Lady Justice at Work: When Protect and Serve Misfire: Fragments of a Life Lost by Olivia Salter | Short Story

 

Lady Justice at Work: When Protect and Serve Misfire: Fragments of a Life Lost

Word Count: 3,291

The courtroom buzzed with tense silence, the kind that fills the air like smoke after a fire, thick and suffocating. Families, reporters, and strangers packed the rows, their attention fixed on the empty jury box. Jeremiah’s mother, Vanessa, sat at the front, her hands twisted together in her lap, knuckles white, her thumb grazing the crease of the photograph she’d held onto since her son’s death. Jeremiah’s face—bright, open, caught in a moment of laughter—looked up at her, young and undimmed. She’d carried this picture every day since he was taken from her, its edges soft and frayed from wear.

Jeremiah’s face, dark, youthful, and brilliant, filled her mind, a heartbreaking reel of memories flashing from birth to death. She’d spent his whole life warning him, urging him to be cautious, to stay out of trouble. How many times had she sat him down, looked him in the eye, and reminded him, "Be respectful, especially if you’re ever stopped by the police"? Her voice had become an anthem, the speech of a black mother in America, as familiar as nursery rhymes and lullabies: Don’t run, keep your hands up, don’t make sudden moves.

And yet here she was, grieving her son. He had done everything right—everything she’d taught him. But it hadn’t been enough. They said the officer had been afraid, that he feared for his life. Afraid of her son’s dark skin, his mere presence, as if he had committed the crime of walking while Black. And if that fear was enough to justify taking her boy's life, what hope did he ever have?

A bitter thought filled her mind: if a man was so terrified at the sight of Black skin, how could he be entrusted to serve and protect? Her son had been respectful, had kept his hands in sight, but in the end, Jeremiah’s humanity had been invisible, overshadowed by prejudice. The world had turned his innocence into a threat. He was no criminal, just a child—a child she had loved, protected, and nurtured, taken from her because of a fear that ran deeper than reason.

When the jury finally piled in, she didn’t dare breathe. No one moved. Judge Riley cleared his throat, the sound brittle against the quiet.

“We, the jury, find the defendant, Officer Grant Morrow, guilty of murder in the second degree.”

The words landed heavily, like stones dropped into a well, sinking deeper with every second. For a moment, Vanessa simply sat there, unable to process the impact of what she’d heard. This moment was supposed to bring her relief, supposed to feel like justice, but all she felt was the hollow ache of loss—the wound that had never healed, just scarred over.

Her body betrayed her before her mind caught up, a trembling sigh escaping her lips. As it did, her fingers clutched harder around Jeremiah’s picture, grounding herself in the memory of her son. Her boy, who should have been walking through her door at any moment, alive and real, not a memory, not the subject of news reports and protests. Her body ached with the weight of his absence.

Somewhere behind her, she felt the movement of the crowd as the officer who had taken her son was escorted out, wrists cuffed, head bowed. She hadn’t wanted to look at him all through the trial—had barely been able to hear his name without her heart feeling too tight in her chest. But now, she turned, letting her gaze settle on him, this man who had shifted her world into shadow.

Grant Morrow kept his eyes fixed on the floor, but his posture had changed since the verdict was read. His shoulders had slumped, his chin lowered, the aura of invincibility gone. For weeks, she’d watched him sit rigid in his chair, unflinching, his jaw set with the same implacable expression he must have worn the night he pulled the trigger. Now, he looked smaller, as though some part of him had finally recognized the gravity of what he’d done.

The door swung shut behind him, the sound cutting sharply through her thoughts. But instead of finding peace, she felt only a strange emptiness, an absence of the justice she’d craved. How could this be justice, she thought, when her son was still gone? The faces of those around her blurred in the background as she lowered her head, pressing her lips to the worn photograph, letting herself imagine, just for a second, the feel of his cheek against hers.

A sudden flash from a camera startled her, and she looked up to see a crowd of reporters pressing forward, their faces urgent, voices raised to catch her attention. The courthouse was emptying, the sounds of footsteps echoing against the marble, but outside, she could see the mass of news vans and microphones waiting like scavengers at a scene of ruin. They surged toward her the moment she stepped outside, microphones thrust toward her, their voices blending into an unintelligible clamor.

One reporter’s question cut through the rest, clear and direct. “Ms. Allen, how does it feel knowing justice has finally been served?”

Justice. She flinched, almost as if the word itself had struck her. What did they know of justice? What did they understand of the hollow nights, the deafening quiet that had filled her home since Jeremiah was taken? For them, justice was a headline, a conclusion, an ending they could tie up neatly. For her, justice had always been a fantasy.

She met the reporter’s gaze, unflinching, and in that moment, she felt her voice rise—not out of rage or sadness, but from a place of clarity that felt like standing in the eye of a storm.

“Justice?” Her voice was a whisper, a breath over the crowd. “Justice would be my son walking through my door, alive. Justice isn’t this…verdict. But maybe it’s a beginning.”

The words seemed to hang in the air, and she noticed how the people around her quieted, lowering their cameras, their faces shifting from curiosity to something softer, almost ashamed.

As the crowd dispersed, she stepped into the rain, which had begun to fall softly, cold droplets landing on her face, mixing with the tears she hadn’t realized were there. For the first time, she let the rain carry her grief, feeling the weight of it seeping out with each drop. She remembered Jeremiah in the rain, the way he would run barefoot through puddles as a boy, laughing, his voice carrying over the soft patter.

“Come on, Ma,” he would call, reaching back with a wide grin. “You’ll never know what it’s like unless you get your feet wet.”

That memory—the way he would turn back and laugh, the joy that shone from him—filled her now, bittersweet. She could almost feel his presence, warm beside her, a phantom echo in the chill.

***

Elsewhere, in a cell lined with cinderblock walls, Grant Morrow sat on a narrow cot, the weight of the verdict pressing against him like a physical burden. He ran his hand over the edge of the bed, feeling the rough weave of the blanket beneath his fingers. The silence was deafening, a silence he could not escape.

He had once believed in silence. The kind that let you stand above the noise, above the protest signs and the chants, above the people who’d crowded the streets after that night. He’d prided himself on his calm, on his ability to act in moments when others froze. He’d told himself that was his duty, his role—to be the one who made the hard choices, no matter the consequences.

But now, in this room where every noise seemed to magnify, he felt the echoes of his choices. He saw Jeremiah’s face in his mind, that last flash of him as he’d raised his hands, the terrified eyes that had locked with his. He’d thought he could bury that moment, reason it away, hide behind his badge. But the memory clung to him like a stain he could never wash away.

A part of him wanted to believe that what he’d done had been necessary, that it had been the right choice in the heat of the moment. He’d tried to convince himself of that over and over. But the truth, the raw, unvarnished truth, was that he had been wrong. No training, no badge, no protocol could excuse what he had done. He had taken a life—ripped it away in seconds, leaving nothing but a hollow shell behind.

The realization sat heavy within him, sinking deeper than he’d allowed himself to feel before. He didn’t have the words to make sense of it, to describe the feeling that ate away at him, only the dull ache of knowing he’d destroyed something he could never repair.

***

As Vanessa walked through the rain, she found herself heading to the park where Jeremiah used to play as a child. She knew the playground would be empty at this hour, but something in her needed to go there, to sit on the swing where he’d once laughed and kicked his legs high into the air, daring to touch the clouds.

When she arrived, the swings were still, chains rusting in the wet, and the ground was soaked. She sat on one, the metal creaking beneath her, and let herself close her eyes. She let herself remember the sound of his laughter, the way he’d climb to the top of the jungle gym and shout down at her, pretending to be king of the world.

Slowly, she felt a shift within herself—a small one, like a tiny crack letting in the first hint of light. Jeremiah was gone, and nothing in this life could bring him back. But maybe, just maybe, this trial, this verdict, could be a beginning for something else. Perhaps his life could become more than a tragedy, more than the spark that lit a fire of protests and grief. Perhaps his memory could become a force for change, something that lived beyond the small, sweet moments they’d shared.

She stood, feeling the rain lighten, and took one last look at the swing, swaying gently in the breeze. Somewhere in her heart, a part of her felt him still, that echo of laughter that time couldn’t erase. She turned away, leaving the park behind, and with each step, she felt the weight she carried grow lighter.

The rain had nearly stopped by the time she reached her car. She looked up at the sky, the gray clouds parting to reveal a sliver of pale light.

For the first time since Jeremiah’s death, Vanessa felt something that wasn’t pain, wasn’t rage, wasn’t the raw ache of loss. She felt the faintest hint of peace, fragile and fleeting, but real. And as she drove away, she carried that peace with her, letting it settle into her heart like a whisper, a promise she hadn’t known she needed.

It wasn’t justice—not yet. But it was a beginning, and for now, that was enough.

***

In the days that followed the verdict, the city felt different, as though a strange hush had fallen over it. The protests that had once swelled the streets with thousands were fewer, quieter, but the tension in the air hadn’t dissipated. People still whispered in diners and on street corners, eyes still turned sharply at the sound of sirens, and the city’s newspapers were still filled with headlines dissecting the trial. But life, as it inevitably does, continued on.

