Behind The Veil

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic

Working late at the office proves to be the worst decision Clive ever made when he finds himself haunted in the car park late at night.

Clive leant back in his chair, sighing heavily and running a hand through his short brown hair. He rubbed his hands over his eyes and let them drop onto his desk. He’d finally finished the assignment that had taken him all day to complete. His asshole supervisor had approached him first thing that morning, not even letting Clive hang his jacket over the back of the seat and sitting down.

Clive! Just the man I’m looking for!”

Eric,” Clive grimaced, hoping that Eric would mistake it for a groggy morning smile. He either did or ignored Clive’s expression. Clive hated Eric, hated the smug grin that he was pretty sure had been pasted on with Araldite, hated the grinding, grating sound of his nasally voice, but most of all, Clive hated Eric because they had been gunning for the same promotion for three months, and Eric had been handed it simply because he was younger than Clive by ten years. Clive could remember the words that his higher-ups had rolled off their tongues in a very false effort of condolence.





Goddamn it, he could be hot-blooded, he could be passionate, and he had at least five years more experience over Eric! But instead of telling his superiors to shove their lousy, dead-end job up their pompous, over-paid arses, he had accepted their decision with his usual grace and gone back to work like a good little doormat. And ever since that day for the next three years, Eric had used his position to slowly grind Clive into the dirt and break his spirit. Clive was convinced that this was a secret tactic that his superiors had shared with Eric in a ruthless effort to reinvent the company’s image as a fresh, young, hip enterprise. In all honesty, Clive had told his wife several times, how you turn a goddamn asphalt-laying company into a fashionable business was completely beyond him and the rest of the sane portion of humanity.

Clive, I need you to do me a solid, can you do that for me?” Eric Stinz had asked. “I need the financial accounts for the company’s outgoings, and Gina, you know Gina, the old gal with the huge…” He pretended to cup oversized breasts in his hands, and Clive nodded, slightly sickened, “…is off sick. I need you to put aside everything you’re doing today and focus on that, otherwise…” He drew his finger across his neck in a decapitating movement, “They’ll have my head, y’know?”

Clive dropped into his seat and switched on his computer, sighing quietly. He already knew what was coming. “Sure thing, Eric. How far back do you want me to go?”

Eric appeared to think this over carefully, even though Clive knew he had already decided this in his office before Clive had even arrived.

Um, let me see… I think back to March should be adequate.”

March?!” Clive exclaimed. Several heads turned to their direction, and he lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. “But, Eric, it’s November! That’s going to take me all day, and that’s if I don’t stop for lunch!”

Yeah, that’s the thing… the boss needs it in tomorrow. I was going to tell you yesterday, but, well, I guess it slipped my mind, mate.” Eric grinned and shrugged his shoulders, in a “whaddya gonna do?” motion, before clapping his hand onto Clive’s shoulder. Clive stared at the immaculately trimmed nails on the fingers on his shoulder, and pictured himself shoving Eric Stinz’s entire hand down his throat and out of his arse. He must’ve smiled at the thought, because Eric’s false, shining grin broke through again. “Good man, I knew you were just the one for the job. Don’t worry about lunch, tomorrow, you’ll get a full paid hour off for lunch, and I’ll pay for your food. How does that sound?”

Like you’re trying to bribe a goddamn child, you jackass.

That sounds fine.” Clive agreed, nodding his head. Eric patted his shoulder again and swaggered back to his office. Making sure Eric’s back was completely turned, Clive flipped him the finger, mouthed the word arsehole at the back of Eric's £200 haircut, and turned back to his computer screen. Picking up his phone from his desk, he dialled an extension number and waited.


Hi Jim, it’s Clive, from fifth floor. I’m going to need some help.”

Thirteen hours later, Clive was leaning back in his seat, rubbing his aching eyes. His tie was loose around his neck, the top button of his shirt undone. Both sleeves were hastily rolled up to the elbows and his eyes were bloodshot. Clive attached the files to an email, the glaring light of the monitor giving his face a drawn, haggard look, sent the email to Eric (with a curt message attached: Hope this gets them off your back and the pain outta my arse), and switched off the monitor. He knew he’d regret that message in the morning, but for now he was too tired and too pissed off to care. He rose slowly from his chair, groaning as he discovered just how stiff his body was. He stretched his arms in a wide Y-shape over his head, arching his back and reaching for the pack of cigarettes in the jacket draped over the back of his seat. He didn’t draw one out just yet; only wrapped his fingers around the small cardboard box and allowed their presence in his hand to comfort him slightly. God, did he ache for a deep, smoke-filled drag!

