To the Lucky Man in an Unlucky Room part 2

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is a sequel to another part of this short story you can find in my portfolio. Let me know down in the comments what you think of my writing, it helps me out a lot to know if I'm improving.

Submitted: June 30, 2016

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Submitted: June 30, 2016



How Jerod still managed to sleep like a corpse after what had just happened was beyond him. He decided that the words scratched into the bathroom door making his stomach do the hokey pokey and turn itself around every time he saw them was a problem he would deal with immediately and efficiently before going to bed. First, he edged the kitchen knife against his name, scraping off the surrounding wood in a square formation with hollow scratching sounds, but before removing the rest of those three little words, that queer trinity that made him feel so suddenly sick, he read them aloud in a beaten, halfhearted voice.


In an instant it felt like the icy chill of wind that hit him as the bathroom door slammed shut on him earlier had just come back to play again. But it was really just goosebumps crawling up the center of his back before reaching his neck and making him squirm sheepishly.

He chipped the rest of the space around the letters with a nervous haste and got into bed.



His heart a rattling tambourine, he jolted up in bed on his hands at the small bang against his bedroom window. The shutters were closed over the dark of the night. Jerod swung his feet off the bed flat onto the floor and stood, not once taking a single wide eye away from the window. The jarring sound that had cut right through dreams of foggy white haze was something very easily discernible for anybody; it was the sound of finger knuckles knocking, asking without words in a universal language to be let inside.

Another, much louder bang on the window, which shook it and the blinds shielding him from whatever was outside not asking to be let in, but demanding it.


He was frozen again, eyes even wider than before, his right hand rising shakily as he considered pulling the drawstring of his bedside lamp.



A flurry of hammers struck the glass and Jerod sprinted out of his bedroom, sliding and nearly falling over before reaching the front door. The number 13 on it was only seen for a brief blurred second, but seeing it made something snap inside of him.


Two things became apparent then:

 Apartment 13 sat on the second floor of the entire building, two stories upward form the street.

His bedroom window peered down at the alleyway behind the building…where he dumped that damned clown dummy.


The hammering at the window stopped, and Jerod oddly felt even more unsettled now that the sound was gone and the apartment was once again as quiet as a mouse. The shakiness of his panting breaths forced him to clamp his mouth shut, gnashing his teeth against one another like meshing metal cogs. He was in the dark of a place he should feel safe in, but did not at all.

He shot the bolt and unhinged the golden chain on his front door. The sound of his bedroom window sliding up from its sill halted him from opening the door and running down the stairs to get help.

He was tired of freezing; of being scared stiff; of being a cowardly little kitten hiding its face under its paws. He wasn’t any of those things. He was a twenty year old man. At the flip of the light switch near the door the overhead fluorescents buzzed to bright white life. The kitchen connected the living room, the bathroom and the bedroom. It was the center of all things in apartment 13. And its rightful owner, Jerod Koonce waltzed right into that center with a ferocious expression on his face.

His hand found the butt of a very different kitchen knife when compared to the puny Fiberware one he had grabbed previously. This was a butcher knife. This was Michael Myers’ best friend. And it was now in the hands of a new, highly capable and brave master. Jerod felt in complete control all of the sudden. He felt empowered, like it didn’t matter that a ventriloquist dummy had somehow reached his two-story high apartment window, opened it, and was now probably very, very upset about being thrown away.

If ‘Norman’ wanted to play, Jerod would play and he would play to win.

There was a hissing, biting voice like it came from the mouth of a snake somewhere in his bedroom: “Titter, titter, Jerryboy.”

He ran through the doorway.

Titter, TITTER.”

The clown pounced from the foot of Jerod’s bed and sank its wooden jaws hard into his right cheek. Jerod screamed in pain and jerked, the thought of the butcher knife entirely absent from his mind as it slipped from his fingers in the midst of the struggle.

You fucking busher! You little cocksucker! I’ll teach you to throw me in the trash! I’ll teach you! I’ll teach you! I’ll show you!

It felt like a cattle prod on fire and struck by lightning was being pressed into his face as he pulled the clown off of him, its wooden moveable maw sinking harder and harder into the muscle as he pulled.

He managed to throw it to the rug, with a roar of pained effort. The clown stood back up on its own, grabbed the butcher knife and stabbed it into the center of Jarod’s foot before he could think to do anything else.

The knife came up and down and up and down, entering and exiting new holes it made in Jarod’s chest. Dark red blood soaked and set into his white undershirt.


And in the curious case of Jerod Henrique Koonce, everything was eventual.

© Copyright 2019 karen oneal. All rights reserved.

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