Vanessa began to settle back into a semblance of routine. Mornings now were spent with her coffee cooling in her hands as she sat in silence, letting the stillness wrap around her, almost comforting. The emptiness of her home had grown familiar, a kind of quiet she’d come to expect. Every so often, she found herself glancing at the photo of Jeremiah that now sat framed on the windowsill. She’d walk over, straighten it, running her fingers over his face as though her touch could somehow preserve him a little longer.

One afternoon, a knock came at her door. Vanessa wasn’t expecting anyone, and she hesitated a moment, a pang of unease slipping into her chest. But when she opened it, she found a young woman standing there, early twenties, with a hesitant smile and a notebook clutched to her chest.

“Ms. Allen?” The woman’s voice was soft, a touch of nerves in it. “I’m sorry to come unannounced, but I…I wanted to speak with you. My name’s Riley Henderson. I’m a journalist.”

Vanessa’s immediate instinct was to close the door. Reporters had swarmed her in the days after the verdict, trying to coax a statement, an emotional reaction—anything to fill their columns and broadcasts. But there was something different about this woman. She looked earnest, almost unsure of herself, and her gaze held a kind of quiet respect that made Vanessa pause.

“I’ve read about your son,” Riley continued, noticing Vanessa’s hesitation. “I followed the trial, too, but I’m not here to ask about that. I’m working on a story—a series, actually—about families who’ve lost loved ones to violence. I want to write about who your son was, not just what happened to him. I think it’s important that people see more than just a headline, that they understand the lives behind these stories.”

Vanessa felt something shift in her, a mix of reluctance and intrigue. She’d spent so long trying to make people see Jeremiah as more than just another statistic, more than just a name in a newspaper. She’d wanted people to remember his laugh, his stubbornness, his dreams. And here was this young woman, a stranger, asking to bring those memories to life for others.

After a long moment, Vanessa nodded, opening the door a little wider. “Come in.”

They sat in the living room, Vanessa on the couch, Riley on the edge of an armchair, her notebook open on her knee, pen poised but not moving. She looked at Vanessa with a kind of gentleness that made her feel seen, and somehow, in that quiet space, the memories came easier than she’d expected.

“He was my only son,” Vanessa began, her voice low and steady. “People used to say he had this light about him, like he was born with laughter in his blood. He was curious about everything. As a boy, he’d collect stones from every place we went, even if it was just a new grocery store. He’d say each one had a story, and he wanted to be the one to tell it.”

Riley smiled softly, making a note, and Vanessa continued, feeling the memories rise to the surface, layer by layer. She talked about his love of science fiction, how he’d beg her to let him stay up to watch the stars, pointing out constellations with the little telescope she’d bought him for his eighth birthday. She told Riley about his dream of becoming an engineer, how he’d saved up for a used laptop and taught himself to code, even designing a basic game for his friends.

The afternoon stretched on, and soon, the sun began to dip lower in the sky, casting a warm glow through the windows. Riley listened quietly, barely looking at her notes as Vanessa spoke. When she finally closed her notebook, she looked at Vanessa with a kind of gratitude that seemed as much for the stories as for the trust.

“Thank you, Ms. Allen. This…” Riley’s voice caught, and she cleared her throat. “This means a lot. I think it’ll mean a lot to others, too. He sounds like someone I would have liked to know.”

Vanessa nodded, her throat tight. “He was. He was good.”

They exchanged a few more words, and as Riley left, Vanessa felt something close to relief. For the first time since Jeremiah’s death, she felt that someone outside her family might understand him as he truly was—not just as a victim, but as a person full of dreams, quirks, flaws, and hope.

***

In the weeks that followed, Riley’s article was published, and the story of Jeremiah Allen spread far beyond their city. His face, once just a photo in Vanessa’s hands, now reached thousands of people—readers who knew him not just as a headline but as a young man with a passion for learning, a kid who collected stones, a dreamer who’d had his future ripped away.

Letters began to arrive at Vanessa’s doorstep, handwritten notes, emails printed out by strangers who wanted to share their support. Some wrote of their own children, telling Vanessa about their fears, their struggles to protect them in a world that didn’t always feel safe. Others shared their admiration for Jeremiah’s story, how his life and ambitions had touched them. Vanessa read each one, some making her smile, others bringing tears. Slowly, she began to feel that her son’s memory was reaching beyond the grief, growing into something larger, something meaningful.

One letter in particular caught her attention. It came in a plain envelope, addressed simply to “Ms. Vanessa Allen,” with no return address. Inside was a single sheet of paper, the handwriting slanted and unsteady.

Dear Ms. Allen,

I don’t expect you to forgive me, and I won’t pretend that I deserve it. I know I’ve taken something from you that I can never replace, and every day, I live with the weight of what I did. I know it’s not enough, and I know nothing can undo the hurt I’ve caused.

But I need you to know that I’m trying to make amends. I’m not asking for absolution, only that you know I’m doing what I can to honor your son’s memory. In my own way, I’m trying to help others, to make sure no one else has to go through what you have.

I know this won’t mean much coming from me, but I wanted you to know that Jeremiah’s life is not forgotten. It’s a small comfort, I know. But it’s what I have to offer.

Sincerely, Grant Morrow

Vanessa’s hands trembled as she read the letter, a surge of emotions flooding her—anger, grief, disbelief, even an uncomfortable twinge of pity. She wanted to rip the letter up, to throw it away and erase his words from her mind. But something held her back.

She read it again, her eyes lingering on the phrases, on the rawness she felt in the spaces between the lines. There was no way to tell if his words were sincere, no way to know if he truly felt the weight of what he had done. And yet, as she folded the letter carefully, placing it next to the framed picture of Jeremiah, she realized that perhaps, this was part of her own path to healing.

In the quiet of her home, she closed her eyes, feeling the pulse of her heart, steady and strong. She didn’t know what forgiveness meant in a world that had taken so much from her, or if it was something she could ever fully give. But she felt, in the smallest way, that she might one day learn to carry her grief without letting it consume her.

Jeremiah’s voice seemed to echo softly in her mind, a memory that she held onto like a lifeline. You’ll never know what it’s like unless you get your feet wet, Ma.

As she held that letter, a strange, unsteady peace washed over her. Maybe one day she would take that step forward. Maybe one day she would find herself standing in the rain again, feeling each drop as something new—a beginning.

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Shards by Olivia Salter | Short Story

 

Shards

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 2,923

The door creaked open, a thin, aching sound that shivered through the narrow hallway, one so familiar it might as well have been her own voice breaking. Inside, the room waited, undisturbed. Dust floated lazily in the slanted beams of afternoon light slipping through the filthy window, settling in patches over the floorboards and the furniture. It had been a bedroom once—a place with life, laughter, warmth—but all that had faded, dulled by the years and her absence. Now it was more of a relic, and Evie felt like she barely belonged.

She stood in the doorway, the air stale and heavy, tasting faintly of old perfume and forgotten things. Her hand drifted along the worn frame, her fingers brushing the grooves she’d once run along as a child. It was the one place she kept returning to, despite herself. Here, in the stillness, she could almost feel her mother’s presence, like an old song buried beneath layers of static.

Her mother’s face came to her in fragments, never all at once. A hand brushing a strand of hair back from her eyes, the soft creases at the corners of her mouth when she smiled, her voice lilting up when she called Evie’s name. Evie wanted to keep that face whole in her mind, hold on to each detail—but no matter how hard she tried, it slipped away, piece by piece, like trying to hold water in her hands.

She took a few steps into the room, the wooden floor creaking beneath her, each step cautious, like she was trespassing. Her eyes fell on the dresser against the far wall. There, propped up between a cracked vase and an old jewelry box, was the photo. She didn’t need to look to know what it showed: her mother’s arm draped around her shoulder, both of them smiling into the camera, the world whole and bright behind them. She’d taken it after her high school graduation, her mother standing tall beside her, pride glowing in her eyes. They hadn’t known then that it would be the last photo they’d take together.

Evie let out a slow, shuddering breath, hugging her arms around herself. She hadn’t seen her mother since that night, not really. Not since the crash.

Her mother had been driving them home, the rain coming down so hard it looked like rivers rushing down the windshield. They’d been laughing, her mother’s voice warm as she sang along with the radio, off-key and joyful. Then the headlights—two burning orbs swallowing the world in an instant—then metal twisting, glass shattering, her mother’s voice cut off mid-laugh.

She blinked hard, pulling herself back to the present. But the memories were already there, creeping back up like weeds through pavement, and she could feel them pressing against her mind, sharp and insistent.

“Do you remember?”

The voice slithered through the silence, barely more than a whisper. Evie stiffened, her gaze flicking to the corners of the room where the shadows seemed to thicken. The voice had started as a faint murmur, almost a memory itself, but lately, it had grown louder, more insistent. She could feel it sometimes, like a presence lingering just behind her, waiting for her to slip.