Clive made his way through the long white corridors, and headed down the stairs. The company car park was a multi-storey building attached to the office block, shared by another two businesses that also used the building, but primarily for Clive’s current dungeon (or so it felt). Five floors later, Clive pushed open the heavy wooden doors that led to the car park, and shivered. The night wind was bitter, cutting through his hands and face. Clive regretted not bringing a coat, damning Eric. He had expected to be home and warm four hours ago, not pissing around still at the office. He hugged his torso, teeth chattering and body shivering, as he attempted to locate his car.

Heading down to the next floor, Clive stopped suddenly. His eyebrows creased in confusion. He’d parked his car here, this morning, hadn’t he? Turning and looking up and down at all the empty spaces, his confusion grew. There wasn’t a single vehicle to be seen, not even the night-watchman’s Ford Transit, which was usually parked as close to the door as he could get it without crashing through the entire wall. Clive turned and walked briskly back up the tarmac ramp, wondering to himself if he wasn’t a fool and had parked one floor up. God knew the entire car park looked the same in the morning. A quick trip up to the second floor answered him; the entire floor was, once again, empty. Not a single vehicle in sight.

Clive stood for a moment, trying to decide what to do.

Ah, fuck it!” He hissed, hugged his torso tighter and jogged back towards the door to the building. Once inside, he tried to shiver the rest of the cold from his body, and leant against the wall, thinking. He decided that he’d check the rest of the car park, just to be on the safe side. Buttoning his jacket up and bracing himself for the freezing onslaught, he wrenched open the door and marched back out into the car park.


Clive swung the doors open violently, ignoring the loud clangs that echoed around the car park as they smashed against the stone walls. Once inside, he kicked them open again as they swung closed. He swore over and over to himself at first, then out loud. He was fuming! His car was not to be found, on any of the seven floors. It was like it had completely disappeared! Although it had become increasingly obvious to Clive that the answer was a lot more malicious – some dirty little scumbag had obviously stolen his car. Broken in, hotwired it, and driven it right out of the goddamn car park. Muttering to himself angrily, he pulled his mobile out of his pocket, flipped the lid and dialled 999.

Mouth open, ready to pour a stream of rage down the phone at whatever poor person had been assigned his call, he was stunned into silence when instead of hearing the calm, yet cold voice asking him what service he requested, all he received was static. He pulled the phone away from his ear and studied the screen. He had full signal.

Hello? Hello?” Clive tried into the phone, “Hello, can – you – hear – me? I want to report a stolen – ” He was cut off, his voice drying up completely in his throat as something tried to make its way through the static. He concentrated, trying to hear it over the white noise. The words he could make out didn’t sound like English. Clive wasn’t a linguist by any stretch of the imagination, but he couldn’t recognise the words.

That’s all I bloody need,” He said, looking at his phone in disgust, “Crossed bloody signals.” He hung up, and dialled 999 again, walking towards the wall of the car park, in an attempt to clear his reception.

Thank God, there was a dial tone! He waited, and heard the click of the phone being answered on the second ring. Clive’s hairs stood up and he felt goose bumps rise all over his skin when instead of the operator, a quiet, gravelly raspy voice answered, occasionally broken up by crackling static.

“… Fear… decay… will take… feast… mine now.”

After the last four words, an ear-splitting screech rang out from Clive’s phone, almost shattering his ear drum. He cried out in shock and pain, dropping the phone and holding his hand flat against his ear. As he did so, he felt a slight pinch at the back of his head, and threw his other hand to the offended spot, rubbing slightly.

Fuck! Fucking phone, fucking wankers…” Clive began, spewing obscenities as he bent down to pick up his phone. As his fingers touched the smooth metal back, he snapped them back instantly.

His eyes opened wide in disbelief as he watched the phone melt into a small, metallic puddle on the tarmac. He backed away. Step after step echoed through the car park, impossibly loud in Clive’s ears. He slowly walked backwards, never taking his eyes from the silver puddle. A small yelp escaped his lips as he walked into the doors leading back into the building. Finally able to tear his eyes from his ruined phone, he turned and gripped the cold metal handles, and pulled.

The doors didn’t open.

