I saw him talking to the floor. He didn't seem to care about his surroundings, he just, talked. He asked how the floor's day was, if it was hungry. He acted as if there was a response to his questions, and continued the conversations. Everyday he'd come in, lie down in the same spot, and talk for hours.
On that Friday, he came in with a hammer. This time he didn't lie down, nor did he talk. He walked in, went to the same spot, and smashed the floorboards. Everyone thought he was the town crazy, talking to his imaginary "friends" under the floor. Splinters of wood flew through the air like bullets. There was a loud screech. Hands pulled him down into the newly created hole. They were black and scaly, as if demon hands. The deafening sound silenced. All peace was lost.
>TheArgentPanda<
First Written January 18, 2019
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The Fanciful Tales of a Hopeless Writer
Short StoryThis is a collection of my short stories. Please pardon any spelling or grammar mistakes. All of my stories are written by me and belong to me. These stories are important to me, so please no harsh criticism.