Her hand brushed something cold on the floor. She glanced down and saw a tiny sliver of glass, a shard almost hidden in the dust. It caught the light, glinting like a small, sharp star. She picked it up, holding it between her fingers. When she angled it toward the window, she could see her reflection—fractured, split into broken lines and angles, her own face divided like a puzzle she couldn’t solve.

“You know it was your fault,” the voice murmured, winding closer, as if it were coiling around her ear.

Her throat tightened, her fingers gripping the shard so hard that the edges bit into her skin. Blood beaded along her palm, warm and dark, a small pain that rooted her back in her body. She’d thought the voice was only a figment, something her mind conjured to keep her company in the silence, but it felt real, closer than her own heartbeat.

“No… I didn’t…” she whispered, though her voice wavered. She didn’t even know who she was talking to.

But the voice persisted, soft and venomous, slipping through her defenses. “You distracted her. Laughing, talking. You weren’t paying attention, and neither was she.”

Evie’s breath caught, a cold wave of shame washing over her. She could still see her mother’s face, that warm smile, the glint of her laugh in her eyes. She’d always been a careful driver, always made Evie wear her seatbelt, always double-checked everything. But that night, she’d let go, just for a moment. And Evie had been right there, egging her on, wanting to see her mother laugh, to feel that rare lightness between them.

The pain in her hand sharpened, and she looked down, her gaze catching on the blood that trickled down her palm, staining the glass shard. It was a small wound, insignificant, but it felt right somehow, like a physical reminder of the guilt she carried. She let the blood pool, watching as it darkened and dripped, as if it could somehow make up for all the things she’d lost.

“You think she’d forgive you?” The voice softened, almost pitying now. “She died because of you. You’ve never been anything but broken pieces since then.”

Evie pressed her lips together, her hands shaking. She wanted to argue, to shout back, but the words choked in her throat. Deep down, she knew the voice was right—at least, it was right about one thing. She was nothing but fragments now, bits and pieces of the person she used to be. Her friends had drifted away, her job had faded into something she barely held onto. She moved through the world as if from behind a screen, disconnected, numb. She hadn’t allowed herself to feel anything real in months—maybe even years.

But here, in this room, with the shard of glass in her hand and her mother’s face lingering in her mind, something stirred. An ache, old and deep, buried under all the silence and numbness. She wanted to see her mother again, wanted to hear her voice, to know if she really blamed her. But the only thing she could hear was the voice, echoing her own thoughts, feeding her fears.

“Do you think she’d want this?” she whispered, clutching the shard as if it were an anchor. “Do you think she’d want me to be like this?”

The silence stretched, heavy and oppressive, and for a moment, she almost thought the voice would leave her in peace. But then it returned, softer, wrapping around her like smoke.

“You’ll always be like this. You’ll never escape it. You’re nothing but broken pieces.”

A tremor ran through her, her hand tightening around the shard until the pain flared. But this time, she didn’t shrink away from it. This time, she took a deep, shaky breath, grounding herself in the ache, the sensation of her heartbeat pounding in her palm, her blood staining the glass.

“No,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I’m still here.”

The room felt different now, the shadows pulling back just a little, the air shifting. Her eyes drifted to the photo on the dresser, her mother’s smiling face gazing back at her. That warmth, that love—it had been real, and it was something the voice could never take from her.

She looked down at the shard in her hand, the blood pooling along its edge, and felt the faintest flicker of strength. She was more than this—more than the fragments of guilt, more than the memories that haunted her. She’d survived, even if it had left her scarred and broken. She could keep surviving.

With a slow, deliberate motion, she set the shard back down on the floor and wiped her hand on her jeans, watching the blood smear in streaks. It was a small act, but it felt like a choice—a choice to let go of something she’d held onto for too long.

The voice was quiet now, a faint murmur at the edge of her mind. She knew it wouldn’t disappear entirely; it would linger, waiting for the moments when her strength faltered, when the silence grew too thick. But for now, she had silenced it.

She turned to the door, her hand resting on the knob, and took one last look around the room. The shadows felt less oppressive, the air lighter. Her mother’s face in the photo seemed to smile at her with something like pride, a reminder that she was still here, still capable of carrying on.

Evie opened the door, letting in a sliver of hallway light, cold and sharp. She took a step forward, then another, her movements slow but steady. She could feel the weight of the past pressing on her, the guilt and grief still there, but lighter, something she could bear.

She didn’t know where she was going or what waited for her beyond this room. But as she stepped out into the hallway, she felt a faint, hopeful flicker—a feeling she hadn’t allowed herself in a long time. Her mother’s voice echoed in her memory, soft and sure, as if she were standing right beside her.

“You’re stronger than you think, Evie. Just keep going.”

With that, Evie left the room behind, her footsteps steady and unhurried, each one carrying her further into the light, into a future she was finally ready to face.

As Evie walked down the hall, the house felt foreign, almost surreal. Each room she passed seemed like a snapshot from a life that no longer belonged to her—a framed photograph of simpler times, a vase holding dried flowers that had long lost their scent. The walls were layered with memories, yet somehow everything felt distant, like the life she’d once known was out of focus, drifting just beyond her reach.

She descended the stairs, the old wood groaning beneath her weight, the sound a steady, rhythmic beat that kept her grounded. The voice was silent now, but its words echoed faintly in her mind, clinging like spider silk to the edges of her thoughts. She shook her head, trying to dispel it, to hold onto the clarity she’d felt just moments before. It was fragile, this newfound resolve, like a delicate thread she could so easily lose if she wasn’t careful.

In the kitchen, she paused, her eyes drifting over the chipped countertop, the faded wallpaper that her mother had once been so proud of. She could almost see her mother standing there, stirring a pot on the stove, her eyes crinkling in a smile when she turned to Evie. The warmth of that memory softened the ache in her chest, and for the first time, she allowed herself to feel it fully, without the bitterness or guilt.

Her fingers brushed over a half-opened drawer, and inside, she spotted a small stack of handwritten recipes. Her mother’s looping handwriting danced across each card, the ink slightly smudged in places where she’d written too quickly. Evie lifted one of the cards—a recipe for her mother’s peach cobbler, a favorite they’d made together every summer. She could almost smell the sweetness, hear the laughter they’d shared as they peeled the peaches, her mother’s steady hands guiding her own clumsy fingers.

She took a shaky breath, folding the recipe in her hand and holding it close, as if it were a relic of something sacred. For so long, she’d avoided these things, these little pieces of her mother’s life. The scent of peach cobbler baking had once filled this kitchen, the laughter, the hum of music playing from the radio on the counter. All of it had been too painful to revisit, a reminder of what she’d lost. But now, standing here, she felt a new warmth, a gentle ache that wasn’t entirely sorrow.

Evie glanced around the kitchen, noticing for the first time how the light played off the walls, softening the worn edges of the space. She’d always imagined that moving forward meant erasing the past, leaving behind these moments and memories that were tinged with grief. But maybe that wasn’t true. Maybe healing was allowing herself to carry them, to let these memories live alongside her pain, until they became something she could look back on with love instead of guilt.

As she moved to the sink, she caught sight of her own reflection in the small window above it. She looked tired, her face pale and shadowed, but there was something different there, a faint spark she hadn’t seen in a long time. It wasn’t confidence, not yet, but it was a start—a tiny glimmer of who she used to be, a girl who’d once believed in hope, in laughter, in love.

She heard a soft shuffle behind her, and for a moment, her heart leapt, thinking it was her mother, come to tell her it was all just a bad dream. But when she turned, it was only the empty hallway stretching behind her, silent and still. A sigh escaped her, part disappointment, part acceptance. Her mother was gone, and she had to make peace with that. But the life they’d shared together, the love they’d woven into these walls—that was something she could still hold onto.

Evie walked to the front door, her fingers trailing along the cool banister as she went. When she opened the door, the afternoon light flooded in, illuminating the dust that hung in the air, turning each particle into a tiny, floating star. She stepped outside, the air crisp and alive, filling her lungs with a freshness she hadn’t felt in years. The scent of cut grass and distant honeysuckle brushed against her senses, mingling with the warmth of sunlight on her face.

The world outside felt open, vast in a way that was both frightening and exhilarating. For so long, she’d been trapped in that house, in her mind, haunted by memories she couldn’t bear to face. But now, as she looked up at the sky, she felt the pull of possibility, the vastness of all the things she might yet experience, if only she let herself.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, a jarring reminder of the life that awaited her beyond this moment. She pulled it out, her fingers hovering over the screen. A missed call from her friend Rachel. She’d ignored Rachel’s calls for weeks, hiding from everyone who knew her, from everyone who cared. It felt like an impossible task, explaining what she’d been through, why she’d vanished. But maybe she didn’t have to explain, not fully. Maybe all she had to do was reach out, let someone in.

She dialed Rachel’s number before she could talk herself out of it, pressing the phone to her ear. The ring felt endless, each second stretching until finally, Rachel’s voice crackled through, warm and surprised.

“Evie? Oh my god, is that you?”

Evie’s voice came out softer than she’d intended, her throat tightening with emotion. “Yeah, it’s me.”

