Sunday, June 20, 2010


"Now put your deepest, darkest secret in this breadbox. Don't worry; this will be completely anonymous."

Troy was a frog-like man. He looked like a frog. His repulsiveness was worsened by his eerily nonchalant mannerisms and the fact that he smelled like an old litter box. This made Carl uncomfortable. But Troy was a prominent therapist and the other four participants were putting their slips of paper in the box. He figured he would too.

"Many of us are burdened by secrets. After years of carrying these burdens, we can feel depressed. We must give up these burdens to feel happy again. Yes, we must share our bitterest secrets. By the end of this retreat, I hope we will be able to talk about our secrets openly and without shame." Troy used his fingers to put quotation marks around the word secrets. "For now, we'll stick with anonymity."

Troy shook the secret-filled breadbox and pulled out a slip of paper, "I spend more money than I make so that the neighbors will think I'm better off than them," he read. He tilted his head as if in deep thought and then said, "These are the secrets that keep us down. We must come out from under them." His fat, sweaty hand into the breadbox again.

"People think I've stopped lying. I'm just better at it." He nodded, "Good." He pulled another secret out.

"I am a murderer."

Troy nodded and looked around the room. The air suddenly felt heavier than it had before. Troy leaned forward as if he were going to confide one of his secrets to the group, "Let's just hope he only has mosquito blood on his hands."

Troy smiled a big smile. No one else did. Carl stared at his clasped hands. His left thumb was over is right one. Dangling from his wrist was the watch his ex-wife had given him. It was a little too big now and was bouncing around his thin wrist. That's when he realized he was shaking.

"Okay, we're all here to help each other," Troy said, taking a step back, "Now, trust me. We're in a safe environment. I'll take good care of you and no one will get hurt."

But Carl knew he couldn't trust Troy the second he realized he smelled like aged cat excrement. "Can't hotel security just escort me to my room?" he asked. This was followed by a few people mumbling in agreement.

"I understand everyone's concern," Troy said, "so, I'll call hotel security. But we will reconvene tomorrow just as your schedule states. Remember, everyone deserves a chance to heal, even those with more" he paused searching for the right word, "uncomfortable secrets." Troy walked to the hotel phone on the nearby table and held the receiver up to his ear. "No dial tone," he said, "Anyone got a cell phone?"

A large African American woman stood up, "You said no cell phones. Remember?"

"Anger won't help anyone, Nanette," Troy said, furrowing his eyebrows, "We'll just all go up together."

Everyone got up and walked toward the closed door. Troy attempted to push it open. "Locked," he said.

"Well, unlock it," Nanette rolled her eyes, "You can always unlock doors from the inside of the room."

Troy twisted the lock and pushed again. The door didn't budge. He twisted again. Now he twisted it the other way. He started twisting with both hands.

"Let me try," Carl pushed Troy out of the way. Two minutes of fiddling with the lock later the door was still closed. Everyone took a try. Some took two or three tries.

"Someone just knock on it then." Nanette said. They knocked continually for nearly an hour, each taking a turn to pound on the door. No one heard them.

"Custodial will find us soon," Troy said. They sat and waited. No one talked. Every once in a while Carl would make eye contact with another retreat member. That's probably the killer. But he could never be sure. The only one who made him uncomfortable enough for him to suspect was Troy and, being the therapist, Troy didn't put in a secret in the breadbox.

The breadbox. Where was it? Carl scanned the room. Of course, it was on the table where Troy had left it. Did it just move? Carl shook his head and looked again. The breadbox looked like it had moved just slightly. It shook again and then started floating above the table. As it floated, purple smoke came out of it.

Carl rubbed his eyes, "Troy?"

"What?...Oh, my..."

A giant purple genie had formed out of the smoke. He floated just above the breadbox and folded his arms over his broad chest. Where his legs should have been there was a cloud of dark purple smoke that connected the genie's torso to the breadbox.

Slowly, the genie floated toward Nanette. He blew a stream of smoke into her face. When the smoke stream, stopped and the whole room was still. Suddenly the genie took in a large breath of air. The room became cold and breathing became more difficult. Carl's peripheral vision was getting fuzzy but he knew he had to work his way to the breadbox. Perhaps breaking it would fix the problem. Now all his vision was becoming fuzzy. He blinked. He blinked again, this time shaking his head as well.


"Look at this guy, Officer Johnson."

