Short and Creepy Stories to Read Before Bed.

The Faces

The Diary

            The faces, I keep seeing them.  In my mind, in my sleep, and every minute of the day I see these faces haunting me.  Everyday is just another living nightmare because of these things.  There is nobody that can help; I am completely alone.  The teen-age boy that lives in my attic talks to me, I think he is dead too by the look of the buck shot through his left eye.  During the end of the night, I down another glass of sixty proof vodka and staring into the barrel of my colt forty-five that rests snug in the palm of my hand. Waiting for the right time to let loose and pull the trigger but each time I come close the soprano singer in my backyard just sings louder.  Her screeches tear at my eardrums as if someone is ramming a broken chard of glass into my ear.  "That old hag can’t even let me have peace in death!" I cried. No matter how hard I try I still can’t bring my self to pull the trigger due to that horrible sound.  My diary is the only thing I can talk to, the only way I can relieve just some of the pain that I have to bear day in and day out. 

            The bone chilling air and the ocean spray from the Caspian Sea filled my house, which only means my heater broke again. I can’t leave my house to fix it with the possibility that the faces might get me.  Now they keep trying to enter my house.  I’ll have to nail my doors and windows shut to keep these things from entering my home, some already have.  Oh God, these things have stripped my cupboards of the only emergency food I have left, and I have not seen the light of day in at least three months.  I cannot go out there, those things will catch me and rip me apart.  They keep staring into my house trying to get in; the lady that lives in my room keeps staring at me too.  I pretend not to see her but I know that she knows I can see her.  She just stares at me, slowly swinging her entire body back and forth in the motion as if she was hung, slowly swinging closer and closer to me.  She even stares at me while I sleep, every night I wake up to her pure white eyes and hollow face looking down upon me while she continues to swing her legs back and forth.  I can’t go into my kitchen anymore, one of them has come into my house and I don’t know how.  He just walks aimlessly back and forth in my kitchen frantically talking to him self and slashing his wrists with a rusty butcher knife.  

            The baby in the next room down from me will not stop crying.  God, I would do anything to shut it up.  What’s that pounding in the bedroom?  Oh my God it sounds like my son begging for help!  Wait a minute.  These people are my family.  The hanging woman was my wife; my wife killed her self several months ago.  The old lady singing the opera in my back yard was my grandmother, I forgot that she had slipped and hit her head on my back porch.  The teen-age boy with a buckshot through his eye was my son; he was killed during his hunting trip with his friends.  That was my baby that died of pnemonia, and the man talking to him self and slashing his wrists was me.  Oh God…I think I’m dying.