Clive wrenched and yanked on the handles, teeth gritted, a cold sweat breaking out on his brow despite the bitter wind howling through the structure. His fear started to give way to anger as the doors refused to budge.

Hey, you fuckers!” He yelled, not knowing or caring who he was yelling at, “You dickheads had better open this door right now, or I’ll fucking…. Argh!” His threat tapered off, unable to think of anything, and he resorted to kicking the door repeatedly. He grunted and shouted with each strike, only giving up when his foot started to hurt. His energy spent, he turned, slid down the doors and landed on his backside with a sob. He reached into his jacket and pulled out the pack of cigarettes. He lit one and took two short drags, followed by a third, deeper one. Pulling his knees up to his chin and trying to wrap his jacket around himself, he tried to calm down and think.

It was only then that Clive noticed that the lights on the floors above and below had gone out.

He stared in mute surprise, his cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. “What the hell…?” He whispered, and sucked in another drag. He got up unsteadily, the nicotine making his head swim. He walked carefully to the edge of the ramp leading down, trying to peer into the impenetrable blackness before him.

As he tried to focus his eyes, he cocked his head. Could… could he hear whispers?

Hey!” Clive yelled, “Hey, who’s there?! Just come out where I can see you!”

As if in answer, two small, but piercing lights were glinting from the darkness. They did not appear, or fade into existence; they were just there, as if they had always been there. Clive watched them, trying to see an outline around them to determine their nature.

They blinked.

Clive uttered a small, pathetic cry, his cigarette falling from his lips, turned, and ran. As he ran, he could hear footsteps on the tarmac chasing him. His mind refused to let him turn around; he simply sped as fast as he could to the other side of the car park. He heard the footsteps gain on him. Sobs escaped his lips as he gasped for air. The sound was right behind him now. He stopped when he reached the wall, hands outstretched to stop himself from going over the edge. He looked up and down, left to right, desperately searching for an escape, but found none.

The breath on the nape of his neck made him freeze.

He held his own breath, petrified. His eyes darted left to right, trying to see without seeing what was behind him. His heart seemed to race and stop all at once as he closed his eyes and slowly turned around, uttering hurried prayers and sobbing, preparing to meet his end. He opened his eyes.

He was completely alone in the car park.

Tears streaked his red cheeks, and he released his breath in a long, shaky sigh.

What the fuck...?” He whispered. Why had he been so terrified at the sound of a person’s footsteps? He reflected back. The lights he had seen were obviously glare from the car park lights on their glasses. Someone had heard him, come to his rescue, and he had run away like a bloody little girl!

No, Clive thought, I KNOW why I was terrified. This sudden epiphany caused his breath to catch in his throat. I was scared because I saw more than two lights. More than two lights and more than two feet.

So what? Two people had come to help him, that was all.

He decided to go back to the ramp to the lower floor and check again. Maybe they were still there.

Reaching the edge of the darkness, Clive lit his lighter and held it out before him, casting a small orange glow that melted a path into the black abyss that only gave him a foot or two’s visibility. He did not notice that neither he nor the flame were being abused by the wind.

Tentatively, he took small steps down the ramp, at first afraid to call out. Some of the fear fell away when he remembered he was calling out to people.

H-Hello?” He whimpered, squinting to try and make out any shapes in the dark. “I’m… I’m s-sorry I ran, I’m j-just… Hello?” He stopped as he felt a draught on his left side. It wasn’t the wind; it was the brush of air created when someone walks past you – closely past you. Just underneath the hollow whisper of the draught, he heard a faint clicking sound. He turned, holding the lighter before him, but could see nothing. Another draught came from behind him, another series of clicks, and he spun around, the lighter going out with the movement. “Shit!” He hissed, and tried to ignite it. The flint sparked once, twice. The clicking returned, loud and clear in front of Clive's face, and Clive grew more fearful with each attempt.

He gripped his wrist with his free hand, trying to steady himself as yet another breeze of air swept past him. The flint sparked, the gas ignited, and Clive screamed as the flame revealed the face before him.

It was the face of Eric Stinz, if Eric Stinz had been dead for years.

