's 2015 Horror Write-off:

1 New Message

Submitted by Echo Lavender

I know I shouldn't say anything. They wouldn't like me to. They've been watching. Listening to me. Tracking my every movement. Yeah, you can laugh it up saying shit like, "Alex you sound crazy!" or, "Are you a psycho or are you just trying to pull a really shitty prank on me?"

And what really fucking sucks about this is that I can't even tell if I'm imagining it anymore. I thought for sure the creeping sense of being watching, that I wasn't alone, etcetera, was just my paranoia acting up again when it first happened. But listen! Just stop for a second and listen, okay? Don't delete this message. I'm serious. It's not my paranoia, and that's the thing that really gets me. It's like they saw me and went, "Hey, no one's gonna believe this sucker anyway. She's super unstable already. No one will notice the difference."

I feel... totally alone.

I know that sounds really stupid after I literally just told you about being monitored, but it's true. It's almost like my family and friends subconsciously recognize that there's something wrong and are isolating me on purpose.

But still, there's the sense of their presence. I can't totally describe it, but it's like.... Like if you were on live T.V. and knew it, but the equipment was just filming you on its own. Or as if your life was in danger every time you broke "the rules".

They're not outright stated. Of course not; that'd just be too fucking easy for me. I have to play it by ear and hope I don't piss them off.

It started with the scratching, a few days ago. I had been working on an essay at the last minute (pulling an all-nighter) when I got hungry. So naturally, I rolled to the edge of my bed and started to gently put my feet on the floor. As it turned out, this was a terrible idea, as my heart was instantly gripped my an ice-cold terror. I was paralyzed, eyes glued to the space under the door as my pulse raced. It got louder and louder until I could swear they'd hear it. That was when they started whispering in my head, using the voices of my brother, my sister, my moms.... They were asking me to open the door, telling me it was alright, that I could trust them. I was shaking at this point, and the minute I started hearing the telltale click of the doorknob being turned, I yanked my foot back onto the bed and sat completely still. The fear was dissolved instantly, but my anxiety wouldn't leave me just yet. I asked them....

Well, to be completely honest, I whispered. I was so scared. I'm still so scared. God, I wish I could just face them but I feel so weak, like.... Like they have complete control of my actions; like we're all just the fleshy puppets of some infantile cosmic being, our fates already written by the fucking "crayons of fate" or some shit. God, do you even hear me right now? I sound nuts. No wonder no one else has returned my calls yet. I've been waiting, but it usually goes to voicemail, and you know no one ever listens to their voicemail... anyway. Where was I?

Oh yeah, the bed. Ugh, that thing gives me the creeps now. I asked them what they'd have me do if I couldn't leave the room to eat. They didn't answer, but the longer I waited for their answer, the itchier my scalp was. This struck me as particularly weird ‘cause I'd just taken a shower a few hours before. I scratched my head, and ate the skin that came off under my nails. Disgusting, I know, but I wasn't the one doing that. It was one of them. They pushed my hand toward my mouth and I guess I got my answer.

As obvious as it may seem, skin isn't the most filling meal. Especially not when it's picked off in flakes. But I just, like I- I couldn't stop picking. I could feel myself rubbing my scalp raw, and even bleeding in some places, but I just kept going; picking and picking at my skin until my stomach stopped rumbling. They at least understand that much about us. That we've gotta be fed, I mean.

That's not even the worst thing they've had me do. I'm still on my bed while I'm saying this, and I'm really hoping speech-to-text is still working on my phone and gets all this. I've still got that and my laptop, even if I can't go anywhere else. But.

Okay, listen. I think we both know you weren't my first choice, but please. Please, I'm begging you, please help me. I need to get out of here. Out of this house, brain, whatever, I don't fucking care anymore I just want to leave. I want to see the sun again, dude. It feels like it's been months. Maybe years. Like, I know I said it's only been a few days, but I'm going by the calendar on my clock; honestly, who knows if that even has the right date. Maybe this is all an illusion. Maybe I am going insane.


There's a shotgun under the third cushion of the white couch in the living room. It's on the first floor right when you walk in. You can't miss it. If you get this message, I want you to vroom no not vroom you piece of crap, UGH. I was just clearing my throat and it won't let me delete that part. Uh... right. I want you to walk upstairs to my room and shoot me in the head.


It's got to be better than this. Anything would be better. I don't know how long I can stand this.