Tag: writing

There’s a ringing in your ear. Or maybe it’s the sound of rushing blood. Or your brain, futilely hyperaware, trying to pick out sound beyond the inside of your care.

An internal issue tricking you into thinking something is out there.

Someone, maybe.

But that’s impossible.

You’re driving on an empty highway in the middle of the night on a weekday, nothing in your headlights. Your foot’s a little heavy on the gas, but it’s nothing to worry about. Reckless, yes, but not stupid.

Not yet.

It helps keep you awake, along with the podcast playing from your dash. You tried the radio but at this time your favorite station is playing EDM and that just gives you a headache–not that you need another on top of what you already have.

You’re afraid of what happens if it gets too quiet.

///

You blink.

Your eyelids are getting heavier by the second.

Highway hypnosis–there’s no one on the road but you and the dashed, painted lines–no need for you to pay attention, really, all four lanes for you alone.

The trees on either side just dark blurs in your rearview mirror, held off by the short, rusting metal railing.

You blink.

When you were a child, you used to stare out the window, imagining fantastical creatures running on top of the edge, impossibly fast, always hiding behind each post before you could spot them.

Now you’re an adult, the driver, and far too focused to looking through the windshield to notice the views.

You blink.

///

A blaring horn. Lights painting your eyelids red. You gasp awake and turn the steering wheel to the right, just barely getting out of the way of the oncoming car. You swerve too far, desperately aiming for the shoulder, and slam your foot on the brakes. A juddering, head ramming halt.

Your heart beats too fast, adrenaline, and for a few moments you grip the steering wheel so tight in your hands.

Fuck.

FUCK!

You scream your fear, sound absorbed by upholstery and the quick over night bag shoved into the back seat. Belatedly, you put on the hazard lights.

That was too close. Too close.

///

The adrenaline fades. Hands shaking, you text your sister.

No use calling your mom, her guilt-tripping is the reason why you’re driving tonight instead of waiting until the weekend, but you need to rest a little before continuing on.

In the safety of the shoulder and with hazard lights on, a short nap sounds like a good idea. Crack the windows a little, lower your seat, and you’ll only be delayed by fifteen, thirty minutes.

When you wake up, you’re not alone.

There is nothing more frightening–more heartbreaking, more compelling–than the word “almost.”

Even just the sound of it: the open vowel, beginning. The lingering L on your tongue. Then lips together, lips apart. The sibilant S sliding into the sharp, concluding, definitive T.

Almost.

How many stories revolve around that word? How many tales do we tell? Suspense and drama in every rising beat. I almost got caught. I almost got married. I almost died.

The potential of an action; a “could have” that didn’t. Regret and hope; a pinch of danger and a dash of excitement. Within reach but never touching and still somehow we are changed for–

Ah, excuse me, I almost gave away the ending.

///

Tik-Tik. Tik-Tik.

What is that sound in the night?

If you’re lucky, you don’t know what that is. If you’re lucky, it’s only a clock; or the wind blowing tree branches against your window.

If you’re not–well. How well do you know your neighbors?

In this episode we cover the manananggal who, by day, walks among us human beings without any notice. Just one of us.

But by night they feast on the hearts of the young–though they’ll make do with adults if they have to–a dark shape in the sky and in our minds.

So if you hear that noise or spot a pair of legs without a body, standing and waiting, then you better grab some garlic and wait for sunrise: you might be next.

This is Heritage Horrors!

///

It’s been a long day.

Work: more of a disaster than usual. Draining and miserable. A complication in your project which you had to finish before heading home because if you waited until next week it’d be too late and the company you work for always has to be at the forefront of everything. You’d appreciate that ambition and drive–you have it in yourself, after all–but not when it forces you to do overtime hours without the overtime pay.

And you don’t even get to go to your nice, comfy bed afterwards. Nope.

Heading home in this case does not mean going back to your apartment in the city with your queen sized bed and silk sheets. It does not mean going out to your favorite restaurant, or getting drinks from your favorite bar. It doesn’t even mean making yourself some instant ramen and binge-watching a series on Netflix.

Nope. Today heading home means actually going home. To your hometown three hours away by car. To the house you grew up in and long since left behind. To your family.

Your entire family.

Lola is in the hospital.

Sure, the day was long, but it looks like your night’s going to be even longer.

~

A/N: This might be adapted into a script later, for the ghost story event happening with Bayanihan Community/Bindlestiff Studio. I haven’t figured out all the details, yet–of the script and of the story–but I think I have a solid idea of where I’m going with this.