Clive struggled to recognise it, but somehow he knew this anyway. The skin hung from his cheeks and forehead, wrinkled, rotting, a strange colour in the light from the flame. Eric’s eyes bore deep into Clive’s own, causing his head to suddenly explode with pain, yet Clive was unable to close his eyes or look away. Eric’s lips moved with a thousand hushed voices, each whispering a thousand horrible, unthinkable secrets, all the while that terrible ceaseless clicking emanating from his maw. Clive was powerless to do anything but stand, stare, and hear. One voice started to rise above the others, and somewhere in the back of Clive’s mind, he recognised this as both Eric’s real voice and the voice he had heard on the telephone.

Help me, Clive,” the dead-Eric pleaded, his voice wheezing and gurgling. “Help me. He found me. He took me, and made me his. It hurts so bad, Clive, help me. Help me, Clive. Kill me, Clive.

Clive looked down, and felt his knees turn to jelly. The neck that extended from Eric’s head was far too long, almost two feet in length. What would have been the vertebrae in a human neck were extended all the way round, forming deep ridges in the leathery, glistening flesh. There were splits in the skin where it had been stretched over the bones, blood and slime seeming to continuously trickle from the wounds. Mercifully the lighter’s range of light stopped at the base of the neck. Clive stared back up at the dead-Eric’s face, tears of horror streaming down his face.

A tickling on his arms managed to draw his eyes from dead-Eric’s face.

Long, insect-like mandibles were making their way up his arms, towards his shoulders, clicking loudly as they blindly felt out their path. They extended from the dead-Eric’s body, and Clive understood that they were trying to reach his head, trying to pull him forward, further into the darkness.

Join me, Clive.” the dead-Eric wheezed. The voice was deeper now, almost growling. Opaque fluid ran from between his teeth and over his lips, as if whatever was using the dead-Eric's voice was a tumour, an evil mass that had ruptured, spilling its discharge all over dead-Eric's mouth.

This sickening demand and the heat from the lighter burning his thumb spurred Clive into action. He dropped the lighter and threw himself away from the monstrosity in front of him, screaming, swinging his fists at the dark, beating at the thing that had been Eric, until he tore free of its grasp. He turned and ran towards the light, stumbling as he hit the steady incline of the concrete ramp. He fell to the ground, smacking the front of his head on the hard surface. Dazed, he clambered clumsily to his hands and knees and hurried towards the doors. He pressed his back to them, pushing himself against the doors as if he could fall through them like a ghost. A warm trickle ran down over his right eye, and he tenderly touched his forehead with his fingertips. His skin stung as he brushed the open gash, his fingers red and bloody as he pulled them away. He wiped the blood away from his eye with his sleeve and turned his attention back to the ramp. Once he was sure he was as far from the dark as he could be, he let out a long, miserable wail as he stared at the two little lights, hiding just behind the dark, knowing that the dead-Eric was still watching him.


Clive awoke suddenly, shivering and gasping. He remembered where he was instantly, and beat the ground with his clenched fist in despair. He had fainted against the door and slid down to the right, ending up in a slanted position. He slowly leant against the doors and listened to the ambience of the city. He could hear the slow, steady thrum of the traffic outside. He could smell the dirty polluted tint London air always held. He could see the glint from street lights, the orange-amber glow creating a foreboding orange haze in the night sky. He could sense everything that told him he was alive, and awake.

He reached up to feel his forehead. He had to try and gauge how much he was bleeding. Head injuries were very serious, he knew, and could cause all sorts of damage, including brain damage. He ran his fingers all over his forehead in confusion. He couldn't feel a wound anywhere. He could remember cutting his head on the ground as he fell, he could remember the warmth of the blood trickling down his face, but his fingers were telling him now that there was no cut, no blood. He checked his sleeve. There was no bloodstain where he'd wiped his eye.

Then Clive stared ahead in disbelief.

The lights were back on.

The darkness was gone, the lower and upper floors of the car park once again flooded with light. He turned his head to the left and right, looking out at the black sky. He confirmed it was still night, but had no idea how long he’d been unconscious for. He found the cigarette he had dropped earlier whilst running across the car park, picked it up, placed it in his mouth, and then threw it across the car park in a fit of anger as he remembered he had lost his lighter. A deep involuntary shudder ran through his body as his thoughts turned back to the dead-Eric. He’d hated the man, but had never wanted…

As the image lingered in Clive’s mind, he once again felt a sharp pinch at the back of his head. No, not a pinch… more like an insect’s bite. He slapped it away without really noticing, before standing up and surveying around him. The wind had picked up again, and he folded his arms over his chest and shivered.