There was a pause, the weight of unspoken questions filling the silence. But Rachel didn’t ask them. Instead, her voice softened, a kindness that made Evie’s chest ache with gratitude. “I’ve missed you, Evie. You have no idea.”

“I… I missed you too.” The words were simple, but saying them felt like letting down a wall she’d built up for so long.

“Do you want to grab a coffee? Or maybe go for a walk? I could come by, if that’s better.”

Evie hesitated, her gaze drifting back to the house, the memories still heavy in the air behind her. But then she looked to the open street, the world beyond, and felt a quiet resolve settle within her. “A walk sounds good. I think I could use some fresh air.”

Rachel’s laughter was soft and familiar, wrapping around her like a warm embrace. “Alright. I’ll meet you at the park in an hour?”

“Yeah. I’ll see you there.”

They hung up, and Evie slipped her phone back into her pocket, her pulse steady and sure. She looked back at the house one last time, letting her eyes linger on the faded walls, the chipped paint, the window where she’d just seen her reflection. It would always hold a piece of her, a part of her heart and memory. But it didn’t have to be a place of isolation, a monument to her pain.

With a quiet smile, she turned away and started down the path, her steps slow but purposeful. The weight of her grief was still there, but lighter now, softened by something new. She knew she’d have moments of weakness, nights when the voice would return, when the memories would overwhelm her. But she wasn’t alone anymore. She had Rachel, the faint warmth of friendship rekindled, and her mother’s love tucked safely in her heart.

As she walked, the sun dipped lower, casting her shadow long and thin along the path. She thought of her mother’s words again, those last whispers of strength and guidance. “You’re stronger than you think, Evie. Just keep going.”

And she would. Step by step, day by day, she would carry that love forward, letting it guide her into a future that, for the first time in a long while, felt worth exploring.

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Stream | By Olivia Salter | Horror

Stream

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 2,397

When Jason’s stomach churned and the sharp urge to relieve himself hit, he thought it was nothing more than the burrito from last night. But what followed in the bathroom wasn’t just nausea or indigestion. Something waited in the water—small, invisible, and terrifyingly alive.

The air in Jason’s apartment clung to him, thick with the lingering stench of sweat and old food. The fluorescent bathroom light flickered overhead, casting eerie shadows across the cracked tiles. His bladder throbbed painfully as he zipped down and leaned over the toilet. He sighed, feeling the familiar relief as the steady stream of urine hit the bowl.

Then, something strange happened.

The water seemed to ripple unnaturally, not with the splash of his urine but… something else. Something beneath the surface.

Jason froze. His eyes darted to the water, squinting in the dim light, convinced that he had imagined it. It was just a regular toilet, dirty from neglect, the porcelain chipped and stained. But there, floating lazily in the bowl, were thin, worm-like shapes. They swirled in the water, as though awakened by his presence, their translucent bodies barely visible.

“What the hell?” Jason muttered, his pulse quickening. He stepped back, shaking the last few drops and quickly zipping up. The sense of relief from moments ago was replaced by a crawling sensation up his spine.

He flushed the toilet. The water swirled in violent spirals, dragging the worms down with it. They vanished as the tank refilled, and the water settled back to its usual placid state.

He stared at it for a long moment. Maybe he was still groggy from his late night at the bar. Lack of sleep could mess with anyone’s senses. A few hours and a strong coffee would set things right.

As Jason stepped out of the bathroom, the crawling sensation lingered.

***

The next morning, Jason groaned as the alarm uttered a high-pitched piercing sound from the bedside table. His body felt heavy, weighed down by a soreness he couldn’t explain. The night had been restless, filled with fragmented dreams he couldn’t recall. Only a vague memory of cold water and squirming shapes stuck with him.

Stumbling to the bathroom, he splashed his face with water, trying to shake the fog from his mind. But as he leaned over the sink, the pale reflection staring back at him startled him. His eyes, once a deep brown, were now ringed with red, dark bags hanging heavy beneath them. His skin had a pale, almost waxy sheen to it.

“Damn, I look like death,” he muttered. He splashed more water on his face, rubbing his neck where an uncomfortable tightness had set in overnight.

And then, a sharp, stabbing pain shot through his groin. Jason’s breath hitched, and he clutched his abdomen, wincing. The pain was brief but intense, a hot needle-like sensation. He bent over, gasping for air, feeling sweat break out across his forehead.

This time, he felt more than just discomfort. His mind flashed back to those worms in the toilet. He had flushed them away, hadn’t he? But the image of them squirming, tiny and writhing, resurfaced, and a nauseating dread crept into his chest.

Jason rushed back to the toilet, lifting the lid. The water was clear, as it always had been, but his skin tingled just looking at it.

“Come on, get a grip,” he muttered, willing his mind to settle. But the pain in his abdomen disagreed.

As the day wore on, the unease only worsened. The throbbing in his groin persisted, coupled with a strange, crawling itch beneath his skin. No amount of scratching relieved it, and by mid-afternoon, Jason found himself unable to sit still, fidgeting, tugging at his clothes, and rubbing his arms raw.

He couldn’t help but remember those translucent worms swirling in the toilet bowl. He had written them off as some harmless drain infestation, but now... what if they weren’t?

***

Jason’s breaking point came that night. The pain intensified into an unbearable tightness, and he felt something under his skin, moving. The sensation was unmistakable now. Whatever had crawled out of that toilet had found its way into him.

Desperate and panicked, he tore his clothes off and rushed to the bathroom mirror, inspecting every inch of his body. There, on his lower abdomen, just above his pelvic bone, something pulsed beneath the surface. It shifted slightly, moving side to side in a rhythmic motion.

“Oh god… what the hell…” Jason whispered, his voice trembling. His fingers hovered over the lump, shaking. He pressed down, hard, and screamed.

A thin, clear liquid oozed from his skin, followed by something worse—small, writhing worms emerging from the opening. They were translucent, nearly invisible, but there they were, twisting and burrowing beneath his skin, retreating just as quickly as they had surfaced.

Jason retched, stumbling backward into the tub. His heart pounded against his ribs, and he clutched the edges of the sink to steady himself.

The worms were inside him.

***

He didn’t bother with the hospital. They wouldn’t believe him, wouldn’t understand. He was sure they’d diagnose him with some kind of delusion. But he wasn’t delusional. He could feel them, gnawing at his insides, twisting beneath his skin.

Jason sat on the floor of his bathroom, shaking, clutching his head in his hands as the crawling sensation became unbearable. His eyes darted to the toilet, and the grotesque reality hit him.

The parasites weren’t just in the toilet. They were in the water, in the pipes. They had been waiting for someone to use the toilet, waiting for the warmth of a body to draw them out.

He thought of all the times he had flushed it away, thinking it was over. Each time he relieved himself, he had unknowingly exposed himself to them. They traveled through his urine, into his body, nesting, multiplying.

Jason’s stomach turned. He had to get rid of them. Somehow.

With trembling hands, he grabbed a kitchen knife from the drawer and stood in front of the bathroom mirror, eyes wide and bloodshot, staring at his reflection. The lump in his abdomen had grown larger, more defined. He could see the parasites writhing under his skin, like worms trapped in a plastic bag.

He gritted his teeth and brought the blade to his stomach. Blood welled up immediately as he sliced into his skin, the pain sharp and immediate. He gagged as a thin stream of pus and blood oozed from the cut, and then—they began to emerge.

Dozens of tiny, translucent worms wriggled out of the wound, their slippery bodies wet with blood. Jason screamed, clawing at them, trying to crush them between his fingers, but they slipped away, disappearing down the drain or burrowing deeper into his flesh.

Panting and covered in his own blood, Jason collapsed to the floor, too weak to fight. The pain was unbearable, a burning fire coursing through his veins as the parasites continued their invasion.

His vision blurred, the room spinning. He could feel them, inside his bloodstream now, invading every part of his body. His head lolled to the side, eyes fixing on the toilet.

In the dim light, the water rippled again.

This time, it wasn’t just the translucent worms that swirled beneath the surface. The water itself seemed alive, pulsing and undulating like a living thing. As Jason's consciousness faded, he realized, with sickening clarity, that the toilet had been the source all along. It wasn’t just a host for the parasites—it was their gateway.

The last thing he heard before everything went black was the sound of the toilet flushing.

***

The maintenance worker wiped his brow, oblivious to the faint shiver that passed through the building’s water pipes. He shut the door behind him and stepped into the hallway, his boots squeaking on the faded linoleum. As he left, the bathroom returned to its still, eerie quiet. The toilet gurgled softly, the way old plumbing systems often did. And below, far beneath the floorboards, in the tangle of sewage lines, something pulsated.

A few floors down, inside apartment 3B, Elise hummed a familiar tune as she prepared dinner. The evening was quiet—too quiet, really—and she was grateful for it. Life had been stressful lately: work deadlines, a sick mother, and the constant pressure to stay afloat in a city that seemed ready to swallow her whole. She hadn't felt this relaxed in weeks.

