Category : Stories

Sub Category : Suspense/Mystery

The day started as most of the days that spring had, with her waking up and dressing for school. After getting dressed I grabbed his bookbag, and kissed my mother on the cheek on my way out the door. “Bye mom, i’ll see you when i’m done with school” I said, a twinge of giddy happiness in my voice. I paused for a moment and pondered the beauty of their ornate knife block, it’s construction pure Ivory, beautiful intricate carvings stretch across the surface, 12 beautiful carved polished wooden handles rested comfortably against their slots; blades seemingly eagerly awaiting use. a knife sharpener sat next to the knife block still slightly warmed; My mom cooked a lot when she had the time. I proceeded to school, my walks to school were the time when I thought the most about things in general; because it was generally pretty quiet but this time was strangely serene. Upon arriving, I realized it was a little too cold for the white t-shirt and jeans I threw on, not really caring about how i looked, I was happy with life at the moment and that’s all that mattered to me; I grabbed a jacket from my locker. I leisurely made my way to english class, making small talk with my friends. My hometown was small, maybe 30 residents, everyone knew everyone else, it was always a rather close knit community.


As it neared summer, yet another school year coming to pass; it got warmer out, the school began to smell odd, as if the pristine white walls of this school were beginning to rot themselves, replacing the usual clean chemical smell of the school with a putrid stench. I couldn’t seem to purge the memory of it from my mind, the scent almost becoming a part of me. I shrugged the feeling off nervously, and finished school. Finally once I arrived at home an overwhelming feeling of sleepiness overcame me. I sat my bookbag down in its usual place, and called out to my mother “School was tiring, I think i’m going to go to bed. Good night mother” I hugged her; she felt cold. I paused at the knife block, wondering about the touches of crimson dotting it, how had I not noticed them before; I shrugged and counted the knives then spoke , a slight sense of dread enveloping m in a shroud of comfort, “11.” I headed to I bedroom, pausing at the door, I turned back and spoke it one more time, “Good night.”