Bizarre Short Stories & Independence Detective Novels

My younger sister, Angela Schrute, got married at 20. By 21, she already had a child. I'm Elizabeth Schrute, 27 years old, and still unmarried. Over the years, I've brought home a few boyfriends. But every time the subject of marriage comes up, my father, Michael Scrute, will take them into his study. I don't know what he said to them. But whenever they come out of that room, they will turn cold and frightening. It's like their hands are itching to wrap around my throat and squeeze the life out of me. My latest boyfriend thinks Dad is being unreasonable… until he follows him into the study. When he emerges, his eyes burn with rage. He breaks up with me on the spot and slaps me. Twice. I still can't figure it out. What is it that drives each of them away? And what secret is hiding in Dad's study?

I opened my eyes to a sharp sting in my arm. Pushing up my sleeve, I froze. A dense line of jagged letters had been carved into the skin of my right forearm: [This house has monsters! Every time I'm killed, I'm thrown into a loop and lose all my memories. With each death, I mark my hand.] Beneath the warning, three crooked tally marks were etched deep into my arm.

During a long holiday, my husband booked flights for a family vacation. On the way to the airport, I suddenly saw numbers appearing on everyone’s head. The numbers on my husband’s head indicated sixty years, but my parents and I had only six hours indicated on our heads. While I was puzzled over the meaning of those numbers, I noticed that the driver next to us only had six seconds indicated over his head through the car window. Five… Four… Three… Two… One. When the number turned zero, a massive truck immediately rammed into the car next to us. I saw flickers of fire, flesh and blood exploding before my eyes. People were screaming for help, but I could not hear anything. I trembled as cold sweat drenched my entire body. It was because my flight would be taking off in six hours.

Chloe, the maid I share a room with, is dead. I watched the head housekeeper and another maid pin her to the floor. I watched them as the housekeeper vomited up a slimy, black web of fungus and forced it down Chloe's throat. I should have screamed. I wanted to. But my selective mutism took over, trapping the sound in my throat. It probably saved my life. The next day, Chloe was alive again. She walked into the young miss’s room to brush her hair, just like always. I was so scared I dropped the water basin I was holding. As I stood there, frozen, the young miss leaned in close, her voice a whisper only I could hear. "You've noticed it too, haven't you? They're not themselves anymore."

As Christmas drew near, my little sister claimed she’d seen Santa Claus in the house. “He had four legs, real long, like dead branches. He crawled on the floor like a dog. His mouth was full of teeth, and I saw him with my own eyes, climbing out of the chimney. His bones were making this clicking, clacking sound.” The Santa she described was nothing like the legends. My parents and I thought it was just her imagination. Until I posted about it online. A user named “NocturneNotes” insisted my sister wasn’t lying, and that the thing was dangerous. Panicked, I asked him what we should do. He gave me three rules: “On Christmas Eve, from 11:30 PM to 2:00 AM, the entire family must ‘sleep’ by the Christmas tree.” “You can’t actually fall asleep, or you’ll die in your sleep.” “No matter what you hear or feel, you absolutely cannot open your eyes or stop pretending to be asleep. Once it hits 2:00 AM, it will leave on its own.”

My grandmother only knows how to draw one thing—infants. They're ugly, but people line up to buy the paintings. I watch as she takes those women into unlit rooms. Then, their bloodcurdling screams will ring out. Oddly enough, they always thank my grandmother when they're leaving. One day, I finally find out what exactly my grandmother paints. I discover the truth when I see an infant crawl out of one of the women's bellies—it looks just like the one my grandmother has painted.

My wife, Alayna Watson, is childish as ever even though we've been married for eight years. From time to time, she'll use her prank toys on me just to trick me. Oftentimes, I just toss the toys into the store without thinking much about them. A few days later, when I'm cleaning the house, I suddenly remember the box that Alayna has pranked me with, so I decide to throw it away. When I open the lid, I smell a foul odor wafting from within the box. A severed arm lies quietly there. I slump to the floor instantly out of alarm and shock. With trembling fingers, I manage to call 911. When the DNA results are out, the police officer shows a weird and conflicted expression. "Sir, the DNA we've extracted from this arm… belongs to Alayna Watson."”

I am a miserable nurse. During the Halloween season, there was a three day break but I was not given any days off. Upset, I decided to join a game featuring a haunted hospital. There was an old man wrapped in IV tubes chasing after a player. I sprinted forward and shoved him into the chair. After effortlessly jabbing the IV line back in him, I told him off, "It’s just an IV drip, not an action movie. Sit. Down. Move again and I’ll strap you to the chair!" The old man did a double take before blinking in a flustered manner. "Sorry for causing you trouble, ma'am." At night, children ghosts began to run and laugh wildly in the corridor. I grabbed one in each hand and hauled them up. "If you’re not going to stay put in the ward, I’ll give you an injection!" Why did I still have to work in a game? I was so tired. The other players cried out, "Clem! That's a ghost. Are you not scared?" I sneered, "Sorry, but burnt-out workers hold more grudges than ghosts ever could."

My deskmate has been giving me odd looks lately. She's been keeping her distance from me and avoiding me at all costs. It's the same when we go to the cafeteria for lunch or during class. One day, I can't take it anymore. I grab her and ask, "Have I done something to offend you?" She trembles in fear and staggers backward, putting distance between us. Her gaze darts around shiftily. "No, you're not the problem!" Yet after that, she transfers to a different class. I'm confused by this and want to ask her about it, so I head to her new classroom. I stand at the door and watch as she chats leisurely with someone else. Suddenly, she shudders and screams in horror. "This really has nothing to do with you! Please, leave me alone!"

I set fire to my painting in front of the entire academy. Thunderous applause erupts from the crowd as everyone thinks it's some kind of performance art. Unlike them, Willow Laurent is distraught. She rushes up and grabs my hand, questioning in a shrill voice, "Cassidy Seymour, have you gone mad? This is your only chance to prove yourself!" I shake her hand off me coldly. My only chance? No… What she means is that it's her chance. In my past life, I created this masterpiece with all my heart and soul. But she stole it from me and submitted it as her entry first. Whether it was the composition, the colors, or even my original dot-stippling technique… She replicated every detail flawlessly. Then, she won the National Young Artists Gold Award, signed with a top gallery, and became a rising star. And what about me? I was condemned as a shameless plagiarist. Insults and curses gradually drowned me. "You shouldn't be an artist!" "Plagiarists are scum! They should just die!" Her fans stormed into my studio, smashed my art supplies, and broke my right hand. As I saw no end to the hell that I was living in, I jumped down from the top floor of my studio. When I open my eyes again, I'm back to the very day she first accuses me of plagiarism.