"Another breadbox? What'd he want in there?" Officer Johnson opened the breadbox Carl's hand was resting on and read the slips of paper inside. "Whadda these mean?" He handed six pieces of paper to Officer Song.

"Oh, I've heard of these things. Honesty clinics or something like that. Everyone shares their secrets. Or something like that; I don't really know." Officer Song opened a piece of paper, "I am a murderer," he read aloud.

"Dang. We found out who wrote that, we find out which of these dirt bags killed the other dirt bags." Officer Johnson spat on the floor.

Officer Song threw up his arms, "You'll ruin evidence."

Officer Johnson shrugged. He looked over his shoulder at the other bodies behind him. "Song, you think the guy running the clinic usually shares his secrets?"

"Dunno. Probably not."

"Then who wrote the sixth secret."


Johnson chuckled, "Something in the breadbox maybe."

"I'm sure it did," Song rolled his eyes and poked Carl's stomach with a pen, "Now, time to get serious, Johnson. Captain will kill you if you turn in another hokey report."

"Hey," Johnson stepped back and held up his hands, "I'm just saying this isn't the first breadbox in a crime scene like this. Gotta notice patterns."

Song stopped poking at Carl and looked up at Johnson, "Just start bagging evidence, mmkay?"

"Alright, alright," Johnson smiled, "But you bag the breadbox."

Friday, June 18, 2010


Breadbox was a nickname Joey had earned his freshman year. Well, not earned, but been gifted. He got it one day when he was paying for his lunch and a $100 bill fell out of his front pocket.

"Whoa! That's some bread you're packin'," Louis said, "What are you? Some sort of breadbox?" Louis was one of the more popular students at Pine View High so the name stuck.

Joey was now a senior and his stomach was one massive, jittery butterfly.

"We're counting on you, Breadbox," Coach Ellis' voice haunted his thoughts, "Whether we win or lose, it's up to you."

Joey slammed his car door shut and then checked to make sure it was locked. He didn't think his beat-up Honda Civic would tempt any car thief, but you had to safe. He made his way to the football field, where his team would be playing their rivals, Gorman High School. Not only what is the rivalry game, but it was also the Homecoming game.

"You're late." Coach Ellis said.

The rest of his teammates were already on the field warming-up. Coach Ellis started lecturing Joey about the importance of responsibility and how his teammates were counting on him and blah blah blah. Joey practically had this speech memorized.

After a quick warm-up, the pep band started playing the national anthem. Then, Gorman kicked the ball and the game began. As Joey took his position on the field for the first play, the crowd roared and then started chanting, "Breadbox, Breadbox, Breadbox!" Slowly at first, but it got faster and faster the longer it went on.

The ball was hiked. Joey caught it, looked up, and saw a Gorman player jumping over Louis.

The next thing Joey saw was a giant poster that said, "Get Well Soon, Breadbox," taped to a light pink wall. He shook his head. The poster was still there. He was lying in a bed.

The sound of slow footsteps coming echoed in the hallway outside his room. They were getting closer. Soon, Coach Ellis walked through the door.

"Breadbox? You awake?"


A wide grin and came over Coach Ellis' face. His eyes became shiny with tears. "Hallelujah," he whispered.

"Did we win the game?"

"That was three days ago. And besides, that doesn't matter."

It was important to Joey. So he asked again, "But did we win?"


There was a long silence.

"How could we have won with you unconscious?" Coach Ellis sat on a stool near the bed and continued, "I told you, Breadbox, whether we won or lost it was up to you."

Sunday, March 21, 2010

La Maie

17 June

Today I went down to the seaside. There was a large antiques market going on, so I stopped by and walked through all the stalls. The merchandise was mostly useless old junk. There were several stalls of old photographs, and most of the rest was dedicated to furniture and kitchenware. Nothing really caught my attention until towards the end. One stall was selling old French antiques—brass molds for cakes and madeleines. In one corner sat a small, wooden breadbox. Twelve dollars. Something about the dusty old box drew me in. I had to buy it. I was never so happy to remember my wallet on my little walks. I am the proud new owner of an antique French breadbox. It now stands in the cramped kitchen of my studio apartment.

18 June

I think I may be getting sick. I couldn’t sleep last night, and my appetite is lost. It’s strange, because all my dreams were of bakeries and flour. I had a nightmare that I made a rye bread but it couldn’t get it to rise. The yeast was bad, but it was somehow disturbing in the dream.