But the gnawing sensation in her bladder was becoming impossible to ignore. She put the kitchen knife down and wiped her hands on a dish towel, walking to the bathroom in a daze. The air in the hallway was thick, heavy with a humidity she hadn’t noticed before. Maybe the building’s heating system was on the fritz again.

She turned on the light and lifted the toilet lid, not bothering to look inside. Her mind was elsewhere—on tomorrow's tasks, on her mother’s condition. The flow of her urine was steady, splashing against the water below. Elise sighed, closing her eyes.

The water rippled.

Her urine, too, rippled—subtle, barely noticeable—but something under the surface of the water stirred, responding. A faint shimmer, barely perceptible, formed tiny waves along the bowl’s edge, moving in circular patterns.

Elise shuddered, but didn’t know why. A sudden chill ran up her spine, goosebumps prickling her arms. She quickly finished and flushed the toilet, shaking off the unease.

As she washed her hands, a slight discomfort bubbled in her lower abdomen. A cramp, maybe, or the aftereffects of sitting too long at work. Nothing to worry about.

She hadn’t noticed the flicker in the corner of her vision—the faint, nearly invisible shapes squirming just beneath the surface of the toilet water before it flushed away.

***

The next morning, Elise woke with a deep ache in her belly. She sat up, frowning at the dull throb that had settled just below her navel. She stretched, trying to ease the stiffness, but the sensation persisted, a pulsing tightness that made her wince.

Something wasn’t right. She could feel it.

She stumbled out of bed, padding across the cold floor to the bathroom, her mind fogged with drowsiness. In the mirror, her reflection startled her—paler than usual, with dark rings under her eyes. And then she noticed the faint swelling, a slight but noticeable lump forming just above her pelvis.

Elise frowned, pressing a hand to her abdomen. A sharp sting made her jerk her hand back. She blinked, squinting at the skin.

Beneath the surface, something moved.

Her breath hitched. No, it had to be a trick of the light. Her mind was playing games with her. But as she leaned closer to the mirror, she saw it again. The lump beneath her skin shifted, a slow, wriggling motion, as though something was crawling underneath.

She let out a strangled gasp, backing away, her hands trembling. What the hell was that?

Panic rose in her chest. Her fingers clawed at her skin, trying to press down on the movement, but the more she pushed, the more it seemed to agitate whatever was inside her. Her stomach churned violently as though something was moving, stretching, growing beneath the surface.

Elise turned toward the toilet, remembering the slight shudder in the water, the way it had rippled unnaturally last night. She thought of the dull ache she’d felt since then and now, looking at the growing lump, her mind connected the dots with terrifying clarity.

The parasites were inside her.

Her knees buckled as nausea washed over her, bile rising in her throat. She collapsed to the floor, gripping the edge of the sink to steady herself, but the sensation in her abdomen intensified. The crawling, squirming motion was growing stronger.

Her stomach rippled.

“Oh God, no…” she whimpered, her voice shaking. Sweat beaded on her forehead as she doubled over, clutching her midsection, her body trembling uncontrollably.

She could feel them now—hundreds, maybe thousands—tiny, thin creatures writhing beneath her skin. Her vision blurred with tears, and her breath came in ragged gasps as the realization hit her.

They were trying to get out.

***

In her panic, Elise fumbled for her phone. Her fingers slipped as she dialed 911, the shrill tone of the line ringing in her ear. She couldn’t stop shaking. The pain was unbearable now, her insides roiling with the parasites.

The operator picked up. “911, what’s your emergency?”

“Please… please help me,” Elise sobbed into the phone. “There’s something inside me… something’s moving in my stomach…”

“Ma’am, can you tell me your location? We’ll send—”

She never heard the rest of the sentence.

A searing pain tore through her abdomen, and Elise screamed, dropping the phone. She clutched her stomach, feeling something beneath the skin, pressing outward. It was moving, crawling toward the surface. Her skin stretched grotesquely, and she cried out again as the thin, transparent shape of a worm pushed through the surface, breaking her skin.

Blood and clear fluid oozed from the wound as the parasite emerged—long, translucent, and writhing. More followed, slipping out of her flesh like threads pulled from a needle, each one wriggling, alive.

Elise’s vision swam, the pain overwhelming her senses. She tried to scream, but no sound came out. Her body convulsed as the parasites spilled from her stomach, slithering down her legs, their thin bodies glistening with blood.

Her consciousness faded as she collapsed onto the cold bathroom floor, the writhing creatures crawling over her, retreating back toward the toilet. The last thing she saw before darkness claimed her was the water in the toilet bowl, rippling.

***

A knock echoed through the empty hallway. It was the same maintenance worker, clipboard in hand, his face expressionless as he noted the complaint for "strange smells" and "weird plumbing issues."

"Third time this week," he muttered, stepping inside the apartment. The smell hit him immediately—foul, like something had died. He frowned, heading toward the bathroom, the source of the stench.

He lifted the toilet lid. The water inside was murky, the faintest ripple disturbing the surface. A glimmer of something moved below.

He flushed it away without a second thought.

The pipes groaned, echoing throughout the building. Somewhere, far beneath the city, the network of sewage lines pulsed. The parasites waited.

And they were still hungry.

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© 2025 Olivia Salter - All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the author.

Where You Left Me by Olivia Salter | Short Fiction

 

Where You Left Me

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,166

The hallway leading to Alex’s apartment was as dim as he remembered, its lights flickering as if caught between light and dark, like him. Ben’s hand hovered over her door, fingers brushing against the cold wood. How many times had he been here before, running through some last-minute excuse he could throw out just to ease his way back into her life?

Her door, worn and marked by the scars of past visitors—scratches from keys, dents from careless knocks—stared back at him. He wanted to knock, to give in to the usual ritual of waiting until she forgave him with that look of quiet surrender. It was always that way with her. She’d see the shadows in him and brush them off as though they were nothing, as if he were worth the love she gave so freely.

This time was different, though. It had been months. Three long, hollow months of nothing but the silence she’d left behind, a silence that had begun to gnaw at him like hunger. Finally, he forced himself to knock, listening as the sound faded into the emptiness on the other side. He waited, seconds stretching like hours.

But no one came to the door.

***

He fumbled for his spare key, feeling the weight of it—small, cold, yet somehow heavier than anything he’d ever held. He turned it in the lock, the familiar click sounding strangely foreign, almost like a warning.

The door opened onto a darkened space, shades drawn and light creeping only around the edges. He stepped inside, taking in the emptiness, the stark vacancy that pressed in from every corner. The smell of her lavender candles had faded, replaced by the dry, stale scent of abandonment. There were no cushions on the couch, no forgotten cup of tea on the counter, no mess of books sprawled out by her favorite chair. All of it was gone, like a stage set dismantled after the final act.

He moved through the rooms, trying to find some sign, some piece of her she might have left behind. In the kitchen, he reached out instinctively for her mug—the one with the chipped edge she always insisted on using—only to find an empty shelf, smooth and bare, as if she’d never even been here.

Each room was stripped, devoid of her warmth. Even the bathroom mirror, once fogged with her morning routines and little messages traced in lipstick, was clean, sterile. He opened a drawer, empty. A cabinet, empty. He felt the quiet seep into him, heavy and unforgiving.

But the bedroom was what truly unnerved him. Her bed was gone, leaving an impression in the carpet like a shadow that refused to fade. For a moment, he stood there, heart pounding, staring at that empty space. She’d been meticulous in her absence, erasing herself from every corner of the apartment, as if to ensure that he wouldn’t find a trace of her.

A memory broke through—her last text, months ago, after he’d brushed her off one too many times: If you push me away, I promise you, you won’t find me where you left me.

He’d laughed at the time, dismissing it as another one of her melodramatic responses. But now, standing in the hollow shell of her life, he felt her absence as a deep, aching weight.

***

Weeks passed, yet her ghost lingered in his thoughts, haunting him. Everywhere he looked, he saw her—a glimpse of her favorite color in a scarf, the sound of her laughter, faint but distinct, drifting from a nearby café. He began seeking her out, roaming the streets, asking friends about her, but no one had answers. It was as though she had vanished, dissolved from his world entirely.

Then, on a rainy afternoon, he finally saw her. She stood by a street-side café, wrapped in a red scarf he’d never seen, her face lit with laughter. She was radiant, almost unrecognizable in her ease. There was a man beside her, tall and dark-eyed, his hand resting on the small of her back as they shared a quiet moment, leaning close as if they were the only two people in the world.

Ben froze, his chest tightening as he took in the sight. This was Alex, but not the Alex he’d known. This woman looked like she belonged here, belonged to this life, to this man who held her gaze with a warmth Ben had never managed to give her. The weight of what he’d lost settled in his stomach, sharp and bitter.

The man whispered something, and Alex laughed, the sound spilling into the air like a song. She leaned her head against the man’s shoulder, eyes closing, a look of peace washing over her face. A peace that had never been there when she was with him.

For a moment, he wanted to run to her, to plead, to remind her of all they’d shared. But he knew it would be useless. She was no longer his to claim, no longer the woman waiting by the door, her heart open, hoping he’d choose her completely. She’d become someone he could barely recognize—strong, whole, and untethered from him.

