Tag: scary story

The Broadcast (Part 2)

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Part 1: https://sketchedtext.com/2023/10/18/the-broadcast-part-1/

It wasn’t just that station that was wrong.

My first idea was that the station was some postmodern art piece, giving the wrong current events to draw attention to our inattention. But, as was generally the case, my creative arts degree would not help me.

Other channels proved to be similarly out of sync. I was hesitant to tune too far at first. The bar wasn’t numbered, and I felt like that original station was a home base from which to venture.

The next non-numbers channel I found was in a language I didn’t recognise. Using my phone, I got a mostly-translated block of text.

“it is coming I know you sit in your homes gazing at your loved ones but soon you must make a choice who can you let go who must be sent outside who must be forgotten it cannot wait it is coming it is one of you or all of you I am alone in this station so it must be me oh god it must be me it must be me it must be me I will loop this message but you must forget me I am just a recording forget me it must not be me you hear I will be gone it is coming I know you sit“

The random numbers channel became infinitely more interesting after that.

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Two Sentence Stories (part 20)

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I spent months distracting myself from the headaches and increasingly blurring vision, but I finally found myself in a doctor’s office reviewing scans. I had worried over worst case scenarios, but in none of those did the doctor use the terms “hatched” and “hive”

Lily proudly showed her grandfather the keys she had dug out of the back garden, not noticing the look of horror on his face. As she showed him the hole, her grandfather could find no part of the hand that once gripped them.

The Broadcast (Part 1)

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I wouldn’t have bought the radio if I knew it actually worked. It was a gorgeous old thing, all curves and panels, like a cathedral window. It caught my eye in the antique stores window, brass knobs glinting atop elegantly carved wood.

I immediately had plans to gut it and install Bluetooth speakers. All the classiness, with none of the fuss, I thought. Certainly the price and the handwritten “sold as-is” warning on the tag made me think it couldn’t have any functional value.

I was surprised when the storekeeper picked it out of the display and a new power cord uncoiled from beneath it, bright white in contrast to the grainy wood of the radio. Someone must have gone to some effort to get this radio working. I remarked as much to the storekeeper, but was meet with a shrug and asked if I needed a box.

By the time I got home, I was excited to try it out. I hadn’t listed to the radio since my parents used to drive me to school. I now had no need (or money) for a car, and while I thought that there must be an app for the radio, it didn’t have the same novelty.

It took me an embarrassing ten minutes and a resigned web search before I found out how to turn the radio on. I was half expecting voices from its apparent era: fast talking radio hosts, smoking between reading ads for baby morphine and housewife amphetamines. But it was a disappointingly cheerful man giving the weather report. It wasn’t even right. He said that the rain was expected to continue until Tuesday – it hadn’t rained for weeks.

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Peer Pressure

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Daryl stared at the coffee, watching the larger bubbles pop amongst the foam. He tried not to notice the stares of the other customers of the coffee shop.

They had been in line behind him, each ordering the same as him. A latte, skim milk, and a chocolate brownie. He only noticed when the barista drew attention to it, making a joke about us making her job too easy. Then, as Daryl sat at his usual table in the corner, the group of four sat at the larger table in the centre of the café. He had thought it bizarre that they crammed around one side of the table, but thought they wanted to share food. But they all stared. The barista brought out the coffees, his first, then theirs. He took a hesitant sip, testing the heat, before putting it down.

Clink.

Clink. Clink. Clink. Clink.

He looked up at the synchronised sound of 4 cups being placed onto saucers. The four stared back, all still holding onto their mug handles, as he was. He tried a smile, which was returned after a moment across four faces.

It happened again, minutes later when the coffee had cooled.

Clink.
Clink. Clink. Clink. Clink.

He looked up again to see the four faces staring at him. He could not focus on any one of them, the uniformity of their attention was too intense.

He tried not to look, taking larger sips of his coffee and trying to place the cup down quietly, so he didn’t hear them copying him.

Clink.
Clink. Clink. Clink. Clink.

He thought it must have been a joke. While pretending to check his phone, Daryl looked up at the group’s table. It was empty except for their orders. It must have been cleared. Well then, he thought with the spiteful spirit of an older sibling, you can’t copy everything. He took a sugar packet out from the holder on his table and poured the sugar into the half-full coffee. He looked up to see all four miming shaking an almost empty packet into their coffees.

So it was a joke at his expense, Daryl thought. He was in two minds: he could finish the coffee, take his brownie away and leave these idiots behind, or he could savour them until closing and see how long it takes from the four idiots to get bored.

He downed the rest of his coffee.

Clink. Clink. Clink. Clink. Clink.

They were much more on the ball that time. There was almost no difference in timing.

Daryl was about to take the plated brownie to the counter, to ask for a container, when he instead found himself reaching for the fork. Across the room, the group did the same. He took the bite his hand offered. He chewed and put the fork back down.

Clink. Clink. Clink. Clink. Clink.

He looked up, against his every instinct. Four faces grinned at him. Daryl grinned back, rictus grins matching, apart from the glistening of tears on his cheeks.

*

A week later, Susan sat at a café, wondering why a group of people would try to fit around the same side of a table.

She put her coffee down.

Clink.

Clink. Clink. Clink. Clink. Clink.

Three Sentence Stories (Part 12)

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I thought I had been a good person throughout my life, if a little misguided at times. As I closed my tired eyes, I hoped I was good enough to be reunited with my family in heaven. Instead I found myself standing inside a pentagram surrounded by a group of very nervous cultists.

Have you ever heard someone say something that you know is wrong, but so confidently that it gives you pause? I have. Unfortunately that phrase was “it definitely isn’t loaded”.

It was the offer of a lifetime: a reality show that could clean years of dirt and clutter out of our home for free. They even swapped our house keys for a hotel card so we could spend a week decompressing before the “grand reveal”. While the show turned out to be fake, I must say that the Crime Scene cleaners did a decent job.