I cleaned my new breadbox. It’s still as plain as it looked yesterday, but small engravings on the side are now more apparent. It’s funny; the design doesn’t look that French, but the writing on the top is clear—“le pain.” I think I’m going to bake bread tonight after dinner, so I can keep something in my new breadbox.

23 June

Homemade bread is the best, especially when kept fresh in a breadbox. I’ve eaten three loaves already, but I don’t think I can make anymore for a while. I don’t actually remember eating all of that bread, but I’ve been a little out of it lately. I haven’t been sleeping. I guess my zeal for bread and my breadbox has gotten a little out of hand; I’ve been having odd nightmares about bread. I even dreamt last night that my breadbox was trying to haunt me in my sleep! Maybe I’m just going crazy.

24 June

Last night was the worst. What sleep I got was full of nightmares. This time, I was choking on bread. Or tripping over the breadbox, mysteriously placed over the stairs down the four flights of stairs to the lobby of my apartment complex. Every other hour, I awoke, fearing a bread related death. I think I need a vacation. I bought plane tickets to Iowa. I’m going for a week. Surrounded by nothing but fields… What a vacation it will be.

July 14

What a pleasant vacation! America’s Heartland. It revived me. No more nightmares since I left. I just got in yesterday, somewhat late. I toured farms and slept in barns and felt a little like Kerouac, living for a short while on the road.

The State Fair isn’t until August, but I was fortunate enough to find a small county fair. It was interesting. There was a small roller coaster that looked like it would fall over if I got on, but it didn’t. That was lucky. There was also a small tent that housed a sleepwalker and a hypnotist. The sleep walker was freaky. He stumbled around the stage like a zombie, and even ate and drank a small snack—bread, cheese and water. The hypnotist tricked some poor girl into thinking she was half cat. All in all, it was an entertaining little show. It certainly took my mind off of things, and I feel much better. Actually, I haven’t checked out my breadbox since I got back. I should bake some more bread—I was thinking a multigrain boule.

16 July

I’ve been sleeping better, but I don’t feel well again. Maybe it’s depression from being unemployed. Maybe I really am going crazy. I’ve had more dreams about the breadbox again. They’re not nightmares anymore, but I can’t say they’re pleasant dreams either. I think I might be sleepwalking. Rather, sleep-eating. The bread I make disappears faster than I can keep making it. I’ve had to switch from buying yeast packets to buying food storage sizes. I keep it in the freezer, and my arms have definitely gotten more toned from all the kneading. Maybe tonight I’ll make rolls. Refrigerator rolls, like Mom used to. And I’ll keep track of how much I eat during the day to see if I really am sleep-eating.

17 July

I ate 3 rolls, one at lunch and two at dinner.

18 July

I woke up, and three more rolls were missing. I weighed myself, too, to see if I was gaining weight from all my nighttime eating. Still 150. I’m 29 years old, and no one has told me that I sleep walk. Things are curious.

18 July

All the rolls are gone. I made two dozen. I don’t know what’s happening to them. I’m starting to doubt that I sleepwalk. Has someone broken into my house? I wish I had a cat, so I could blame the disappearance on something rational. How can bread disappear overnight like this?

24 July

It’s the breadmaker. It’s haunted. I know. I saw it… I saw it. I wouldn’t… I couldn’t believe it otherwise. Last night, I was up late, talking to a friend on the phone, and I walked into the kitchen late. Noises were coming from the countertop—kind of like a grumbling noise, a little like a hushed blender. The cookie I left in there as dessert after dinner was thrown out. Right before my eyes. One second, the breadbox was still, the next the lid lifted and the cookie flew across the counter. I didn’t know what to do. I still don’t know what to do.

25 July

I’m crazy. A haunted breadbox? There’s no way. That just can’t be true. It’s the market. The economy has driven me crazy. Maybe I’ll move back home, like my Mother offered a month ago, when I had first lost my job. I need to do something to get my sanity back. Maybe I’ll give up bread for a little while, in the mean time.

28 July

It’s the breadbox. I know it’s the breadbox. It has to be. It bit me… I mean, I was going to put it in the cupboard, since I’ve decided to abstain from bread for a while. Why keep it out if I’m not using it? Especially since it seems to be the object of my insanity? I went to pick it up, and the lid somehow managed to slip over my fingers. It pushed down, hard. It hurt. I pulled my hand out, and it left me alone. I don’t know what to do about this. How can I dispose of a haunted breadbox? Maybe I’ll google it.