***

Ben wandered the streets for hours, the rain soaking him through, blending with the tears he hadn’t realized he’d shed. He returned to his apartment that night, sitting alone in the dim light, staring at the empty spaces where traces of her had once lingered—a book she’d left, a blanket she’d wrapped herself in on cold nights, a forgotten photograph of them he’d tucked in a drawer.

He realized that all those things she’d left behind had been her way of asking him to stay, to fill the silence with something real. But he’d been too blind, too selfish, to see it. And now, all that remained was a hollow ache, a void he couldn’t fill.

He tried to reach out to her once, a brief message he’d typed and retyped a hundred times before finally sending it: I’m sorry. I miss you.

Days passed without a reply, the silence his only answer. He’d pushed her away, expecting her to stay, believing that love could wait on his terms. But he understood now—some things, once lost, could never be found again.

***

Weeks turned to months, and Ben settled into a new rhythm, one he’d never asked for but couldn’t escape. The emptiness followed him, a quiet reminder of all he’d taken for granted. Every so often, he’d see a flicker of red in a crowded street or hear a laugh that sounded just like hers, and for a moment, he’d forget, caught between memory and reality.

But each time he remembered her words, her parting message to him: If you push me away, I promise you, you won’t find me where you left me.

And he knew now that the last place he would ever find her… was where he’d left her.

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The Thrill of the Ride by Olivia Salter | Short Fiction

 

The Thrill of the Ride

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,501

The sky over San Diego bled into shades of fiery orange and soft purple as the sun sank into the horizon. The gentle murmur of tourists packing up their beach gear barely registered amid the pounding heartbeat of the Pacific. The salty scent of the ocean filled the air, and the tension hung thick between two surfers standing at the water’s edge, boards tucked under their arms.

Neptune Foster, the golden boy of the local surf scene, felt the familiar anticipation bubbling beneath his sun-kissed skin. His body moved with ease, posture relaxed, but his mind was on edge. His eyes traced the path of the waves crashing against the shore, each one a reminder of what was at stake. Today wasn’t just another day in the surf. This was his chance to put Tia Lopez in her place once and for all.

For years, Neptune had been the undisputed king of these waves. His tanned skin, bronzed from hours beneath the California sun, his bleached-blond hair perpetually tousled by the wind—all were badges of his reign over the local surf scene. He had always taken pride in his effortless dominance, riding with a cool detachment. But Tia’s presence had become an irritant he couldn’t shake off, like a grain of sand trapped under the skin.

Tia stood a few feet away, her eyes fixed on the ocean’s horizon, her posture tight with anticipation. Her fingers flexed and relaxed around her surfboard as she waited, poised like a coiled spring. The competition between her and Neptune wasn’t just about who was better; it was about respect. For far too long, Tia had fought against the dismissive smirks of male surfers who thought they had her figured out—just another girl who wanted to dabble in their sport. But Tia wasn’t looking for approval. She was here to be the best, and Neptune was the last barrier in her way.

The wind picked up, tugging at loose strands of Tia’s dark hair, but her focus didn’t waver. The sun painted the ocean gold, and the waves reflected its light, as if nature itself was waiting to see who would prevail.

“Think you can out-ride me today?” Neptune’s voice cut through the crashing surf like a sharp blade, casual, yet carrying a hint of challenge beneath its surface. The words floated between them, but Tia felt their weight.

She turned to him, locking eyes. For a moment, the ocean’s roar was the only sound. “Just wait and see,” she said, her voice steady, though her pulse quickened. This wasn’t just about a surf contest—it was about proving she belonged here, on equal ground with the best of them.

Without another word, they both paddled out into the Pacific, the saltwater splashing against their arms, each stroke taking them further from the shore and deeper into the wild energy of the sea. The ocean seemed alive tonight, as if it sensed the silent duel playing out on its surface. Waves rose higher, darkening as the sun slipped lower, the light casting jagged shadows across the water. The air smelled of salt and tension.

Neptune reached the lineup first, turning to watch Tia approach. He was calm, controlled, as though every muscle in his body moved on instinct. His gaze sharpened as he saw her paddle in—her arms slicing through the water with an intensity he couldn’t ignore. For a moment, a flicker of doubt surfaced, quickly masked by his usual swagger. She’s good, but not good enough.

The first wave rose up behind him, a giant swell that curled into the perfect shape. With a quick glance back, Neptune angled his board and took off, the water catching him and pulling him forward. His body moved in perfect harmony with the wave, carving through the water with an effortless grace that had earned him his reputation. Each turn was sharp, precise, the spray of the ocean misting in his wake. But beneath the fluidity of his movements, Neptune’s thoughts churned. He could feel Tia’s presence in the water like an electric current—a challenge just waiting to be met.

Tia watched as Neptune effortlessly rode the first wave, his silhouette cutting through the golden light. She gripped her board tighter, refusing to let her admiration show. Her own determination surged with each breath. She knew she couldn’t afford to be hesitant; she’d come too far, fought too hard to be second place today.

The next wave formed, even taller and more ferocious than the first. Without hesitation, Tia paddled hard, feeling the surge of the ocean beneath her as it pushed her forward. She stood quickly, her legs instinctively balancing against the force of the water. As the wave lifted her higher, Tia’s muscles tensed and relaxed, her body moving in sync with the ocean’s power. Her feet shifted, directing the board with pinpoint accuracy, and soon she was flying across the surface, the spray from the wave catching in her hair.

As Tia carved her way across the water, her heart pounded in rhythm with the pulse of the ocean. This was her space. This was where she was free—free from the judgment, the whispers, the second-guessing. Here, it was just her and the water, and she felt the power of the wave beneath her feet as if it had chosen her.

Back at the lineup, Neptune watched her, something flickering in his chest that he wasn’t used to—something dangerously close to admiration. Tia was good, better than he’d ever let himself admit. He narrowed his eyes as she rode out the wave with ease, her form flawless. For the first time, the possibility crossed his mind—What if she’s better than me?

The setting sun dipped lower, and the waves continued to rise, growing more unpredictable as the evening wore on. Tia and Neptune took turns, each one trying to outdo the other, their rivalry playing out in a symphony of fluid movement and precision. Every time Tia caught a wave, Neptune was right behind her, and when Neptune claimed his ride, Tia was ready to strike back.

As the waves intensified, the strain began to show. Neptune’s muscles ached with every stroke, his legs burning from the constant balancing and carving. But the adrenaline kept him sharp. He wasn’t going to let Tia beat him—not today. Not ever.

Tia’s own exhaustion threatened to creep in, but she pushed it aside, her body running on pure determination. Her lungs burned, her limbs heavy, but none of it mattered. She had to finish strong. Every time she glanced at Neptune, she saw the same grit in his eyes, the same refusal to give in.

Then, the final wave approached. It was a monster—towering over them like a wall of liquid fury. Neptune’s breath caught in his throat as he paddled toward it, the water rising beneath him. Tia was right beside him, matching his strokes, and for a moment, they were two forces in perfect harmony, neither willing to give an inch.

They caught the wave simultaneously, their boards lifting as the water propelled them forward. It wasn’t just a ride anymore—it was a battle. The wave roared around them, its energy pushing them faster and faster, but something shifted between them. They weren’t fighting against each other; they were riding together, two surfers in sync with the ocean’s power.

For a brief, glorious moment, everything fell away—the rivalry, the tension, the need to prove who was better. All that mattered was the wave beneath them, the wind in their faces, and the rhythm of their movements. They weaved through the water, their bodies carving the same path, their eyes occasionally meeting in silent acknowledgment.

Then the wave crashed down, taking them both under in a rush of water and foam. They tumbled through the sea, limbs flailing, until they resurfaced, gasping for breath. For a second, the world was silent, just the sound of their ragged breaths and the soft lap of the water around them.

Neptune wiped the saltwater from his face, turning to Tia. She was laughing, her eyes bright with exhilaration, her hair slicked back against her scalp. He couldn’t help but join in, the sound bubbling out of him before he could stop it.

“Not bad,” Neptune said, catching his breath as they both floated side by side.

Tia grinned, the rivalry softened in her eyes. “Not bad yourself.”

As they paddled back to shore, the tension between them had shifted, no longer crackling with competition, but with something closer to mutual respect. They didn’t need to declare a winner—the ride had been the victory.

When they finally stood on the sand, boards tucked under their arms, the sun had slipped completely beneath the horizon, leaving the beach in shadow. But the unspoken understanding between them shone brighter than the fading daylight.

It had never been about winning. It had always been about the thrill of the ride.

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The House on the Lake by Olivia Salter | Short Story

 

The House on the Lake

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 2,498

The winding road to the lake house seemed endless, each turn revealing another stretch of dense trees that blotted out the late afternoon sun. Nadine’s hands tightened around the steering wheel, the smooth leather warm against her palms. Her box braids brushed her shoulders as she glanced at the GPS, the route line growing shorter with each passing minute. The radio murmured quietly in the background, but it did nothing to calm the unease pulling at her. She had always hated long drives, especially to isolated places like this.

"Almost there," she whispered to herself.

