…and on the 8th day, micro fiction was published on some dude's blog.

From Inside The House


“Ms. Nelson? This is Sergeant Hopper from the Bayview Police Department. You need to get out of there–we traced those threatening calls you’ve been getting. They’re coming from inside the house.”

“Huh…really? So is it on the landline? Because how would that work? I mean, you can’t call your own number and actually get through, right? It’d be busy or go to voicemail, wouldn’t it? So is it a cell phone? How did you trace that? Did you ‘triangulate’ the signal? And is that a real thing or is that just some made up mumbo-jumbo term they use on those CSI-type shows? I tell you what, if that is a real thing, I wish you guys would ‘triangulate’ the location of some real food in this place. Lamest house-sitting job ever. You want to know what I found so far? Some stale Wheat Thins. And as far as drinks go? Fresca. And there’s buttermilk in the fridge that expired, like, seven months ago. I mean, I get it–it’s a vacation home, they’re almost never here so they don’t keep the place stocked up–but buttermilk? I–”

“Ms. Nelson, I really think–”

“And Fresca! You’re on vacation–have a Pepsi for God’s sake, am I right?”

The man in the ski mask standing behind Annie dropped his arms to his side, letting the length of piano wire he was holding in his hands go slack. He slowly backed away as she continued.

“…and I get it, I’m the house-sitter, my job is to make sure the house is OK and stuff. But I don’t see why the Palmers have to be all ‘NO guests’, you know? ‘No parties’ I would understand, but I can’t have, like, ONE friend over? Then again, I don’t think any of my friends are big fans of spoiled buttermilk, so they probably wouldn’t be interested in hangin’ out here anyway, know what I mean?”

The man in the ski mask slowly backed out the front door, then shut it behind him as quietly as possible.

He had totally planned on murdering Annie, but the thought of having to listen to another minute of her musings–even if it was only until the wire successfully crushed her windpipe–was too much for him.

Single Post Navigation

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: