Posts Tagged ‘darkness’

Note: This short sci-fi horror story is unrelated to Don’t Feed The Dark.


There’s no dawn. No sun. Just a panoramic view of the black, cold spaces that stretch from one end of oblivion to the other. Sprinkled with light- each speck- a brilliant lie of hope, like a lighthouse many miles distant before drowning.

All evidence of home, obliterated before an indifferent, red giant, is contained within this life pod’s memory banks. I am the sole caretaker of this knowledge, the last of an extinct species. Time is my undertaker, in partnership with Death, who has whispered a promise he intends to keep. All my thoughts are recorded and amplified within these long silences between stars.

We saw it coming, and raced against time, sacrificing all for technology that could outrun mankind’s fatal bullet. We made a machine powerful enough to shoot men into deep space, cryogenically frozen in a box the size of a school bus to preserve man’s arrogance, or perhaps his defiance toward the inevitable- a lasting testament carved into the void that reads, ‘Man was here’.

Well, mankind had it wrong, and since I am the first and the last, and all other life pods that were launched after mine never escaped our dying sun’s grasp, then my word is also the final authority on all matters.

I wasn’t supposed to wake until reaching Alpha Centauri, our closest star system, and I will succumb to madness long before then. I continue to hear Death knocking on the door to my capsule. He’s telling me, that my debt is long past due and he’s been waiting to collect. There are no celestial maps to gather my bearings upon this infinite, black sea, no distress beacons that will be heard, no prayers that I can offer to a long absent god.

I know that I haven’t crossed a fraction of the distance needed, and yet, I am over a thousand years old.

My body continues to function in this hellish sleep-state. My mind stays awake- just a ghost in the machine.

The console continues to record my bitter thoughts. I pray these words will be my last:

Man, in all his glory and achievements, has gone through extraordinary measures to send its last remaining descendent beyond the edge of known space… to be buried alive.


“The Black Sea” Copyright © 2010 Scott Scherr. All rights reserved.

If you’re new to my blog and want to read something a bit longer, feel free to check out my ongoing serial novel, Don’t Feed The Dark, and tell me what you think: DFTD Chapter 1-1: Demon Night



We’ve made a reservation,
A vacation just for you.
The rooms are kept quite private,
To enhance your special moods.

The meds are recreational,
Provided free of charge.
We recommend you try them all,
To find your ‘shooting star’.

Dinner’s served at seven,
On the other side of time.
Don’t fret about an evening suit,
Your one-sleeve jacket’s fine.

The show tonight’s an improv,
Something from your younger days.
The stage has been sedated,
For the drama, we call, Rage.

Sit right back, enjoy the show,
We promote participation.
What was that? You’re not alone?
They’re just hallucinations.

Just listen to the pleasant voice,
Which hides inside your head.
At times the show’s quite brutal,
And the actors seem quite dead.

The doctor will come shortly,
For your dose of ‘sweet forget’.
He’ll even help you tie your shoes,
And clean up all the mess.

We ask that you return all props,
You’ve borrowed from the kitchen.
The chef will need his butcher’s knife,
For tomorrow night’s creation.

We’re pleased we could accommodate,
And fan insanity’s spark.
The theater of your mind,
Demands an encore in the dark.


“Madhouse Theater” Copyright © 2010 Scott Scherr. All rights reserved.

If you’re new to my blog and want to read something a bit longer, feel free to check out my ongoing serial novel, Don’t Feed The Dark, and tell me what you think: DFTD Chapter 1-1: Demon Night


“The Flying Dutchman” Copyright © 2010 John Ecko. All rights reserved.

If you’re new to my blog and want to read something a bit longer, feel free to check out my ongoing serial novel, Don’t Feed The Dark, and tell me what you think: DFTD Chapter 1-1: Demon Night


At dusk the tides deliver up the dead.
Appointed by the isle, I burn with blame.
One hundred forty holes I’ve dug and fed.
One hundred forty holes that curse my name.

The surf pulls sand away beneath my feet.
No mercy spared by sea for Man or grain.
She gloats before the shores of my defeat,
And taunts with crushing waves at my remains.

My mouth retains the taste of salt and death.
The sun has long since scorched my skin and sin.
Alone, but not alive, I mock each breath,
Retrieve my bloated corpse… and dig again.

Tomorrow, clock resets with number one.
My island hell won’t rest for what I’ve done.


“Survivor Damned” Copyright © 2010 Scott Scherr. All rights reserved.

If you’re new to my blog and want to read something a bit longer, feel free to check out my ongoing serial novel, Don’t Feed The Dark, and tell me what you think: DFTD Chapter 1-1: Demon Night


The multiplication of voices resounding,
Sanity’s drowning in background destroyed.
All words that once rescued from sirens surrounding,
Lost in dark frequencies, death by white noise.

I’m deaf to their footsteps now masked by tone madness,
Legions of audio demons proceed.
My senses betray me, I dance in the darkness,
Sound works in silence, infecting my dreams.

I wake in the false light, subliminal phantoms
Guide me like piper, completely deceived.
To do what they tell me, and think that I fathom
The reason my hands are now red, while you bleed.

My conscience now muted, as well as your screams,
Lost in the background, where I used to be.


“White Noise” Copyright © 2010 Scott Scherr. All rights reserved.

If you’re new to my blog and want to read something a bit longer, feel free to check out my ongoing serial novel, Don’t Feed The Dark, and tell me what you think: DFTD Chapter 1-1: Demon Night


It lingers just beyond the lie,
Distorted at the edge of eye.
Where reason fails to hush the dark,
A chill prevails, the fear is sparked.

“There’s nothing here,” such words are frail,
As goosebumps tell a different tale.
Imagination feeds the host,
Of eerie sounds that build a ghost.

And every corner hides a door,
Where shadows slide across the floor.
Footsteps creeping torment ears,
Suggestive horrors drawing near.

Then from the void a restless moan,
As panic screams, “You’re not alone!”
Betrayed by flesh now petrified,
Next day, all whisper, how you died.


“You’re Not Alone” Copyright © 2010 Scott Scherr. All rights reserved.

If you’re new to my blog and want to read something a bit longer, feel free to check out my ongoing serial novel, Don’t Feed The Dark, and tell me what you think: DFTD Chapter 1-1: Demon Night


Someone turn a light on,
There’s a darkness in my head.
I’ve been acting strangely
And I always feel half-dead.

I’m sleeping more each evening,
But my dreams fill me with dread.
Someone turn a light on,
For I wake in strangers’ beds.

Someone turn the light off,
For my conscience watched the news.
Another woman murdered,
By her bedside… were my shoes.

I woke today without them
And my clothes were bloody, too.
Someone turn the light off,
Best not know the things I do.


“Someone Turn a Light On” Copyright © 2010 Scott Scherr. All rights reserved.

If you’re new to my blog and want to read something a bit longer, feel free to check out my ongoing serial novel, Don’t Feed The Dark, and tell me what you think: DFTD Chapter 1-1: Demon Night


Note: This short horror story is unrelated to Don’t Feed The Dark.


Good old Sunday afternoon. There was nothing like kicking back with the boy and watching football in the fall. Especially when we had the place to ourselves. My wife, Susan, went to visit her mother in Akron.

We had all our required equipment at the ready: Popcorn, chips and salsa; chicken wings and pizza to be delivered shortly. We’d been conserving our voices all week for this one game and now we were ready to cheer our team on or heckle if need be (the Browns were notorious for screwing up a good football game). Either way, it would be a good time for us.

Brandon walked over to the window again, looked out and frowned.

“What, no pizza?” I asked.

My son considered his next words carefully and answered, “Sorry, Dad, I forgot. Now it’s too late, he’s coming over again.”

In our household there was no mistaking what was meant by “He”. It was our estranged neighbor, Mr. Thompson. “Please tell me you didn’t forget to rake the front yard this morning, tell me anything else but that,” I said sternly to my son.

Brandon’s eyes immediately rolled toward the floor. That was answer enough. “I said I was sorry. I meant to. I just got excited about the game and forgot.”

Before I could scold him further, Mr. Thompson began knocking on our front door.

I gave my son ‘the look’ and said, “We’ll talk about this later. You know I can’t stand talking to this guy.”

“So just don’t answer the door,” Brandon offered, then realized too late the folly in that suggestion. As an afterthought he added, “That guy gives me the creeps.”

My son was right, of course. Under normal circumstances his suggestion would have been sound, but Mr. Thompson was anything but ‘normal’. Last time we were graced by such a visit and tried to ignore the door, he knocked for over twenty minutes. Now mind you, it wasn’t a frustrated, angry or impatient knock, but a creepy, steady, almost rhythmic knock that suggested he could keep at it all day until we either answered it, or our heads imploded.

I remembered my irritation the last time I answered and how ready I was to chew my persistent neighbor a new asshole. Instead, I was overwhelmed by the man’s unnerving kindness and cheer as would surely be the case now. It’s hard to stay angry at someone who’s smothering you to death with platitudes and neighborly good will without seeming like the overreacting one. Besides, I knew enough about having bad relations with neighbors from previous homes that taught me the importance of maintaining diplomacy with people who lived that close to you. The alternatives were never pleasant.

Before opening the door, I joked with my son as Mr. Thomson continued to knock, “Sounds a little like a ZZ Top song if you listen to it long enough – Like he’s knocking to Velcro Fly all slowed down.”

“Dad,” my teenage son reminded me in typical sarcastic fashion. “You keep forgetting I’m not ancient like you. I have no idea who you’re talking about.” Then changing the subject and looking out the window toward our neighbor’s yard, Brandon smiled and said, “Dad, he got every single one! How does he do that? There’s not a single leaf left in the yard. You know what that means.”

Oh wonderful. This would be about the leaves again. There’s nothing like having a pre-game discussion about raking leaves before kick off. I could hardly wait for the half-time show. “Yeah, it means you should have done what I told you to do in the first place,” I barked. “And ZZ Top is classic rock which means everyone still remembers who they are.”

“Exactly my point, Beethoven,” Brandon laughed. “Classic rock translation: old-as-shit. Didn’t they play a concert after one of the first pyramids was built?”

“Funny man, keep it up,” I laughed. “Watch your mouth or I’ll introduce you to some ancient soap.” I couldn’t stall the inevitable any longer, so I took a deep breath and opened the door, hoping to get him off my porch as quick as possible.

As soon as I opened Pandora’s Box I was immediately assaulted with kindness. “Hello, Tom! Beautiful day today isn’t it? I know you and Brandon are looking forward to the game… should be a great one, too! How is everyone?”

I hated it when he called me by my first name. It somehow brought our relationship too close for comfort. “Hey, Mr. Thompson, yeah looks to be a beauty today, ” I rambled, then quickly got to the point. “Game is getting ready to start soon. What can I do for you?”

Mr. Thompson’s ear-to-ear smile could have been plastered on his face. He was a little man standing just over five feet tall. His unkempt hair was graying in several spots and his clothes always had the look of stains never quite coming out in the wash. He was a man who spent a lot of time in his yard and was always working on some home project. In fact, he had installed several flood lights strategically around his house so that he could work through the night if need be. There was nothing more bizarre than watching Mr. Thompson raking those damn leaves at night. That was how he kept his yard so immaculate and leaf proof. If one could look past the man’s obsession with keeping those leaves off his grass, it might be considered mildly amazing how Thompson managed to win the war of autumn leaves every year and keep his yard free of them. But for me and my son, we found it ludicrous and a waste of time. It was obvious why he was here. He was worried about the leaves… not his, mind you… but ours.

“You always get right to the point, Tom, I admire that,” Thompson responded. “Well, you know I hate to be a bother, but when I saw that Brandon forget to rake the leaves this morning, I just wanted to come by and make sure everything was okay. I am a creature of habit and routine and I got used to timing some of my yard projects around some of yours, namely the leaves–little buggers that they are. Not Brandon of course, but those leaves. No matter how many times you do it, seems those trees keep dropping more. No rest for the weary I suppose.” Thompson laughed. It was an eerie laugh that always sent a chill up my spine. The man was creepy. “I just wanted to know when Brandon was going to rake today so I could schedule my raking in, and knock out those leaves–little buggers that they are.”

“Mr. Thompson,” I started patiently, trying to get a word in. “My son forgot to do it this morning. Teenagers, you know how they can be. Fact is, between the game this afternoon and other plans, Brandon probably won’t get around to it again until tomorrow.”

For a moment, there was a slight crack in the plaster of that man’s smile. It was only there a second, but I saw it, and it made me uncomfortable.

“I see,” Thompson said as he looked toward the border of our leaf infested yard kissing his.

He was obviously troubled by this. I thought to say something funny to make light of the whole leaf issue, but that look that crossed his face made me think twice and I stayed silent.

