The Little Tour

When I was younger, I went on a field trip to something my brain insists on calling a monastery. I can’t tell you when or how, because so many of the details surrounding it are hard to pin down. Please bear with me. It’s hard enough just talking about it.

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Stapletongue

I was fifteen when it first came, old enough to know it wasn’t normal and young enough to know I’d be committed if I told. Half asleep, feet hanging slightly off my uncomfortable mattress. It didn’t come from under my bed but right through the door, all rambling limbs and skeleton knuckle cracks, a deliberate sort of limp as it nudged its way across the carpet, closer to the bed, closer to me until its face loomed inches from mine.

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This is a Ghost Story

I’m staying overnight in a motel when it waltzes in through the door. Coffee mug eyes and skin like pins, nudging the floor until its way is made. I can see its face. It’s just a man, but the air around him is wrong. It’s giving me that feeling, like an old stop motion picture, Harryhausen’s finest, and you like it but it’s not real, not there. Now I don’t like it because the reverse is upon me.

Trigger Warning: suicide

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The Tunnel Boy

There’s a set of tunnels underneath my school.

They stretch across the housing side of campus, elevators leading to each of the dorms. Stray pathways lead to small shops, my campus post office, the dining hall, and a few rooms dedicated to clubs. They’re not the tidiest, with pipes jutting out of walls and empty, greasy garbage carts smelling up the corridors, but the tunnels aren’t scary. Everything is well-lit and reasonably clean. There’s at least one map per corridor, keeping the labyrinth easy enough to navigate.

Usually.

Trigger Warning: nsfw (sexually explicit)

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