BTS Stories To Tell In The Dark

Darkness

^read my story

So a good friend of mine gave me the idea for this short story. So this chapter is dedicated to my best friend Greg. It's not necessarily BTS but I enjoyed witting it and I hope you enjoy reading it.

You hate these stairs.

The wood is cracked and splintered. Black paint peels, flaking off and drifting slowly to the ground. Each step is steep, the edge looking sharp. Begging to be tripped over.

Something's up there though.

More than anything you want to turn away for these dreadful stairs. Run away front the churning it creates in your gut.

Yet you still take that first step, foot heavy and unsteady.

Thunder strikes right as you take the firsts step, shaking the ground.

Rain.

It doesn't just patter, against the windows, it slams against it, glass quivering. Threatening to shatter and make you bleed.

Another step.

More thunder.

No light.

Power is now gone, leaving you in complete darkness.

Already inky shadows gather, shifting and swirling.

You take another step, and another, bones quaking as you hear something from behind you.

Fear eats at your stomach, hitting hard when you turn your head, looking over your shoulder.

A long scan shows there's nothing behind you, just the darkness you came from.

Turning back you take another step. This time slowing it down, trying to
lessen the noise it makes.

To no avail.

The creak only seems to be louder, dragging on more than the last one. Old wood groans and cracks as you step onto it fully.

Light flashes, illuminating your destination at the top. Thunder follows not long after, the sound of glass splintering bounces of the walls.

Shivering you take another step, foot catching on the last step slightly. You catch yourself, hand shooting out and steadying yourself on the wall.

It comes back black, smoky darkness cloaking it like smoke.

Heart in your throat you shake you hand vigorously, beating it against the wall repeatedly.

Stabs of pain shoot through your arm. Blood covers your knuckles. Something cracks, and it's not wood or thunder.

You don't care.

So long as that thing leaves your hand.

It does.

Breathing hard you take another step, holding your bloody, broken hand to your chest, cradling it.

More whispering. Small voices all mixing together into one big dry sound.

Gritting your teeth you take another step, ignoring the sounds. Instead focusing on the burning in your thighs, how the muscles clench and strain. How you calves tighten, and tissue tears.

Just me. It's just me.

Eyes trained ahead, you advance up the stairs slowly.

The staircase never seems to end, the stairs continuous.

Lightning flashes.

Thunder roars.

Voices chatter.

All the same.

A cycle you keep repeating.

That's when you feel it.

Right as you adapt to the tortuous cycle it changes.

A tugging.

On you leg.

It's slight, almost not noticeable.

Yet it stands out the most against the constants you've been having.

Skin crawling, heart pounding, head swimming, you run.

Run and run and run.

The whispers get louder and you know it definitely isn't just you.

Those are real whispers.

Real voices.

You sprint harder, bringing your legs up high to take each step.

Another tug.

Lungs wheezing, blooding singing, you takes leaps up the stairs, skipping almost two at a time.

Only the voices get closer.

Louder.

Distinct.

The shadows begin to move, almost writhing in anticipation.

For what?

You don't know.

You don't care.

All you care is taking more steps.

Not tripping.

Not touching the walls.

And making it to the top.

If there is a top.

Because... what if there isn't?

Despair floods every fiber of your body at the thought. Tears prick at your eyes. Your throat constricts, each heavy breath coming out as a wheeze.

Then you make a mistake.

You slow down.

The voices scream at you, a sound so bone curling and horrifying you pick up the pace again.

Only too late.

It scratches at your leg again, it's nails digging into you flesh, blood oozing from the wound and running down your leg. Hot blood forming a river against your skin.

Screaming in pain you fall, seeing stars in your vision, bracing yourself.

You fall flat.

Not on stairs.

That's the last thing you register before passing out.

||

Alone.

You wake up alone.

Tucked between sheets and blankets.

Lying on a comfortable bed.

Head resting in a soft pillow.

Moving scares you, expecting pain to shoot through you at the slightest movement.

Testing proved that theory incorrect and you sit up suddenly, head resting in your hands.

It wasn't real.

But how?

Something eats at your gut, making you feel sick. Taking deep breaths you attempt to calm down, trying to steady your rising heart beat. Willing your head to stop spinning.

When it does you pull you hands away and that's when your stomach drops.

Scars.

There are scars on your knuckles.

But if it wasn't real then...

How?