.
Later, when Ash checked her phone, the
photo was gone. Erased. Vanished, like it never existed.
But when she looked at Sam’s phone, it
was there. The same photo. The same creepy figure behind them.
And this time, it was moving.
Ash stepped back, her breath catching in
her throat.
“Sam…” she whispered, but the figure in
the photo wasn’t just standing there anymore.
It was smiling.
Chapter Ten: The
Vanishing Polaroid – Thornwood, WA
Sam hadn’t wanted to stay in Thornwood.
He didn’t even want to be there in the first place, but sometimes life doesn’t
really give you a choice. It shoves you into places like this, makes you meet
people who aren’t really people, and then you’re stuck. Like a fly in a
spider’s web. Except instead of a spider, it’s some weird old lady with a
camera, and instead of a web, it’s some tiny, decaying town in the middle of
nowhere.
But Thornwood had a way of making you
feel stuck. It wasn’t just the eerie silence of the streets or the way every
corner seemed to hide a secret. It was the feeling that once you were there,
you were already too late.
They had spent the night in some run-down
motel, but Sam couldn’t shake the feeling that someone—something—was watching
them. He kept hearing soft footsteps outside their door, the rustling of
leaves, the creaking of the building like it was settling into something else.
“Sam,” Ash whispered, her voice tight,
“you hear that?”
He sat up, straining to listen. “Yeah, I
do. Probably just the wind.”
But the wind didn’t make footsteps. It
didn’t scratch at the door, didn’t whisper through the cracks in the walls. Sam
reached for the door handle, but before he could turn it, the lights flickered,
and the room plunged into darkness.
Then, a knock.
It wasn’t a knock at the door, though. It
was a tap, soft, like something
trying to get his attention from the other side.
“Dude, no,” Sam muttered, standing up.
“Not this again.”
But Ash was already halfway to the door.
Her curiosity always got the best of her. “Maybe it’s room service,” she joked,
but the humor in her voice sounded forced.
She turned the knob, and when the door
creaked open, Sam braced himself for whatever was on the other side.
Nothing.
Except the faintest sound of a camera
shutter clicking.
And there, lying on the ground in front
of them, was the Polaroid.
Sam knelt down to pick it up, his stomach
dropping when he saw the image. It was of their room, taken from an angle that
shouldn’t have been possible from outside. But the worst part? In the window’s
reflection was a figure. A shadow.
The figure was standing there, grinning.
“You gotta be kidding me,” Sam muttered,
his heart pounding. “This isn’t real. This isn’t
happening.”
But it was.
And just as the figure’s smile grew
wider, Sam heard the sound of the camera shutter again.
The photo appeared in his hand.
And this time, the figure wasn’t smiling.
It was grinning.
And it was moving.
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