Flash Fiction by Danielle DeVor
It envelops you. The cold hard reality that something is going to happen—something you can’t see. It creeps over you ever so slightly. So, quietly you’d never really notice. At least, not until it’s too late. Then, you start to see things moving. Things that flit back and forth in the corner of your eye. It’s oppressive.
You stand there, heart pounding, palms sweating, waiting for the attack that is sure to come, but there’s nothing. Then, the house begins to creak. A thump against the side of the house that may or may not be a tree branch.
You can almost swear that you can hear footsteps on the stairs, but the footsteps go nowhere. Time passes. You still can’t calm down. Someone is watching you. You can feel them staring. You take more deep breaths, but to no avail.
Your heart pounds harder, almost as if it is expecting for something to come along and swallow you whole. You start walking backwards and finally, press your back against the wall. You reach out with your left hand, and find the light switch.
It flips on. There is nothing in the room. The lamp is where it is supposed to be. No weird shadows hiding behind the furniture.
Your monster was darkness itself.
Named one of the Examiner’s 2014 Women in Horror: 93 Horror Authors you Need to Read Right Now, Danielle DeVor has been spinning the spider webs, or rather, the keyboard for more frights and oddities. She spent her early years fantasizing about vampires and watching “Salem’s Lot” way too many times. When not writing and reading about weird things, you will find her hanging out at the nearest coffee shop, enjoying a mocha frappuccino.
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