Part of his courage renewed by the return of the car park’s lights, he decided he would try and leave. Fuck the car, to hell with the phone, he just wanted to get out, get home, and drink himself into oblivion. He needed the comfort of his old, raggy armchair and his warm central heating to tell his system that he was safe; he certainly wouldn't find it on London's streets and alleys.

Clive wandered towards the ramp and descended to the next level down. Turning right, he walked the length of the car park to the next ramp down, following the slope down to the next level. He looked ahead, expecting to see the automated barriers that controlled the cars going in and out, but was only confronted with a brick barrier. That was funny; he didn't realise he had been on that high a floor. The exit must be the next one down. He turned right again and wandered past all the empty spaces. Looking ahead, he tried to find the number to tell him which floor he was on, but it had been sprayed over with a graffiti artist's (not terribly) talented artwork. He tutted, shook his head, and carried on.

He cautiously allowed his thoughts to turn back to the haunting, mind-bending events of the night. A melting phone. Strange voices. The monster-Eric. Clive shuddered. He knew that would haunt his sleep for the rest of his life. He tried to rationalise what he had seen. Maybe someone at the office had spiked his coffee. But for what purpose? Just a mean trick? Now that he thought about it, it made sense. He had felt quite nauseous all afternoon, unable to finish his lunch, and his head had been swimming until he'd finally left the building. Clive wondered who would have done such a thing to him.

There were hardly any grievances against him in the office. Sure, he'd spilt that fancy new temp's coffee down what looked like an expensive suit, but that had been an accident, a simple collision in the hallway. He wouldn't have thought that anyone would spike someone just for an accident, right?

He didn't think so. No one had done anything like that to him before, and he got the impression that if you were destined to be the target for such practical jokes, you were destined from day one. Maybe it was something in the water? You hear every day about how there was all kinds of shit in the water system these days, maybe he'd picked up whatever it was, and it was making him hallucinate?

Wait a second... he'd banged his head! He'd tripped and banged his head, and he'd fainted after. That was it! That was all this was! A hallucination from the impact. He'd heard that head injuries could even create memories that were false. So everything that had happened prior hadn't happened at all! Oh, Thank God! Praise...

There was the burn on his thumb. The burn he'd sustained from the lighter. The lighter he'd lit when he was in the dark. The dark that had appeared in the car park, that had contained the dead-Eric.

That meant this was happening. Everything he'd believed for thirty-four years about the world, his world, was a lie. Ghosts and goblins and ghoulies existed. Except they weren't goblins and ghoulies. They were demons, monsters, nightmares, coming back from whatever Hellish realm they dwell in to bring innocent souls back with them, to ravage, to molest, to devour and caress. Clive knew better now. Clive had seen. Clive had tasted the terrors of what was really there, hidden away behind only the thinnest veil. And Clive was scared shitless.

He stopped suddenly. He realised now that whilst he had been listening to his rambling thoughts, he had gone down another two levels. He might have been mistaken about being one level higher, but he had definitely not been this far from the exit. The entrance to his office block was only on the first floor. He started to trot. The exit must surely be around this next corner.

He stopped when he reached the end of the level. The ramp simply led down to another floor. This wasn't right. He broke into a run, bounding across the car park to the next ramp. This wasn't the exit either. He ran and ran, each floor a deeply bitter disappointment. His heart started to beat faster and faster. It wasn't just the running, but the growing pit of terror in his chest. Panting, he sped down the next two floors, his heavy breathing starting to change first into whimpers, then into groans, and finally, stopping in the middle of one of the endless car parks, Clive finally snapped. He threw his head back and screamed.

LET ME OUT!!” He roared. “JUST LET ME GO!!” When there was no reply, he screamed again, an animalistic roar that echoed around the building, reverberating off the cold stone walls that he now understood were to be his prison.

There was no escape. There was to be no home journey for him, no blissful alcoholic destruction of his consciousness, no more love-making with his wife. God, his wife... Diane. He'd never see her beautiful smile, the glow that surrounded her naked body in the morning, the hourglass figure she'd strived to maintain into her mid-forties, the brown hair that flowed from the top of her head, curling around her shoulders. She would not exist for him any more.

He was not going home.

He was going to the other place. The world behind the veil. The nightmare realm. What God-fearing people call Hell.

Behind him, he could hear an insect-like clicking of mandibles approaching, and he knew what was behind him.

Follow me, Clive,” the monster-Eric groaned, “Follow me...”