30 July

I’ve done it. I found out how to fix it. The owners of my apartment complex made us all sign insurance… including fire insurance. So, tonight, I borrowed my ex-girlfriend’s straightener. I plugged it in and dropped it in a pile of newspapers. That thing almost started a hundred fires before, whenever she would forget to turn it off. There’s a hole in my carpet to prove it. This time, the fire won’t be stopped. The whole apartment will go down, breadbox included. And I’ll move in with my parents, find a new job, and move on with my life.

But, if the breadbox really is haunted… The fire won’t work. It will keep going on, finding another fool to take it into its home, feed it bread… Of course, I’m such a fool! I just burnt everything down! I just hope I never see another breadbox again…

Friday, May 29, 2009


Every nook and cranny of the room was crammed with people. Except for the area where Bobby Truebenacht sat. Everyone noticed him just enough to make sure to stay away. He sat alone on the beer-stained sagging sofa.

"Rhett! Did you see the game last night?"

Rhett Hazeman, Omega Chi president, walked right passed Bobby toward Sammy Marlboro. They started reenacting parts of last night's games with an invisible basketball. If only Bobby were as popular as Rhett and Sammy. The ladies loved them too. Even Sammy's nasty, trailer trash mullet didn't stop the girls from flirting up a storm with him. All the girls were clamoring for even just a moment with Rhett and Sammy. Even their two cronies, Mile and Merrick Smithers, brothers from Oregon, seemed to have girls crawling all over them.

Bobby observed everything and everyone around him. To fit in, he had to mimic someone. It might as well be Rhett. He watched his every action. Bobby started. Rhett was walking towards him.

"You're always over. You wanna be an Omega bad, don't you?"

Bobby's stomach spun with nervousness, "Not that bad." He hated that he cared so much about what people thought. He hated that he felt like he was dying inside every time he had to watch fraternity parties from the sidelines.

Rhett nodded, "Sammy and I think it's time to help you out. We can initiate you if you want."

Too nervous and shocked to speak, Bobby offered a slight nod in reply.

"Meet me on the sidewalk right outside the house in five minutes."

Bobby nodded the same hesitant nod. Rhett nodded in return and walked out of the room, winking at a tiny Asian girl as he turned the corner.

Bobby weaved through the crowd of people and finally found himself on the sidewalk, pacing back and forth as he waited for Rhett.

After what seemed like hours, Rhett, Sammy, and the Smithers appeared outside the front door. Mile was holding a wooden breadbox. "Get in the truck, Bobby."

They knew his name?

Rhett pulled keys out of his pocket, spun them around his index finger and pointed towards an old red pickup truck with his head. Rhett and Sammy got in the cabin and the rest piled into the small bed. The engine roared and the truck bolted out of the parking spot.

"Listen," Mile yelled over whipping air, "We're going to drop you off at the edge of town, you know, by the woods." Bobby nodded and Mile continued, "Spend the weekend in the woods. Alone. Use only what you can find out there and the contents of this breadbox to survive. Make it back to the frat house midnight Saturday night and you're in."

Bobby had watched lots of Survivor Man but he didn't think that qualified him to survive in the wilderness. Despite his fears, he found himself nodding. What was he getting himself into?

Rhett didn't even slow down as the Smithers brothers threw Bobby out the side of the truck. He careened down the hill and barely managed to stop himself before hitting a redwood. All the stress of the party and interacting with the elite members of Omega Chi was beginning to make Bobby sick. His blood sugar was getting low. He opened the breadbox. One bepto bismol colored package of Sweet'n'Lo. Anger welled up inside of him. They were such punks. But he needed the fraternity. And at least the Sweet'n'Lo would help with his blood sugar.

He opened the package and poured it into his mouth. Sugar had never tasted so good. It wasn't sugar. It was coconut powder. His tongue began to swell and his throat began to close up. He tried to call for help but it was futile. Only gentle moan-like sounds escaped him. Panicked and confused he fell to the ground and began to cry as he struggled for his last breath.

Sunday, May 24, 2009

The Breadbox

It was a dark night. It was a stormy night. Far down wolves howled and wailed at the black, moonless sky like clerics of some primeval sodality. Aqueous orbs tumbled and twirled from their cumulonimbeous birth to the lonely earth below, shattering into millions of featureless specks - bursting and breaking their bodies on the windows of the house where, inside, it was warm and dry.

