Short horror stories

I don't know if anyone else has seen the two sentence horror stories, but I did, and decided to expand on these. I'll put the original prompt at the bottom of each page. THESE IDEAS ARE NOT MINE, I AM MERELY EXPANDING ON THEM.

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1. Mug of tea

Finally, I collapse onto the sofa, grasping a steaming cup of tea in between my hands. For a few precious seconds, I shut my eyes, taking in only the sound of the wind outside of the house. It's only a few seconds, though, before she starts crying again. 

Wearily, I place the mug onto a coaster on the coffee table and begin to trek up the stairs. I count each one as I step on it, as if that might make what happens at the top a bit more bearable when I reach it. My foot hovers over the last step, and as I do so, I hear her take a deep breath in, ready to scream again. 

The crying continues, and I walk across the landing. Her door is slightly ajar, a small shaft of light falling into the room. Upon my gently pushing the door, her crying ceases, but she still gasps for air silently. 

"Ssh, ssh, baby. It's alright. Mummy's here." I walk up to the empty crib, and gently rock it, longing to run my fingers through her hair like a normal mother. After a few minutes of silence, I pull the blankets up as if she were there, rest a toy rabbit next to the empty blankets and reach my hand up. Despite near darkness, my fingers brush against the button of the mobile. I push it, and the mobile spins slowly, playing an almost haunting tune into the room. 

I close the door without a sound. I breathe a sigh of relief, but I'm not even half way down the stairs when the crying drowns out the steady tune of the mobile. I decide there's only one option left as I grab my coat and scarf, and shut the front door behind me. 

The autumn wind tugs at my hair whilst I walk down the street. It's not a particularly long walk, nor very cold, but I pull my coat around my tighter.

Within minutes, the massive steel gates come looming into view. Although they're meant to be locked at night, the chains hang loosely by the sides. I push the intricately designed hate forward, brushing rust off my fingers. Without bothering to shut it behind me, I make my way down the gravelled path. 

I scan the rows upon rows for my daughters name, although I already know it's exact location: 10th row, 4th one in on the left hand side. 

Sure enough, there it is. 'Jennifer Mays, our beautiful daughter who never made it to this world' carved precisely into the marble in beautiful cursive script. The flowers I placed last week are browning and wilted, so I replace them with a fresher bunch. They're still slightly wilted, but less so than the last ones. 

"It's ok, Jenny," I whisper, placing the flowers down. "You can stop crying now." My fingers touch the marble, then instantly recoil from the cold surface. 'No,' I think, 'that's not what she'd have wanted. She'd have wanted to be held, cared for, loved.' I force myself to touch it until the tips of my fingers go numb, and only then do I walk home.

Holding my breath, I twist the key in the lock. The door gives the slightest creak as it opens, very slowly. I shut it silently behind me, remove my coat and scarf, and hang them on the hooks on the wall, and sit down. I think I've done it.

But, as I pick up my mug from earlier off the table, the crying starts again. And my tea is cold.

The original sentences I used as prompts:

My daughter won't stop crying and screaming in the middle of the night. I visit her grave and ask her to stop, but it doesn't help.

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