Even as Clive felt the monster-Eric's limbs slither around his body, he continued to understand. Whether you went to Hell was not based on good or bad. It was random. They choose you, for reasons we mortals will never have the capabilities to grasp, and once you are chosen, your mind is broken, to ease their capture (for a broken mind can bear all the horrors a sane mind cannot), and they take you.

Clive started to sink back into the monster-Eric's multiple arms, feeling it's warm, moist body heat soak through his clothes, his eyes half-closed in mindless relief. As he fell further into it's embrace, the dead-Eric started to stroke Clive's hair softly. With each stroke, Clive's sanity fell away, layer by layer, and he knew what it was that dead-Eric wanted. As he finally relinquished, he dimly felt another snapping sensation at the back of his mind, and he understood it was the final fray of his sanity breaking.

Go, Clive, go and join us...” The monster-Eric commanded softly. Clive slowly stepped forward and walked to the brick wall at the edge of the car park. A dim-witted smile slowly spread across his face and saliva dribbled down his chin as he climbed up onto the ledge, and looked down at the world outside.


The strip clubs had been dead tonight, which was to be expected on a Wednesday, but the drinks were cheap, and the third class girls weren't too bad, as long as you didn't mind the cellulite, scars, or bad tattoos most of them probably regretted. The man had spent his last fiver of the twenty he'd taken with him, finished his drink, and left.

Making his way home barely even buzzed from the alcohol, he stopped to take a piss. He unzipped his fly as he stood in closer to the car park on his right, leaning in as the hot stream of urine splattered against the brick, the acidic smell wafting up to his nose.

There was a fluttering sound above his head. Suddenly, something brushed his shoulder before landing on the pavement. He looked down in confusion. It was a neck tie. Where the hell had that come from? Zipping up, he turned. There was no one around. The, lifting his gaze, he studied the structure that towered in front of him until he saw the dim figure of a man standing on the edge, five or six storeys high. Christ, he looked like he was going to jump!

Was... was the man waving at him?

Yes, he was. Not the frantic, desperate wave one might expect from a potential suicide, but a soft, calm wave, as if the two men were neighbours meeting on a warm Sunday morning.

The man on the street could do nothing but shake his head slowly, mouth hanging open in disbelief, as the man in the parking lot stopped waving, slowly bringing his arm down to his side. He seemed to look behind him, as if he were sharing a conversation with someone. Why weren't they trying to help him? Then, he turned back to the drinker, and slowly raised his arm, pointing down to the spot on the street where the man was standing. That spurred the drinker into action.

Hey mate, don't do it!” He yelled, “Stay there, don't jump! You'll kill yourself! Get down from there! I'll call someone, I'll get you some help, just stay there!”

He took a single step, and plummeted to the tarmac below.

The man, who'd only wanted to blow fifty quid over cheap drinks and cheaper whores that night, watched as the jumper tumbled through the air, spinning in eerily acrobatic circles and rolls, until his body thudded with a grotesque, stomach-churning CRACK on the pavement.

Blood exploded outwards in a fountain, body parts and organs flying through the air, splatting on the walls of the car park and on the road. The man stood there, his mouth open in shock as he was coated in blood, hot crimson liquid covering his front, landing on his face, in his eyes and mouth. The left side of the taxi that was unfortunate enough to drive past at that moment was splattered with a thick, viscous wave of human mush, steaming lumps of tissue sliding down the windows. The man could only stare at the shapeless mound of bone, skin and blood as his body convulsed and his throat burned as he threw up every drink he had paid for that night.

Ever a practical being, he wiped his mouth when he was sure there was nothing left, and staggered to the nearest phone box, unable to tear his eyes away from the body of the suicide. His shaking hand reached for the phone as his finger punched the “9” button three times.

Just as he opened his mouth to demand an ambulance and police, he heard a quiet clicking behind his left ear.


999, what is your emergency? Hello? Hello? Is anyone there? Hello? Are you aware it is an offence to hoax an emergency call? Hello?

Submitted: January 20, 2013

© Copyright 2021 Davidhyde. All rights reserved.

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Add Your Comments:


munkiC munkiDU

I don't tend to read anything this long, but found this very engaging and so well written. A great (albeit gross!) piece of writing :)

Sun, January 20th, 2013 8:58pm


This is really good creepy plot navigating and a well written story. I liked it.

Wed, January 30th, 2013 2:19am

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