Turn The Screw Novels & Stories

” She instructed, and I did what she said. I pulled the stick about ten times with ease, and Caris stopped me to change the location of the screw before instructing me to pull at the bar again. It required me to use more force, but it was still doable. Caris smiled and nodded, noticing the adjustments were spot on.

My aunt and uncle dragged my parents aside. “Shut up! One more word and you’re out of my house!” Since this was the final round, the room fell into a suffocating silence, quiet enough that a pin drop would echo. At the same time, Taylor and I picked up our dice cups, and the crisp clatter of dice bouncing inside filled the room. She stared at me dead in the eye. Neither of us wanted to put our cup down first. My arm was starting to go numb from shaking. I couldn’t be bothered to drag it out anymore and shouted, “Open!”

Shania and I decided on Samuel Turner, a marketing manager at Shania's company. Samuel was younger than Lucille and about six years younger than me. I had gotten to know him through a random dinner event in the past. I had formed a deep impression of him because of his good looks and how smart he was at handling all sorts of situations. Later on, I got to know from Shania that he was also very competent at work. He had managed to get his position as marketing manager within a year of joining the company.

They were gear teeth hidden in the concrete. ​"It’s a dial," Damian realized. "The entire press is a combination lock." ​I reached for the massive flywheel. It was cold, the iron biting into my palms. I didn't need a code; I needed a rhythm. I turned it three rotations to the left the "Vance" turn. Then, I stepped back and let Damian take the handle. ​"Now you," I whispered. "The Thorne turn. Four rotations to the right. The partner’s weight."

Surviving was the ultimate revenge. I started from the bottom, scavenged for scraps, rationed myself to one bun a day, and even dragged my injured legs through the city. When the pain became unbearable, I held myself tight and bore with it. I even wrapped my bleeding wounds with whatever rags I had. As the coins in my hand slowly added up, nearing the sum I needed for treatment, a long-lost smile crept across my face. That day, a buddy of mine who picks up recyclables around gave me a shout. He told me about that massive movie theater opening up, looking for folks to come clean the place. He said there would be a ton of empty bottles to snag afterwards.

She fumed more seeing Sarah's calm appearance, walked to her, and turned off the gas stove angrily, spoiling Sarah's dish. Sarah frowned, lift her head, looked at Ashley, and raised her eyebrows in questionable gaze, then again turned the gas stove on. "What you and Stefan have done with Ronald's phone, why is it not connecting even when I tried several times, whereas mom can talk to him on the same number?" Ashely again turned off the gas stove irritatingly and annoyed Sarah. Sarah took a deep breath, took the hot spatula from the pan, and swiftly turned towards Ashley; the spatula was almost about to touch Ashley's face if she wouldn't take a few steps back.

Then she stood on the cot. The vent was high, but not unreachable. She stretched upward, fingertips brushing the edge. Metal dust flaked onto her hand. She pressed gently. The corner shifted. Her heart kicked, but her face stayed calm as if calm could trick her own adrenaline into staying quiet. She worked the edge slowly, using her nails to scrape at the loosened screw. It wasn’t fully removed. Someone had tightened it just enough to look secure. But not enough to withstand persistent pressure. She twisted. Again. Again.

"Nerve damage." "It's fine. Just hold it steady with both hands. I'll guide the tip." Cale looked at Elion. "Go ahead," Elion said. "Build something." Cale walked back to the stairs. He took the driver. He gripped it with both hands. Dave set the screw. "Okay. Push and pull the trigger. Slow." Cale squeezed. Whirrrrrr. The screw sank into the wood. Flush. Perfect. "Nice," Dave said. "Again."

“Okay, Vera, this is it, you can do this.” With a deep breath and my courage rekindled, I went to work. I used my nails, and began to twist and pull one screw after another until every last one of the screws was completely loose. I waited every time I loosed one screw, waiting and checking if anyone had heard me, but no one walked through the door or even knocked, so I assumed I was safe. Finally, the vent cover slipped free, and I froze, then spent the next minute waiting for any sign that anyone had an inkling of what I was doing.

he said in all seriousness. He turned back to the door and jammed the screwdriver back in between the frame and the knob. Then began pounding it with the hammer to bury it deeper in between the two. He wrenched on it repeatedly. Each time he had pull the screwdriver out and stick it into a new part of the knob and repeat the process. "Wouldn't it be easier to just unscrew the handle?" I asked him, wincing at how hard he was having to wrench on the doorknob.