Then that plaster smile returned as Thompson said, “Well, sometimes it just can’t be helped, I suppose.” He looked back at me and asked in what almost felt like an interrogator demanding an answer from his captive tone, “Will he be back on schedule with the leaves tomorrow then?”

I was beginning to get irritated by the pushy little man. However, I did not desire to start an argument about those silly leaves, and the game was about to start, so I gave Thompson whatever he needed to get him off my porch. I lied and said, “Oh yeah, sure thing. Brandon will be raking them tomorrow. Not to worry.”

That seemed to please the leaf nut as he looked back toward his yard and said, “Very good then. You know, I heard on the weather channel they’re calling for a windy evening. That’s just the kind of weather that gets all those little buggers blowing everywhere. Can’t have that now, can we?” Mr. Thompson laughed again. He had a way of speaking as if he forgot you were there and sounding like he was having a conversation with himself. He was definitely a creepy guy. Thomson finished, “I’ll get out of your hair now, I’m sure the game is waiting. Say hello to Susan for me.”

Thompson departed and I thankfully closed the door and commended myself for not losing my cool.

“What’s with those silly leaves?” Brandon asked, watching from the window.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Some people just have their ways is all. He doesn’t like leaves, like we don’t like the Ravens, now let’s watch some football!”

“Sounds good. I called the pizza guy again, they should be here soon.”

As I walked by the window, I stopped long enough to see Mr. Thompson standing at the edge or our lawns, staring up at the clouds rolling in. Again, the plaster smile was gone.

“Dad, I guess that means I’m raking tomorrow then?”

I looked away for a moment, then returned to the window. Thompson was now staring right at me with a look that could kill a man. Fucking creepy. The wind was increasing as our leaves began to trespass into his yard. Thompson noticed this, looked away, and began to scoop them up and place them in a leaf bag.

I closed the curtains and responded, “Screw those leaves! They can wait and that nut can just deal with a few of our leaves blowing on to his precious lawn.” We laughed the matter off and turned on the game.


Later that night, my son woke me from a sound sleep at 3:15 in the morning.

“Brandon, what’s the matter?”

“Dad,” Brandon whispered. “That guy’s got all his flood lights on. I can’t sleep cause one’s shining right in my window. I looked outside and all the leaves were gone.”

Rubbing sleep from my eyes and shaking off disorientation, I said, “Okay, just go down and sleep on the couch, I’ll talk to him tomorrow about the light thing. Just get some-”

“No, Dad,” Brandon interrupted. “You’re not hearing me. When I said all the leaves are gone, I meant our leaves are gone, too! That creepy guy has been up all night raking leaves in our yard as well as his. Don’t you find that strange?”

“Is he still out there?” I asked.

Brandon looked scared. He walked over to the bedroom door to grab something I hadn’t noticed before. He came back and laid it at the foot of my bed.

“Where did you find that?” I asked him as we both looked at Mr. Thompson’s rake.

My son hesitated, then whispered, “Dad, I found it in my room!”


“Mr. Thompson’s Obsession” Copyright © 2012 Scott Scherr. All rights reserved.

If you’re new to my blog and want to read something a bit longer, feel free to check out my ongoing serial novel, Don’t Feed The Dark, and tell me what you think: DFTD Chapter 1-1: Demon Night


Note: This short horror story is unrelated to Don’t Feed The Dark.


Nature’s psychopath raised its voice, letting loose another chorus of thunder, promising terror and destruction with each boisterous note, while slashing at the sky with bolts of razor-sharp light.

Jonathan Sanders, age ten, retreated into the cavern of blankets, as the madman roared by.  The murdered moon offered no comfort; its corpse allowing shifting shadows to linger in the unfamiliar darkness consuming his bedroom.  Jonathan was well aware of what to expect–the man in the closet loved to visit him on nights such as these.

Was that a scratching sound at the closet door?

And so the ritual resumed:  “Mom!  Dad!” As if their names were verbal talismans keeping the monster in check, he called out again.  “Mom!  Dad!  Come in here, quick.”

Footsteps from down the hall. Would they make it this time?

Lightning flashed.  The eyes of his Buzz Lightyear action figure shifted his direction; the coat on the chair grew taller, closer; objects scattered on the floor had moved since the last flash; the doorknob on the closet door–turning ever so slightly–was the only time he trusted his eyes.  Imagination was a liar in the dark.  Jonathan knew this as surely as he knew that the man in the closet was real.

