The All-Clear
Leonardo Chung
I was seven, maybe eight, home sick and alone. The tornado siren started — long, metallic — even though drills were usually on the first Tuesday of the month, and today wasn’t. On drill days, a recorded voice said, “This is a test,” and the sound retreated into the background. But with no one there to reassure me, the wail pressed against the walls. I took a quilt into the bathroom, sat in the tub and let the cold porcelain leach the heat from my legs. The house once filled with familiar sounds rearranged itself into machinery: vent hum, fridge click and clock tick.
The siren fell silent. I was relieved for a hum, a click and a tick before it wound back up again — mocking my momentary relief. I rehearsed the number, written on the fridge, that I should call in these situations — then remembered I’d lost my phone on the bus last week. The alarm stopped again. At this moment, the siren stopping only meant the dangerous part — when, if it were real, a storm might be forming. Silently, I waited for proof the day was still ordinary, like a car radio blaring, a squawking bird, or a screen door slapping shut. On the off-beat of the siren, I heard my neighbor pull into the driveway: a verdict. I drained the quiet like bathwater and went back to the couch.
Stalker in the Closet
Hannah Roller
Truth is I have always been terrified of home invasions. I grew up in the middle of the woods. While there never was someone watching me from behind a tree, there was never any denying that someone could’ve been watching. It was October. The night was dark, the forest windy. I walked into my room and stopped. It smelled unmistakably like cologne. An undeniable man-like scent. The logical conclusion was that I had a stalker. You would understand if you were there. The scent was too strong. I decided that I had to check my closet. There was nowhere else for him to hide. As protection, I took my hydroflask. I slowly opened the door and peered at one side and pulled my sweatshirts back to look at the other. No one was there. I got in bed, heart still pounding and decided I had to accept my fate. I woke up the next morning without being murdered in my sleep. I got up and started getting ready for school. As I washed my hands I realized what the smell was: my mom’s new hand soap.
The Man in the Attic
Madisen Finch
It’s 3 in the morning. The house has been asleep for hours. I am staring at my ceiling with a crack in the plaster, a result of the hundred year history that haunts the home we borrow from the ghosts. There are footsteps in the attic I have never been in.
Logically, this is simply not true. But I can hear them. I can picture the man pacing, plotting my certain death. Maybe I’d made a joke that was a little too mean or left a gum wrapper on the playground or committed some unspecified crime. And here was God coming to smite me. My elementary school principal was right — our actions do have consequences, and mine was my imminent death.
I make my move swift, the blankets pushed down, light flashing from the flashlight stash I keep by my bed. The floor creaks as I rush to tell my sister about our impending deaths. She rolls over in her bed, groans. She shoves me away. The man is a failing grade, a missed assignment, a rejection. It’s coming to kill me from the attic.
I’ll be in the same place tomorrow, with the same fear. The man in the attic has never left.
Swimming Away
Chanel Mohamed
Two motionless orange figures lay atop a bed of blue aquarium pebbles. The water in the tank is the only thing still moving. This scene is a fish owner’s worst nightmare.
I got my first two goldfish, Milo and Otis, on Valentine’s Day in 2021. I was ecstatic to finally have a pet. The next day I found them both dead. It was devastating, not just because of the carcasses of my pets. I was frightened because the prematurity of their death reminded me that we aren’t guaranteed constant companionship. Not from our pets, our friends or family. Something that felt like it would be there when I got home from school, when I glanced up from my homework or when I woke up in the morning was gone, unsuspectingly and suddenly.
I was chilled. I wondered what had gone wrong. Nonetheless, I replaced them just as quickly as they came. Luckily I haven’t had to replace Milo and Otis 2.0.
The scariest thing is not spending enough time with the people and things you love. Talk a little longer and walk a little slower. You never know when what we have today will be gone.
What Goes Bump in the Night
Peter Burns
The trail disappeared into a black void in front of me as I took my first steps in my senior night experience. Spindly tree branches arched over it like they formed a gateway, and I was about to open the door. I saw nothing and felt nothing but my feet against the dirt and my own heartbeat. Your mind plays tricks on you in the dark: a flash in the corner of your eye, an unintelligible whisper in your ear that, when you look for its source, is missing. Every breeze feels like a spider crawling on the back of your neck. Alone as I was, my mind’s illusions kept me company. “Remember what the trail sounds like,” I thought to myself. The trail sounded hard, off-trail, like crunchy leaves. Lonely silence became space to focus, and my confidence grew with every step. A smile began to form on my lips until a blood-curdling scream, like someone was being tortured in the woods, pierced the still night. I froze, but somehow, I found it in my heart to look up. I will never forget what I saw: a tiny little owl on a branch, illuminated by the moon’s fleeting light.