The last embers of the hearth fire were dying slowly as the old man sharpened his knife on the leather strap, crouched like a wizard at the cauldron. It had to be sharp. It would be sharp. He tried to avoid the thought of another night holed up in this old cabin. The rain and perhaps the wolves had driven them away to seek shelter, but he knew they would return. He could try and make a run for it but on foot and in his condition he’d make it one, maybe two miles before they caught his scent and chased him down.

The knife was sharp enough. He cracked the barrel of the shotgun – still loaded. Four shells left in the box. That meant five shots. That wasn’t much, but with the windows securely boarded, plenty of food and water, he could last four more weeks if he was careful. He stabbed a piece of spam with the knife and let it slide down into his mouth. The saltiness of the meat made him thirsty.

“Too bad there was no alcohol in this shack,” he thought. Not that he’d drink any. Sure, it’d take the edge off, but he needed that edge if he was going to survive this. He could still hear the wolves howling, but now it sounded less like a spiritual cry in the night and more like the barbaric yawp of a crazed warrior standing over his slain opponent, blood still steaming and sloshing out in waves while the dying heart convulsed in reflexive spasms.

“They must’ve got one,” he thought. Whether they did or whether the wolves would turn after eating their rotting flesh was a frippery he didn’t need to waste time thinking about. A swear left his lips. “Shit.” He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know anything.

Knock, knock, knock. They were here. He crouched down near the couch, the hair stood up in the back of his neck and he prepared himself for the barrage of pounding and moaning that would soon begin all around the cabin. He waited.

Knock, knock, knock. “Hello? Is anyone in there?” Knock, knock. The doorknob clicked and clacked as whoever it was tried to open the door. More knocking and then the voice again, that of a young girl. “Please, let me in.”

The old man peered through the peephole and saw a girl, maybe 19 or 20 standing outside; a dark sweatshirt with the hood pulled up over her blonde hair. She was soaked. He unlatched the bolts and chains and removed the board laid across the frame and opened the door, ushering the young woman in and then quickly relocking the door and replacing the heavy board that barricaded it.

“Who are you? Where did you come from?” barked the old man.

“My name is Shannon, we were camping up at Deep Creek when they came,” she said tearfully. “My family is dead. What are they?”

“The living dead,” said the man, avoiding any chance for misunderstanding.

“What do you mean?” asked the girl.

“What I said. Like the Book of Revelations says, the dead will rise, the sea will yield up her dead, yadda yadda yadda, and so here we are.”

The arrival of the girl meant company, but it also meant danger. Four weeks turned to 2, maybe 3 with an extra 140lbs to feed. His chances of making it on foot were even less now, unless… no, no, thay wasn’t a viable option. Her couldn’t be like them or leave her to them.

Now that she was here though, a dreadful realization came into his head: the breadbox. She couldn’t touch it, she couldn’t touch it. She must never open it or touch it.

“Don’t touch the breadbox.”


“Leave my breadbox alone. Never open it.”

“What? Okay fine,” the girl answered confused.

“It’s just – I don’t like – Don’t mess with it or look inside. I have a phobia of people messing with my breadbox.”

“Okay,” the girl said, unsure of how to react, unsure about whether this cabin was actually safer than the woods, even with them out there. At least it was better to be locked inside with an old kook and his vagaries than be outside with a group of cannibalistic undead. The breadbox looked normal enough, and she was fine with leaving it alone.

“You hungry?” snapped the old man.

“No,” Shannon said, pulling her knees up to her chest as she sat against the wall.

“There’s beans on the stove.”

“No thank you, I’m not hungry.”

“Well you will be soon enough.”

Five days passed by with no sign of life or them outside the cabin. The rain had stopped, but no birds sang, and at night there were no more cries from the wolves, not even the crickets chirped. Shannon’s initial concerns about the old man faded as time passed on. Since his initial warning about the breadbox, he hadn’t done anything crazy or irrational. In fact, he had proven quite saavy and aware of current events, movies, etc. He reminded her of her grandfather except he was clean shaven and her grandfather wore a well-trimmed moustache. She had never seen him touch the breadbox or open it. Her curiosity grew day by day.

On the sixth day, she decided she would wait until the old man fell asleep in the late afternoon, as he had for the five days beforehand, then she would quickly flip open the lid of the breadbox, see what was inside, and close it just as quickly. A short glimpse would be all she’d need.

