Horror stories.

The backrooms.

Scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch

“Hello?”

Scratch scratch scratch scratch

“Hello? Somebody? Anybody?!”

Scratch scratch scratch scratch

“Can anybody hear me?! Please! Please, get me out of here!”

Casey stirred. He couldn’t see anything, but he could hear her loud and clear.

“Dove? Is that you?”

Of course it was. Her voice was unmistakable.

“Case?” Scratch scratch scratch scratch “Casey! Where are you?!”

“I’m right here, Dove! Follow my voice!”

Casey was shaking in his sleep. Lucidity was creeping in, but the nightmare’s grip was strong.

“I can’t, I’m stuck!” Scratch scratch scratch scratch “Casey, you have to get me out of here! Say you’ll get me out of here!”

Casey’s heart was hammering inside his head, but he couldn’t hear it over the scratches.

“Out of where, Dove? Where are you stuck?!”

He knew that it was just a dream. Dove was dead. Not only that, but it had been an open casket funeral and Dove’s coffin was padded everywhere. The scratches weren’t making any sense, so they couldn’t be anything other than a figment of his imagination – as was the scared voice of his dead friend.

Scratch scratch scratch scratch

“The Backrooms, Casey. I’m stuck in the Backrooms.”

Casey woke up drenched in sweat. Again.

* * * * * *

It had to have been the sound of heavy rain hitting the lacquered wood – not the general sobbing, nor the priest straining his voice over the wrath of mother nature. It couldn’t have been car noises or the like, that’s for sure. The cemetery was nowhere near traffic-ridden streets. No. It was the rain falling on the coffin lid. That had to be the sound that made Casey feel so uneasy.

“Dove’s grace was admired by classmates and teachers alike…”

Casey pressed his lips together and shook his head absent-mindedly. Grace. Grace, of all things, was brought up at Dove’s funeral. What had Dove been like? Smart, yes. Strong, very. Beautiful, without a shadow of a doubt, but graceful? Her back was always drooping like she was the human version of a question mark and she never saw a problem in playing soccer wearing a skirt.

If Dove’s spirit was present, the likelihood of her face-palming herself, was staggering. Casey chuckled to himself at that mental image. His father smacked him over the head.

“Pull yourself together.”, he hissed from between clenched teeth.

Casey was very well put together. He was so well put-together, that he was the only one to recognize the eulogy for the garbage it was. Whoever wrote it, relied too much on their google search. Casey eyed Dove’s mother. The woman was devastated, surely, but this wasn’t a funeral for her daughter, but a funeral for the daughter she wished she had.

The rain was unrelenting. Casey pictured Dove standing beside the big oak tree, ten feet from where he was, dressed in her maroon overalls, mocking every word coming out of the priests’ mouth. Dove had been the funniest person Casey ever knew – mostly on Monday mornings when she would reenact the Sunday service she had attended the day prior. Dove was not like those other kids who were forced to go to church because their parents said so, oh no. The Sunday service was her favorite time of the week. Not only would she listen carefully to everything the priest said, so she could debunk it later, but she also paid close attention to the other people attending. Dove loved calling out hypocrisy, and nothing quenched her thirst as churchgoers did. Although selectively, she thrived on gossip.