my r/nosleep favorites | volume one

Ten years ago, I taught sophomore creative writing.

Ten years ago, I taught sophomore creative writing. Two student stories still haunt me to this day.
by Red_Grin

Fresh out of college, I took a teaching job in a small town in central Wisconsin. In my sophomore creative writing class, I assigned a flash fiction exercise around Halloween. We'd studied urban legends and folklore, and it was the students' turn to construct stories of their own.

Assignment length: 100-1000 words. Directions: Scare me.

The submission quality was as expected - these were sophomores, after all - but one story stood out halfway through my stack of papers: a piece by a quiet student named Jake. His first person flash fiction story seemed so real...like it was dipped in reality. A little too closely. Almost like he wasn't making it up, but had been retelling something that happened to him. I put it aside, impressed.

Kate's submission was the last paper in the stack. I remember the reading experience vividly: the beads of sweat accumulating around my temples, the clickity click of the red pen in my hand, and a weird feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach. I placed it on top of Jake's story, and I thought:

What the hell am I going to do?

I still have photocopies of the original stories, and I often wonder, why do I still have these?

But there is something about them - they are so interconnected, and there is something so raw and beautiful about them. I have a strong affinity for interesting student writing, and it'd be a shame to let the flames of these stories be extinguished.

I'll share the student pieces, and the subsequent events that transpired, right here - I do enjoy a good story.

* * * *

Jake's Flash Fiction

My parents put Grandma Rosie in a home when she started to "lose her grasp on reality," they said. I still found it cruel. But she seemed content. Content enough, I guess.

I remember visiting her. She had an old, wooden rocking chair that faced the window. Outside was nothing but flat, fields of green. The green would eventually fade, and when it snowed it was carpets of white for miles and miles. I'm not sure which season Grandma Rosie liked the most. She didn't do a lot of talking. She mainly listened to her radio, and always one station: 89.1.

But 89.1 never had a signal. It was always static. Grandma Rosie listened to this static, all day, seemingly waiting out her life. No one could reach her.

I visited one day to drop off a box of chocolates. Grandma Rosie rocked slowly in her chair with large headphones over her ears, staring out the window, watching the snowfall. I couldn't tell if she knew I was there. I walked over and placed the chocolates on a small table, and her hand suddenly reached across and snatched my wrist.

"Shhh," she whispered. "Listen."

Grandma Rosie leaned in close, and I put my ear to hers. I lifted up the cup of her headphone and listened. There was only static.

I was about to speak, but she covered my mouth with her hand.

"Listen closer," she said.

I did, but all I heard was more static.

"Soon, they will come," she said. "They will come to take me away."

This freaked me out a little, and I went home. I told my mom and dad about what happened, but they didn't think it was that weird.

I kept thinking about it. One night I couldn't sleep so I buzzed my friend Abby on our walkie talkies. She lived across the street, and she somehow she knew all about 89.1. She told me it was an old legend in our town, and you needed two things to explore the legend further: a radio, and a closet with the door slightly open. Face away from the closet, tune in to 89.1, and listen very closely. At some point through the static, you'll hear the faint sounds of an organ, distant screams, and the dragging of metal chains along a gravelly surface. The open doorway is an invitation - keep your eyes closed, and only if you keep your eyes closed - a figure will appear and drag you into the closet. From there, your fate is unknown.