Hello there! This will be the place where I'll be practicing my writing and such. I'm not much experienced with writing horror, or writing at all for that matter so helpful comments and criticisms will be fantabulously welcomed with open arms :D

Enjoy!


Drabble 01: Simulacrum

Alfred F. Jones steps into the stale, funky smelling room of his new apartment room after a tiresome overtime at work. It's cheap, worm, inconveniently located at the 6th floor, and definitely something only his Japanese landlord can love. The small space left little room for, well, anything so the newly owned quarters only had a bed tucked in a corner, a wardrobe sitting snugly on the opposite corner, and what he thinks is a mirror perched across the foot of the bed. He doesn't really know, nor does he really care much, because he has yet to replace the used up light bulb that looks like it's housed various insects enough to feed a whole family of frogs. Nonetheless, he doesn't complain that much because it was either this, or sleeping out in that rickety park bench he passed by earlier. But as he plops his weary tush on the lumps of the single spring bed, he grimaces and thinks maybe the bench might've been the better option after all.

Even so, Alfred never gets the chance to weigh his options because as soon as his head hits the scrawny pillow, his eyes grow heavy as exhaustion catches up with his body, sleep starting to wash over him as quick as the falling autumn leaves of the late October. The wiry framed glasses are set down beside his head and he yawns heartily, settling in for the night.

He is only given a mere glimpse of a well deserved sleep, however, when he feels the cold slither up his feet and no amount of foot-to-foot friction can bring the heat back to his numbing limbs. Sleep deprived and irritated, the American sits up with a groan to rub his ice cold feet with calloused hands.

Alfred sees a movement from across the room and jumps.

It's dark, his heart his thumping a mile a minute, and he might as well be blind with his failing eyesight. Trembling fingers scramble across the sheets in frantic search for the spectacles Alfred's so desperate to jam into his face.

He does manage to, after a couple of tries, and several beats and a snort later, Alfred laughs.

And from across the room, his reflection moves along with him.

He shakes his head and chalks his skittish behavior to the halloween spirit plaguing the city. And really, the room looks like something straight out of a crime scene where the underpaid salaryman kills himself, and only when the neighbors smell the putrid stench permeating through the door do they find his very dead and definitely decomposing body.

His last thoughts effectively cuts off his guffaws and his frazzled nerves to shoot up once more. With a fwump, Alfred finally decides to turn in for the night.

Before he lost his sense of the conscious world, Alfred swears he sees his reflection on the mirror smile.


The morning sun filters in the room and Alfred sits stiffly on the bed without so much of a single peep. There's nothing good in the morning, only raw cold fear sits heavily in his chest and he can't breathe.

Because across the foot of his bed is an open window and there is no mirror in sight.

Only faint bruising handprints that stretched across trembling limbs.