Beside her in the passenger seat, Evan sat, staring out of the window. His expression was distant, almost haunted, his fingers drumming nervously on his thigh. There had been a subtle shift in him ever since they passed the first sign that pointed toward the lake. Something about this trip was bothering him, though he wouldn’t admit it outright.

Nadine cleared her throat, her voice cutting through the silence. “You okay? You’ve been quiet for a while.”

Evan’s head jerked slightly, as though he’d been pulled from a trance. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just thinking.” He offered her a weak smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

The GPS chirped, and they rounded the last bend. The lake house came into view, standing at the edge of the water like a forgotten relic. The once-grand structure was decaying, its wooden exterior weathered by years of exposure to the elements. Ivy crawled up the sides of the house, as if trying to reclaim it for the forest. The lake, dark and still, stretched out behind it, reflecting the fading sky like a sheet of glass. It was eerily quiet—no birds, no insects, just the soft lapping of the water against the shore.

"That’s it?" Nadine asked, trying to mask her disappointment. "It looks... different than I imagined."

Evan glanced at her before looking away, his jaw clenched. "It’s been a while since anyone’s been here. It’s not what it used to be."

As they parked, Nadine grabbed her phone, snapping a picture of the house and sending it to her best friend, Kayla, with a quick message: Made it. Wish me luck.

She hadn’t told Kayla everything about the trip—just that Evan wanted to show her his family’s old lake house. The truth was, Nadine didn’t fully understand why he was so intent on coming here, either. It felt important to him, though, so she had agreed. But now, standing in front of the dilapidated house, an uneasy feeling settled deep in her chest.

“Let’s get inside,” Evan said, grabbing their bags from the trunk. “We can relax and unpack. Maybe we’ll head out on the water tomorrow.”

Nadine hesitated, casting another glance at the lake. The water was darker than she expected, almost black. She forced herself to look away, turning her focus back to the house. It was just an old house, she told herself. Nothing to be afraid of.

***

Inside, the house was worse for wear. The air was thick with the scent of mildew, and dust coated every surface. The furniture looked ancient, untouched for years. Nadine ran her fingers over the arm of a faded couch, the fabric rough beneath her skin.

“I guess your family didn’t come here much,” she said, trying to lighten the mood.

Evan shrugged, his back to her as he fumbled with the keys to the back door. “We used to. But then... things changed.”

Nadine raised an eyebrow, sensing that there was more to the story. “Things?”

Evan’s shoulders tensed, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he opened the back door and stepped out onto the porch. Nadine followed, the wooden boards creaking beneath her weight. The view from the porch was stunning, in a haunting sort of way. The lake stretched out in front of them, its surface smooth and unbroken. The sun had begun to set, casting long shadows across the water.

Nadine shivered, though the air was still warm. There was something about the lake—something unsettling. She glanced at Evan, but he was staring out at the water, lost in thought again.

“Evan?” she asked softly. “What aren’t you telling me?”

He finally looked at her, his face pale. “My family stopped coming here after... after my sister disappeared.”

Nadine felt a chill run down her spine. “Your sister?”

“She was young,” Evan said, his voice hollow. “We were all here for the summer, like we always were. One day, she went out onto the lake... and never came back. They never found her.”

The weight of his words hung in the air between them. Nadine’s heart pounded in her chest. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

Evan shook his head. “It was a long time ago. But after that, no one wanted to come back. The lake... it took her.”

Nadine opened her mouth to respond, but something caught her eye. Movement—just beneath the surface of the water. She blinked, trying to focus. It was probably just the reflection of the setting sun, she told herself. But the feeling of unease only deepened.

***

That night, Nadine couldn’t sleep. The house creaked and groaned, as if settling into itself after years of neglect. She tossed and turned, the sheets tangling around her legs. Every time she closed her eyes, she thought of Evan’s sister, out there on the lake, lost forever.

At some point in the middle of the night, she gave up on sleep and slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Evan. She tiptoed through the house, her feet cold against the wooden floorboards. The air felt thick, heavy, as though it carried the weight of all the memories left behind in this place.

Nadine found herself drawn to the back door. She opened it quietly and stepped out onto the porch, the night air cool against her skin. The moon hung low in the sky, casting a pale glow over the lake.

The water was still, impossibly still. And then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw it again—movement, just beneath the surface.

Her heart skipped a beat. She leaned forward, squinting into the darkness. For a moment, she thought she saw a hand—a pale, slender hand—reaching up from the depths.

Nadine gasped and stepped back, her heart racing. She stumbled inside, closing the door behind her, her breath coming in short, panicked bursts. Her mind raced, trying to make sense of what she had seen. Was it real? Or was her imagination playing tricks on her?

***

The next morning, Nadine tried to shake off the unease. She didn’t mention what she had seen to Evan. He already seemed on edge, and she didn’t want to make things worse.

They spent the day exploring the area around the lake, but Nadine couldn’t stop thinking about the water. Every time they passed by it, she found herself glancing at the surface, half-expecting to see the hand again.

By evening, her nerves were raw. She suggested they head back to the city, but Evan brushed her off. “I just need one more night,” he said. “I want to say goodbye to this place, for good.”

That night, the tension between them was intense. Evan was distant, lost in his thoughts, while Nadine was consumed by her fear of the lake. As darkness fell, the house seemed to grow colder, the shadows stretching longer, darker.

Nadine lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching her, waiting. She turned to Evan, but he was already asleep, his face peaceful in the dim light.

Suddenly, a soft whispering filled the room.

Nadine’s blood ran cold. She sat up, straining to hear. The whispers were faint, barely audible, but they were unmistakable. They were coming from outside.

From the lake.

Nadine’s heart pounded in her chest. She slid out of bed, her hands shaking as she crept toward the window. She peered out, and what she saw made her blood turn to ice.

There, standing at the edge of the lake, was a figure. A woman, her long hair dripping with water, her clothes clinging to her body. She was facing the house, her empty eyes staring straight at Nadine.

Nadine stumbled back, her breath catching in her throat. She turned to wake Evan, but when she looked back at the window, the woman was gone.

***

Nadine’s mind raced. She couldn’t stay here another night. She needed to leave—now. She shook Evan awake, her voice trembling. “We have to go. There’s something out there.”

Evan groaned, rubbing his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“The lake,” Nadine whispered, her voice frantic. “There’s something in the lake. It’s been watching us.”

Evan sat up, his expression wary. “Nadine, you’re just tired. It’s an old house, and you’re probably—”

“I saw her!” she interrupted, her voice rising. “There was a woman standing by the lake. She was... I don’t know what she was, but she wasn’t human.”

Evan’s face paled, and for a moment, she saw fear flicker in his eyes. He didn’t say anything, just sat there, staring at her.

And then, the whispers started again.

This time, they were louder, closer. They filled the room, swirling around them like a cold wind. The whispers wrapped around them, swirling in a haunting melody that sent chills down Nadine’s spine. She backed away from the window, her breath quickening, eyes wide with fear. Evan sat frozen in place, his face pale, the flicker of fear in his eyes now undeniable.

Nadine grabbed his arm, tugging him out of bed. “We have to go, Evan. Now. Something’s wrong with this place.”

Evan stood reluctantly, his movements sluggish as though he was trapped in a fog. “Nadine… I don’t…” he muttered, but his voice trailed off as the whispers grew louder, more insistent. They weren’t just coming from outside now—they seemed to echo from the very walls of the house.

Nadine moved toward the door, her bare feet cold against the wooden floor. The sound of the whispers grew stronger, louder, as if the house itself was breathing. She pulled at Evan, trying to snap him out of his daze. “Evan! We need to go!”

Suddenly, the back door creaked open, the hinges groaning under the weight of something unseen. A gust of cold air rushed into the room, and in its wake, the figure reappeared, standing just beyond the doorway, framed by the blackness of the lake. The woman’s hair clung to her face, wet and stringy, her eyes vacant, yet filled with an unnatural hunger.

Nadine gasped, stumbling backward, her legs trembling as she stared at the figure. She looked to Evan, desperate for him to do something—anything—but he stood frozen, his eyes locked on the figure as if entranced.

The whispers shifted then, turning into something darker, more harsh-sounding. Nadine could hear words now, though she couldn’t make sense of them. The woman by the door raised her hand slowly, beckoning to Evan, her fingers curling as if pulling at invisible strings. His body jerked forward, his feet dragging across the floor toward her.

“No!” Nadine screamed, grabbing his arm. “Evan, don’t!”

He blinked, his eyes wide with confusion as if waking from a nightmare, but his body continued to move toward the door. The woman’s grip on him was unbreakable, the power of the lake pulling him closer, like an invisible shackle wrapped around his soul.

Nadine’s mind raced. She had to do something—anything to break this hold the house, the lake, the woman had on him. Her eyes darted around the room, searching for something, anything she could use. There, on the old mantle, was a small silver pendant, half-buried beneath a thick layer of dust. Without thinking, she lunged for it, her fingers wrapping around the cool metal. It felt warm against her skin, as though it pulsed with life of its own.