About four-o’clock, the old man’s eyelids started to droop and before long, his breathing took on the unmistakable rhythm of slumber. She crept quickly and quietly across the room to the counter where the breadbox lie. Her fingers steadily reached for the small handle, wrapped around it, and gently lifted up to reveal the inside of the box.

The old man was ripped awake by a powerful force, as if someone had tied a speedboat to his chest and pulled him off the beach at full power. Then he felt the freezing cold and the void and blackness all around him. He struggled for breath, as he floated helplessly about, the young girl slowly rotating a few feet from him, mimicking the rotation of the blue planet below. As each one of his cells was cut to shreds by the ice crystals beginning to form inside them and as his lungs sucked in on themselves like a vacuum packed steak he had two almost simultaneous thoughts: he should’ve taken his chances with the zombies, and that stupid girl opened the breadbox. She opened the damn breadbox.

written by Jordan Faux

Wednesday, April 8, 2009

Breadbox Coffin

Kenny was lost. It was the dead of winter in the plains of Nebraska. Dead of winter. Kenny and the dead of winter would have something in common in a matter of minutes. The dead part.

It was just after a snow storm and all the twigs and brush he could find were sopping wet. There was no chance he could make a fire. Kenny was freezing to death.

Kenny knew there was little chance of survival. Foolishly, he had been hiking with himself and when the storm hit he lost the trail and now he had no idea where he was. He knew he was going to die but he had to fight. And then he saw it. An old cross made out of twigs. The date 1847 was carved into one of the twigs. It was the grave of someone who had been crossing the plains.

"My gosh," Kenny whispered as he began digging.

He didn't have to dig much before finding an old breadbox. He opened it and nearly threw-up when he saw the remains of a small baby inside of it. But luckily the wood of the breadbox was still dry. So he carefully put the bones back into the grave and found the driest spot of ground he could. He then stomped on and broke the breadbox. He rubbed two pieces of wood together and made a fire.

The fire kept him warm the rest of the night and helicopters from search parties looking for him saw the smoke. Kenny was found and flown back to the hospital in Lincoln, where he was treated for hypothermia.

The reason he survived the bitter cold of the Nebraskan winter: a breadbox.

Saturday, February 21, 2009

The Breadbox From Hell

Her alarm had already gone off four times and she had hit snooze every time. It was going off for the fifth time now. She would have hit the snooze button again, but after the fourth time it doesn’t let you and she had to just turn it off and get out of bed.

She threw off her covers and stepped into her cozy, pink slippers so her feet wouldn’t get cold when she stepped on the tile outside her room and in the kitchen. She walked into the kitchen and opened her cupboard. Dang it. No cereal. There was not enough time to prepare breakfast before she had to go the church. She opened the fridge. Nothing there either except for a carton of plain yogurt, which she only liked when it was mixed with cereal.

Then she noticed a breadbox on the counter. That’s new. Wonder where it came from. No matter. She opened it and found a loaf of whole grain bread. She opened the bag and pulled out a slice, which dissolved in her hand. In its place was a note. Meet me in your chapel ten minutes before church.

What was going on? Her cell phone rang. She ignored it. She stared at the note, frustrated that the ringing of her cell phone was distracting her thoughts. The phone finally stopped ringing and then there was a beep notifying her of a voicemail. She stared at the note. She just kept staring. Her cell phone beeped four times. A text message. Shaking, she walked to her room. The cell phone was on her nightstand and it was the only thing lighting the room. Stepping over a few pairs of shoes, she walked over to the nightstand and checked her missed calls and texts. Four missed calls and eight texts all from her roommate. She was too lazy to take the time to listen to the voicemails but she read all the texts.

What did u do 2 the breadbox. lol! ; ) ill def meet u after my meetings.

where ru

not funny.


cant breathe

rate of!


bye 4ever

After this, she had to listen to the voicemails. But all of them were just silence. She wasn’t sure what was going on but she had a feeling she should not do what that note said. Instead, she showed up ten minutes late for church.

Her roommate missed church. Her roommate never missed church.

After church, she walked home hoping to find her roommate asleep on the couch. Maybe complaining of a stomachache to excuse her church absence. But that’s not what she found when she walked in.

“You’re next” was written using pieces of bread and stuck to the wall. She felt like she was frozen. Green gas started coming out of the breadbox and enveloping her. She was suffocating. She fell to her knees and then the only thing left of her was an envelope of skin.

That’s when the breadbox turned into a pile of ashes and swirled away. It returned from whence it came: hell.