I Am A Horrible Nightmare

As I am walking with my mom to those big, scary double wooden doors, I am nervous to see how the rest of the boys turned out. A month before they called us, I was finally forgetting what happened on that island, and returning to society. I shudder as I remember that last day on that island, how we were all chasing poor Ralph and the look on his face. I remember running through the creepers, just on Ralph’s tail with the others. I wish I could forget all of the sounds I heard, the crazy laughter from some of the boys as we got closer, my own heavy breathing from running, and oh, the wild screams from those boys. I stop thinking about that part of the day as my stomach starts to hurt and I feel like I am going to throw up. While all of us boys

“It was December and the weather bitterly cold. She was a tiny mite, the size of five years, though, as afterward appeared, she was then nine. From a pan set upon a low stool she stood washing dishes, struggling with a frying pan about as heavy as herself. Across the table lay a brutal whip of twisted leather strands and the child's meagre arms and legs bore many marks of its use. But the saddest part of her story was written on her face in its look of suppression and misery, the face of a child unloved, of a child that had seen only the fearsome side of life. These things I saw while seeming not to see, and I left without speaking to, or of, the child. I never

Kids raced past me as I gradually walked to the wooden doors. I glanced around but couldn’t see any familiar faces. Hatred spiraled up in me as I stood there and watched them. They seemed calm, as if nothing had happened. How could they just walk by without saying a word? My mind was still in denial of what had just happened.

Picture a nine or ten year old, roving the backwoods of Ohio with his friends. One of them had just finished telling a story about how some kids had went missing-- presumed dead, in that very spot. Suddenly, an echo resounds, the sound of snapping branches, heralding the approach of a masked killer. Hearts pounding like a church choir, all of the boys spirit away as fast as they can, shaken to the very core, as their older friend emerges from the brush “Huh, I wonder what that was about”. As is evident in the name, the horror genre, to its credit, is full of stories about children being threatened or harmed in someway, because what’s more horrific than the future being stricken in some way? Just look at the work of

“Mama, cover doors and windows. Everyone go to the bedroom, and put your masks on,” I directed, calmly. When I got to the bedroom, everyone was huddled around each other, with a white cloth on their face. Suddenly, the room became dark. You could hear the heavy breathing of everyone in the room, yet you couldn’t see anyone. The storm felt like it lasted for days, but only really lasted a few minutes. When I got back to the dining room table, I saw a letter on the table from the bank.

The floors, the wooden stairwells, the roof, the ceilings and the wooden partitions all came down. However, the greatest damage was the loss of life. The authors make the reader relive one of the most horrific nightmares, the death of the innocent. Every story of the death of a child is a tragedy, but what makes this one particularly sad is that the disaster occurred in a place where parents and the society assumed that the children were safe. The authors say, “When parents sent their children off to learn in such structures, they usually did so without a second thought to safety, assured by routine that their youngsters would return home safely at the end

As he stomped down the hall dressed in all black, I timidly stepped to the other side of the hallway with my head down avoiding any type of interaction. When the sounds of boots and chains faded away, I was overwhelmed with relief. Nothing had calmed me more than this instant; nothing had been more soothing than the sound of pure nothingness. The fear that came over me was like being trapped in a small room with no way out. I felt helpless, defenseless, like something was going to happen to me in that hallway with the boy dressed in black.

The closet door creaked open to reveal the pale and frail girl, curled in a ball, her cheeks wet and hair a mess. Margot’s hands, which were clenched into tight fists, were a raw red color from beating the unyielding door, and dry sobs wracked her whole body. If possible, her dull blue eyes were duller than before. “Margot?” one of the girls cried out softly.

The faint sound of a child’s desperate cry was heard through the cracks of our door and it was not a surprise to hear another piercing scream in the break of daylight. This was a sound we heard daily while wondering who the next victim was. Her status in society towered over other ranked class, seemingly respected and admired person. As I observed every child shiver in fear of her existence, my resolve only

Furthermore, standing in between the young screaming girl and the dying boy is another young boy watching his friend yanked to his demise. The boy’s eyes are widened and is shown to be screeching as he sees his friend being pulled down the slide against his will. This child’s reaction is pivotal because he represents not only fear and pain we all have to watch our own loved ones die without a choice, but the panic it also instills in oneself about their own death.

“Who are you asking?” Asked Mike, “Mariah Lopez!” Shaun replied. Everybody nodded their head in agreement. “That’s right, Mariah Lopez.” Shaun carried on bragging about her special features. “You know she has a sister right,” looking at me. “Nope, I’m good.” I replied. “Well who are you asking then?” asked Mike. “I don’t know yet!” I answered. I’m taking Stacy Porter, announced Chris. I looked shocked, because I just told him last night I was going to ask her. Stacy Porter was 5”4’, light skinned, hazel eyes, white teeth and arched eyebrows. She was simply gorgeous. “So, Mell (short for Germell) who are you going to ask?” They all asked sounding like a local band hitting the same note at once. “Oh, I’m going to ask (it was dead silence for about five seconds), suddenly the bell rang for class. I walked away leaving them puzzled. As I was walking away, I heard Chris say in a conniving tone “alright we’ll meet right back here after class.”

When she awoke the skies were gray and gloomy, the air suddenly was cold and felt as though it could cut like a knife. Something felt out of place, but Lori could not put her finger on it. Her feet hit the floor, and began looking around only to see that she is all alone.The place that once was warm and welcoming now is all but that. The frail girl screams loudly, when there is no reply, she knew something must be terribly wrong.

The children unlocked the door. With tears on her face, Margot slowly walked towards the door and pushed it lightly. The kids glanced at each other, wondering who was going to tell her about the event. They all felt extremely guilty.“We….um”, one of them started.

There are many fears which lies in the human’s mind, but being alone is the worst fear of all. There is a middle aged man named Charles Dickerson, who is stuck by himself with no way out. While growing up, the Dickerson family was living a normal life until a day comes which tears their family apart. On the night of Friday 13, 1985 their house flew up into flames with only one way out, the front door. This wasn’t no ordinary house, this house had eyes and a mouth and had actions as if it were a human. The house’s eyes would be staring at you during your sleep and get inside of your head and made you have a terrible nightmare. While sitting alone in the darkness, you could be hearing people talk but no human being is here. While Charles’s dad was trying to get them out of the enormous flames, the house came alive it seemed and all the windows and door shut and locked and wasn’t going to open for no body. It’s like the house wanted the whole family to die. After the fire, Charles found himself hiding in his closet without any burns or even a mark of harm. When he came out in search of his family, he found himself looking at their burned bodies and wondering why nothing happened to him. This was the start of Charles Dickerson’s worst nightmare.

I was three when my mother packed her five little girls into a taxi with only clothes enough to keep us warm, in the wee morning hours of that cold Illinois January. Three years, and five days old. The night before the police had come once again. I can still remember one of the officers coming upstairs to make sure my sisters and I were okay. It’s strange, but I don’t remember any fear, either of the violent fight that brought them to our house, or of the dark figure blocking the light to my hiding place, reaching out strange hands to gather me up and put me back into bed. I had learned–even then–to stop fearing, go somewhere else, and let one of The Others live the reality of what was. I also don’t remember the cold of that night, as it flooded our house through the window broken by my father in his drunken rage. That it was cold, I know. That we had to leave, I accept.