Sad and scary stories

You never know what will happen... Things come and out! Don’t make enemy’s, get weird/scary things and never do bad things and you’re okay.

[© 2017 All rights Reserved To Book Maker and Ninja Togepi]

Author's note


40. Hands

I don't know where they came from, or why they came to me. 

I can't even recall the first time I saw them. There are far too many instances to pinpoint the beginning of it all. 

Perhaps I had been fourteen? I can't say for sure. I had thought for sure that I was going crazy. It completely screwed up my first year of high school. For every time I would reach from the shower for my towel, grasp the handle of my fork to eat dinner, or slam my hand upon the SNOOZE button, skin would meet with skin. 

I don't know why I would be cursed or haunted, and I don't think this is what possession is. I've never met with any spooky travelers, gone to a scary witch doctor—I've never even gotten my fortune told. Yet somehow, I can't escape the daily holds and grabs, the cold embrace of four fingers and a thumb. 

They had never been violent. Although, they weren't necessarily gentile either. I would reach under my desk for the pencil I'd inevitably dropped, and I wait for the sudden clutch around my wrist. And it comes, of course, yet no matter the anticipation I always jump. I pull away, but it doesn't let go, not until I peer below the desk. The pressure vanishes from me as if it never were, and I find nothing there but my own two legs. 

Although sometimes, I do see it. My fingers would reach for the lightswitch from the cracked doorway, and a desperate claw will leap from the other side of the door. They never look the same. Always different sizes, in every shape, and in all shades. Yet once I burst into the room to discover the source, there is none. The hand is erased, removed from reality.

At first I had felt so stupid, that I could possibly think that I was being haunted by "ghost hands." It didn't make sense, and it still doesn't. 

However, I don't think that's a variable anymore. 

Over the years I've gotten used to them. I expect it. I've never told anyone about them, but why would I? What are they supposed to say? And so, I take hold of my drink glasses more tightly, in case my wrist is yanked in the process. I have no fear sleeping without a blanket over my legs, for I know exactly what the unavoidable ankly-grabs are. I've learned to plan my outfit beforehand and get only what I need; I don't have the time nor the luxury to struggle sifting through my closet every morning.  

And it's been fine for nearly ten years. 

Although recently, I'm frightened. 

I had been looking for my hair clip a few days ago, and had poked my head under the coffee table in the living room. I yelped at a jarring clasp upon my scalp. A clasp that I had gotten so used to, yet wasn't right at all. I screamed and screamed as I tried to pull my head from the table, yet to no avail. Sharp nails dug in past my follicles, and my brain felt as though it were subject to accupuncture. The back of my head throbbed from banging against the bottom of the coffee table. And finally, I was able to crane my eyes to peer overhead, and as I observed nothing I felt the sting releave. At once I put my palms to my bleeding skull, and I fell upon the couch and curled into a ball. I wept there for a period I don't know.

I had never thought they would go so far. 

I'd eventually gotten over the incident, as it seemed it wasn't going to happen again. I had been making myself scrambled eggs one morning, and thus chopping up peppers into pieces. The touch sensation upon my right wrist was so common that I'd barely noted it. And the light rattling of my limb was nothing extraordinary either. However, the hand removed my own from my task and the blade along with it. It tried with vigor to twist my wrist around and point my kitchen knife the other way, the tip straight for my abdomen. I gaped at the forceful struggle, and my left hand joined the battle. And a terrible battle it was, as I shrieked for mercy and it said nothing back. Until I jerked my head behind me, and the feel of alien skin left me. I stood there like an idiot in my kitchen, clutching my knife in hopeless defense. I don't know what I thought a kitchen knife was going to accomplish, against an onslought of gangly phantom fingers. 

Just yesterday, I lost my ability to see.

Although I retain my sight, all I see is darkness, as chilling fingertips brush against my cheekbones. I can't pull it off. I can't search for the source. 

It's so clever. 

They've learned.

And they've won. 

I don't know what to do. Every day new palms curl around my limbs. They latch like parasites, although I'm not sure what they want from me. Their nails sink so deep into my flesh that I've gone numb. I stumble around my house with the weight of dozens of handholds. They've grown so many. I'm terrified. 

If anyone is listening to this, know that this is what happened. I don't know what they're going to do to me. I don't know what they want. I don't know how to get them off. I'm not crazy. I'm not crazy! 


Please help me! Help me please! I don't now how much time I have! I don't know what they want! Take my phone to the police! They need to hear this recording! Tell them my name is Abi—

[muffled screams] 


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