The air felt heavy, oppressive.  Shadows congregated around his bed like vultures predicting their next meal, like pedestrians at the scene of a crime that hasn’t happened yet.

Like a dreadful pause before a predator struck, the silence was unnerving and amplified the guttural, inhuman demand that came from the closet:

Johnny come.  Open door.

He couldn’t tell if the man spoke from the closet or was whispering in his head.  Either way, it always sounded close. 


The bedroom door swung open.  Light from the hallway chased off the shadows as his father filled the doorway, the annoyance on his face evident.  “What is it, Son?  The storm?”

No answer.

His father’s shoulders sagged.  “Oh, him again.”

Jonathan nodded.  He’d hoped his mother would follow.  Not tonight.  It was the unbeliever’s turn to placate his son’s fears.  And that was always dangerous.

His mother never concerned herself with the man in the closet.  She understood, in a way only mothers do, how to fight monsters, or at least, how to starve them.  She would come and sing songs, tell stories, make him laugh; and like a magician, she somehow made the fear disappear.  And without the fear, the man in the closet could not stay.

His father played with fire, often challenging the man by threatening to open the closet door.  If his father chose that route again, Jonathan would have to talk him out of it.

“Ok, Johnny, let’s settle this once and for all, okay?”

Oh, that didn’t sound good at all.

“Let’s start with the bed.”  His father bent down to examine the one-foot space beneath the bed.

That was silly.  What monster could fit under there?  Maybe a small one, at best, and nothing to be concerned about.

“Nope.  Nothing under here.”

The lights.  Why does he always forget to turn on the lights?

His father walked the perimeter of the small room, yawning while rubbing sleep from his eyes.

I wonder how much he didn’t see on his “sleepy” patrol.

“Okay, all’s clear.  Just one more place to check.”  His father always ended up at the closet last.  This would seem cruel if Jonathan thought it was deliberate.  Dramatic, maybe, but not deliberate.  His father moved toward the door.

“Don’t do it, Dad,” Jonathan warned.

Even with his back turned, his father’s heavy sigh spoke volumes.  “Come on, Johnny.  There’s nothing in there.  Let me show you and-”

“If there’s nothing in there, then that’s great.  But what’s opening that closet going to prove if you’re wrong?”

“What a strange question, Son.  Isn’t the answer obvious?”


“If the closet’s empty and you see that it’s empty, then you’ll know there’s nothing to fear.”

“You said ‘if’.”

His father’s impatience was growing.  “I didn’t mean ‘if’.  ‘When’, Son, that’s what I meant.  Your old dad’s just tired.”

Tired of dealing with his chicken son’s irrational fears.

“It’s still an unnecessary risk,” Jonathan said.

“What the heck are you talking about?”

“If the closet’s empty, than we’re fine.  But if it’s not-”

“If it’s not then your old man’s gonna kick some Boogeyman butt!”

Jonathan gasped.  “Don’t say that!  Don’t ever call him that.  It makes him stronger. Makes him more… monster-like.  He’s just the man in the closet.”

“Son, you’re being silly.  I’m gonna show you how silly, right now.”  His father reached for the door knob.

“He’s way bigger than you, Dad.  So don’t open that door!”

“Keep your voice down!  What’s the matter with you?”

Jonathan couldn’t stop.  “You’re the matter with me.  I call you in to help and you want to let the man out.  How does that make any sense?”

“Son, there’s nothing in there.”

“Then leave nothing alone.”

“Don’t get smart.”

“Then stop being stupid.”

“What did you just say to me?”

“Dad, you want to fight the man, but your tactics suck.  He’s big, powerful, scary-as-hell, and you’re wearing striped pajamas.  Who would you bet on?”

His father looked down at himself and laughed.  “Well, your mom thinks I look pretty scary in these.”

Jonathan giggled.  “That’s the way, Dad.  That’s how you make him go.”

His father sighed again.  “Come on, Johnny, enough is enough.”

Nuts, we almost got out of that one.  Think fast.  “You say the closet’s empty.  How do you know?”


“Prove it.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do, Son.  Just let me open the door and you’ll have all the proof needed.”

“No, that’s not a good idea.  Proof is what you show to convince me that he’s not there.  Opening the closet just proves that either you or me is right.  And I know I’m right.”

“You’re letting your fears get the best of you.”

“What if I told you there was a burglar in the house?  Would you go chasing after him or call the police?”

