's 2018 Horror Write-off:

Through A Tiny Window

Submitted by Jac R. B.

Its time. A young man goes off to see a house he's seen online. He intends to buy, its a new start for him after all. He arrived to a delightful home, it seems kept well despite the years. It creaks loudly as the wind sways under grey skies. The seller invites him in. The house is wonderful, 3 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, fully furnished with working appliances and plumbing. The pipes rumbled fiercely as he passed through the walls. The house was very cheap, very secluded, just as he liked it. Towards the end of exploring this lovely home, he notices something in that backmost wall, almost obscured by the surrounding furniture and covered with a towel.

A tiny window.

He asks about it first, but the seller denies any knowledge of it.

The house groans loudly.

They take the towel off to get a good look at the view...


The trees bowed in, and they bent back out. No one had disturbed them in over a century.

It was perfect.

They discussed what to do about their little "pet project" that had gone so wrong, not with words, but still more direct, more accurate and precise than any communication we could know. They bred us to make as much of their sustenance as we could, they were the ones who infected us with such cruelty, who forced some of us to turn on their own flesh and blood.

They though it was perfect, In our anger we would spill blood for them to feed, in our pride we would make smog for them to breathe, with but a tiny reward we would propogate them far and wide without second thought. In their own infinite hubris they never thought that the cruelty and evil they inflicted would come back to them. But it did, and they were angry. How dare we, the mere worms that we were, chop them down. How dare we kill our masters en masse to build our homes, to heat them, to be fed upon the lowliest of insects That they hated.

They hatched their new plan. We are too fast yes, and they are hoping just for that. They can wait, they have all the time in the world. All it takes is A little effort for them, Sure they may die, but they have their dignity paving way for a desert.

If we were to turn on our masters, they were going to take us with them.


We finally made it. Signs of alien life. We ventured out past our star systems and colonies. The signal started strong for the longest time, a little corrupted by the trip, but otherwise instantly recognizable, "We're here!" It called out to us. And so we followed. As we approached it stopped completely. There was no explanation for it, but it did not hinder the journey. We knew our destination, and we were eager to reach out.

When we made, it there was nothing.

A scorched world of ruins, not even the colonies on nearby worlds made it. We wanted to touch down to investigate, but the world was too damaged, too volatile, too radioactive.

We sent our drones and rovers. Those who made it sent back images of a war torn world. The propaganda, the depravity, it was horrific, and sickeningly familiar.

The haunting image of families holding each other in one last goodbye silhouetted on the walls. Civilians caught in the crossfire of those above them who toyed with forces they shouldnt have.

We were distraught. We looked inward. It was too similar, too familiar. These were the same structures we have made. We saw evidence of revolts, those who didnt want a world of misery, and those who were quickly silenced for it. Their bodies still on display by the state as a warning. Even the bunkers were dug up. We thought of ourselves, before looking to our own masters. They denied any link of course, they shorn any connection. They used broken half truths to justify themselves even though we could see the results of their exact plans. The masters thought we would forget, that it would die down and theyd have control again, but then the next world was found, and the fourth, and the fifth.

All the same. Shattered. Charred. Broken. War torn worlds with blood soaked grounds.

Was this fate? Is it simply fate that everyone comes this far? Where does the circumstance start and the malicious plan end? We couldnt look outward anymore, we had to look in.

We had to try to fight against fate.

But our masters didnt like that.


Little sally lived in a house on the hill. She lived there for A long time with her mother. Mama sally was a very pretty lady, but she lived all by her lonesome, just her and sally. Sally's house was very pretty, it was pale pink with beautiful flowers outside, it had a door sided by two windows that made it seem almost like a happy face. Inside was a clean home.

If you walk down the hall you saw such wonderful wallpaper, a pretty and green potted plant, framed tests each with a perfect score,

and a belt hanging from a nail.

If you went further in, you might find a lovely small kitchen with cabinets full of beautiful fine china.

Very expensive, very Fragile, fine china. And just through the door to the left, a livingroom with a warm fireplace that was surrounded by pictures. Pictures of Mama sally and her little girl.

Torn pictures.

Up the wooden stairs and down the hall, right past Mama's room was Sally's room. It was a plain room, plain wallpaper, a bed and table, a closet and a stool. The carpet was a light pink and an area rug was right in front of the door. Sally's bed was always perfectly set and made. Always.

Sally went to a school and everyone loved her. To her teachers she was a delight, to the kids she was a friend, even the kids who got picked on found themselves stood up for by her. Why, she even got an A on her big test! What a wonderful thing to show mama sally on parent teacher night tonight!

But mama was only happy when people thought she was happy and sally knew that too.


The truth was, the house was angry. It was hateful. It showed horrible things with its only eyes to the world. it gnashed its wooden edges like broken teeth. It hated the two insolent men within, and this was the only way it could let them know. How dare they darken its halls. But the house's plan worked and the young man left quickly. The seller was never able to sell. The house was once again alone, just as it had been years ago. It thought for a moment, creaking amd groaning as it was beaten by a cold wind. It could still feel the bile in its boiler. How dare they come to them as if they just had the right to use them without second thought. But the house began to cool, and it considered, what would it like to be lived in again? To have a warm chimney and a bright face lighting its halls once more? The house shuddered and creaked. Perhaps it had lost its opportunity forever, but then it felt it again. It was like a crack, and then a burn. The bile rose up in its boiler once more, and again it looked into its little window.

Someone was home, and the house hated that.