“Evan!” she yelled, racing toward him. She thrust the pendant into his hand, forcing him to clutch it tightly. “Hold on to this!”

For a moment, nothing happened. The woman at the door stood motionless, her empty eyes fixed on Evan as the wind howled through the open door. But then, as Evan clutched the pendant tighter, the air in the room shifted. Making the whispers lose their strength, the ghostly voices fading, and the figure at the door hesitated, her outstretched hand trembling.

Evan blinked again, this time fully aware of where he was. His body jerked back, and he stumbled away from the door, gasping for breath. The woman let out a long, wailing moan, her form flickering like a candle’s flame in the wind. The force that had pulled Evan toward the lake was weakening.

Nadine didn’t wait for the figure to gather her strength again. She grabbed Evan’s hand, pulling him toward the front door. “We need to leave. Now!”

They bolted through the house, their footsteps pounding against the creaking floorboards as they raced down the hall. The whispers followed them, growing fainter but still there, lingering in the shadows. The front door groaned as Nadine yanked it open, and together, they burst into the night air.

The cold night surrounded them as they fled down the overgrown path, not daring to look back. The house stood behind them, its dark windows watching, the lake stretching out like a black abyss. The air was thick, suffocating, but Nadine didn’t stop. She couldn’t. Not until they were far, far away from that place.

They reached the car, breathless and shaking. Nadine fumbled for the keys, her hands trembling as she jammed them into the ignition. The engine roared to life, and with a sharp turn of the wheel, she sped down the narrow road, the house on the lake shrinking in the rearview mirror.

Neither of them spoke for miles, the silence between them heavy with the weight of what they had just escaped. Nadine’s mind raced with a thousand questions, but all she could do was focus on driving, on getting as far away from that cursed place as possible.

After what felt like hours, Evan finally spoke, his voice hoarse. “That woman... she was my sister.”

Nadine’s heart skipped a beat. “What?”

Evan’s eyes were hollow as he stared out the window, his voice distant. “She drowned in the lake. All those years ago… she drowned. But she’s still there, waiting. She’s always been there.”

Nadine swallowed hard, her hands gripping the steering wheel tighter. She didn’t know what to say—what could she say? The house, the lake, Evan’s sister… they were all bound together in a way she couldn’t understand.

But one thing was clear: they had escaped, for now. And Nadine knew one thing for sure—she would never, ever return to the house on the lake.

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The Call of Elmstead House by Olivia Salter | Horror | Short Fiction

The Call of Elmstead House

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,420

The sound came at midnight.

At first, it was so faint that Evelyn barely noticed it, thinking it was the wind or the scrape of a branch against the window. But no—the night was too still, too thick with an unnatural silence. The noise returned, soft but deliberate, like the drag of fingertips across glass. She stirred in her bed, holding her breath, listening.

Nothing.

She exhaled slowly, telling herself she was being foolish. Elmstead House was old, much too old, with walls that shifted and floors that groaned under their own weight. Of course it made noises. She closed her eyes again, trying to calm the uneasy flutter in her chest.

Then came the whisper.

“Come home.”

Her eyes flew open, the words prickling her skin. She sat up in bed, heart racing, scanning the darkened room. The window was shut tight. The doors, locked. She was alone. Or at least, she was supposed to be.

Fumbling, she turned on the lamp by her bedside, the weak light casting jagged shadows across the room. For a moment, everything was still. No movement, no sounds but her shallow breathing. Evelyn shook her head, muttering to herself.

It’s just the house, she thought. Just the house settling.

But even as she forced herself to lie back down, that whisper clung to her. Come home. It wasn’t just a voice—it was a plea. It sounded familiar, almost as if it had spoken her name without saying it. She didn’t sleep that night.

***

Evelyn had come to Elmstead House seeking peace. Or, at least, escape. Since Henry’s death, she hadn’t been able to breathe properly, hadn’t been able to think. Their city apartment had felt like a tomb, suffocating her with its memories. The endless sympathies from friends and family were worse—constant reminders that he was gone, that she was alone.

When she found the ad for Elmstead House, it felt like fate. A sprawling estate on the edge of a quiet village, surrounded by elms and silence—perfect for someone looking to disappear, even if just for a little while. She had rented the house for the summer, telling herself that time alone would help her heal. But now, after only a week, she wasn’t sure if she was healing—or unraveling.

The house had seemed harmless enough when she arrived, though it bore the weight of its age. The shutters sagged, the ivy choked the walls, and the air inside smelled faintly of mildew. But none of that bothered her. In fact, she had welcomed it. The isolation, the quiet—anything to stop the endless flood of guilt that had consumed her since Henry’s death. Guilt for not being there when he needed her most. Guilt for not noticing the signs that something was wrong.

She wanted to believe that the house could offer her some kind of solace. But now... now she wasn’t so sure.

The whisper had returned the next night. Faint, yes, but insistent. “Come home.” It drifted through the hallways, curling around her as she moved from room to room. She tried to ignore it, but it was impossible. The voice followed her, slipping through the cracks in the walls, seeping into her thoughts.

She told herself it was just her mind playing tricks—grief, as the doctor had warned her, could do that. It made people hear things, see things that weren’t there. But there was something about Elmstead House that felt different. It wasn’t just the voice; it was the feeling that came with it. The weight. The presence.

As if the house was watching her.

***

On the third night, Evelyn saw the figure.

She had been sitting by the window, staring out at the moonlit lawn, when she caught a flicker of movement in the corner of her eye. A shadow. Quick, but unmistakable. Her breath caught, and she turned sharply, her gaze sweeping the room.

No one.

But something was wrong. The air felt heavier, colder, as though the house itself was holding its breath, waiting.

Evelyn stood, her pulse racing, and moved to the hallway. The darkness seemed to thicken around her as she walked, the floorboards creaking beneath her bare feet. She reached the top of the stairs and paused, her eyes fixed on the deep shadows below.

A soft, almost imperceptible noise drifted up from the foot of the stairs. Footsteps.

She took a step back, her mind scrambling for an explanation. A dream. She was dreaming. That had to be it. She was still asleep in her bed, and this was all some strange, vivid nightmare.

But then the whisper came again, low and insistent, it called to her.

“Come home.”

Evelyn’s heart slammed in her chest, and she stumbled back into her room, slamming the door shut behind her. She leaned against it, trembling, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

The house was alive. She could feel it now, pressing in on her from all sides. The whisper, the figure, the footsteps—they weren’t just tricks of her mind. Something in this house wanted her.

***

The next morning, she searched the house. She couldn’t explain why, but she felt compelled to know more about it—its history, its previous owners. There had to be an explanation for what was happening. Something tangible, something she could understand.

In the cellar, buried beneath layers of dust and time, she found the photograph.

It was old, the edges curled and yellowed, the image faded but clear enough. A family stood in front of Elmstead House—a mother, a father, two children. The smiles on their faces looked strained, as though they were trying too hard to appear happy. Something about the image sent a chill down her spine.

There were no names on the back, no dates. But Evelyn could tell this family had lived here, long before the house had fallen into disrepair. She stared at the photograph for what felt like hours, her mind racing.

Who were they? What had happened to them?

And why was their presence still lingering here?

That night, the whispers grew louder. No longer just a single voice, but several, overlapping, calling to her. She couldn’t sleep. She paced the house, her hands trembling, her thoughts a tangled mess of fear and confusion.

She began to see faces in the mirrors—faces that weren’t her own. Hollow, sunken eyes stared back at her, disappearing when she looked again. Shadows flickered in the corners of her vision, always gone when she tried to catch them.

The house was playing with her. Testing her.

On the seventh night, the cellar door opened on its own.

Evelyn had been avoiding it, the heavy door at the end of the hallway. But tonight, it was different. The door stood ajar, as though inviting her in.

The whispers had returned, louder than ever, echoing through the house. “Come home,” they called, in voices that overlapped and layered on top of one another. And underneath it all, she could hear the faint sound of footsteps, moving slowly, steadily toward her.

She hesitated at the top of the cellar stairs, the cold air rising to meet her. Something was down there, waiting.

She descended, each step creaking beneath her weight, the darkness pressing in on all sides. The air smelled of damp earth and decay, thick with something unspoken.

At the bottom of the stairs, she saw it—a small door, half-hidden behind a stack of old crates. She hadn’t noticed it before.

The whispers grew frantic now, almost pleading. “Come home,” they urged.

Evelyn moved toward the door, her hand shaking as she reached for the handle.

Behind it, she could hear the faint sound of breathing. Slow. Measured. Waiting.

The door swung open.

And the darkness swallowed her whole.

***

No one in the village spoke of Elmstead House anymore. It stood there, a relic of a time long forgotten, its ivy-choked walls and sagging shutters a reminder of those who had come and gone. The house had claimed many lives over the years, though no one knew exactly how or why.

They said it was haunted, that the souls of those who had lived there never truly left. But no one could prove it. The house was too old, too secretive, too patient.

It waited, as it always had, for the next soul to wander through its doors.

And now, it waited again, the whispers of those it had claimed echoing through its halls.

“Come home.”

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No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the author.