“Well, I would call the police, of course.”

“So I tell you there’s something worse than a burglar in the closet and you want to let him out.  How does that make sense?”

“Okay, Johnny, prove to me then, that your man is in the closet.  Have you seen him?”

Johnny paused.  “No.”

“So he hasn’t stormed out of this closet and say… tried to eat you, or anything like that?”

“That’s not funny, Dad.”

“Come on, Son.  I’m just trying to get you to see how silly this all is.”

Jonathan paused again, his face growing pale.  “Death.  He looks like death.”

His father stared at him for a long moment.  “So, you think that Death is behind this door?”


“How would you know what Death looks like if you haven’t seen it?”

“I don’t.  That’s what he told me.”

“The man in the closet speaks to you?”


“Johnny, how can you possibly expect me to believe that?”

Jonathan’s eyes lit up.  “I can prove it.”

His father folded his arms.  “Can you now?  Well, please go ahead and tell me.  I’m all ears.”

“He told me about you and Uncle Jim.”

“Okay, explain?”

“He told me that he remembers you; he remembers the game you and Uncle Jim used to play to scare each other when you were both my age.”

Jonathan’s father remained silent.

“He said that you and Uncle Jim would dare each other to go and open the closet door and call his name when you both did something bad.  But neither of you ever opened the door.  You were both too scared.  The man was always disappointed that you didn’t.  He said he would’ve swallowed both of you up if you had because you tortured Mrs. Henderson’s cat and tossed it in a garbage can and lit fireworks-”

“Johnny, you’re beginning to scare me a little.  Who’s been telling you stories.  Your mom?”

“He also said he tried to get you and Uncle Jim years later when you were at some party.  Said that after you got some girl drunk and had sex with her, he was right there with you both.  Waiting in the dark.  Said he took the girl instead.”

“Johnny, that’s enough!” His father was visibly disturbed.  He and his brother Jim had never told anyone that story.  To this day, the whereabouts of the girl, Samantha Jones, are still unknown.  It was believed she left the party drunk, tried to hitch a ride home and someone picked her up.  His brother swore him to secrecy about that night and said the cops would blame them for her disappearance if they knew what they’d done to her while she slept.

“Johnny, I’m very tired,” his father nearly whispered. “I’m going to open this door now and put an end to all this nonsense.”

“Dad, don’t!  I’m not strong enough.  Let’s just go to your room tonight.  I promise I’ll go right to sleep.  After the storm’s over, the man will just leave.  He always does.”

“Son, you’re getting far too old to be afraid of the Boogeyman.”


“Oh, stop it!” his father shouted.  “I said it:  Boogeyman, Boogeyman, Boogeyman!  So there!”

“You don’t know what you’ve done!  I’m not strong enough anymore, Dad.”

“Strong enough for what?  To look into an empty closet and get over your irrational fears?  Enough talk.”  His father reached for the door knob, surprised at seeing his own hand shaking, and opened the closet door.

“No, Dad!  You don’t understand. It doesn’t want me… I’m not strong enough to protect you anymore!”

Jonathan’s father looked back from the mouth of the open closet, stared into the face of his son, and saw the truth at last.  Johnny’s terror-filled eyes staring beyond him and into the darkness was all the proof he needed to realize his tragic mistake.

Something groaned from behind him.  Johnny’s father turned slowly, returning instantly to his youth, as a presence within the closet reminded him of every bad thing he’d ever done–reminded him instantly that he had been there, watching, waiting, and now finally, the man in the closet welcomed him home.


Several hours passed before the police finally departed.  There was still no trace of Jonathan’s father who’d apparently fled the house after scaring the daylights out of his son.  Possible abuse was suspected but quickly ruled out upon examination of the boy.

Jonathan hadn’t spoken a word since his mother found him screaming at the foot of his closet door.  The paramedics had to sedate him in route to the hospital.

To make matters worse, another missing persons report flagged red in the police database matching Mr. Sanders’ name.   An hour earlier, prior to Jonathan’s father disappearing, James Sanders, Jonathan’s uncle, had also mysteriously vanished in the dead of night from three states away.


“Boogeyman”  Copyright © 2012 Scott Scherr.  All rights reserved.

If you’re new to my blog and want to read something a bit longer, feel free to check out my ongoing serial novel, Don’t Feed The Dark, and tell me what you think: DFTD Chapter 1-1: Demon Night