Little Ann's Diary

Little Ann's Diary
-by Tom Reese.

Peter Thompson did not expect that this storm would be the start of his nightmare. It was a nasty storm, with winds picking up speed and the rain falling down hard. This was a terrible storm that the little town had not endured before for a long time. The last one recorded was guessed to be about ten years ago. But this storm was worse, blowing fierce and completely destroyed anything in its path.

When the storm had finally passed, the town would emerge from their shelter and go to observe the damage. It would be massive, but nothing the town couldn't fix if they worked together. The town was always like that, aiding each other and always volunteering to do something beneficial. It was a good, quiet town; at least until now.

Peter had just moved into Annsville just a week ago, and had not even had a chance to unpack everything. He wanted a nice place where he could do his work in peace, and Annsville seemed just the place. He did not expect there to be as bad as weather as this, but he could pull through all right. He seemed to always pull through in a tough situation; at least he acted like it.

Peter came forth from beneath the cellar where he had slept through the storm and stepped into the glow of the beautiful, rising sun on the horizon. He would have stayed watching the sun rise with its grace, but he was more concerned about what was left of his new home. It had been damaged in many ways, but in a three weeks time, everything would be fixed and the town would go about its usual routine as it had before, as if there had been no storm.

Peter, still appalled by the destruction, had started to pick up debris that was scattered about his front lawn and inside the house. It seemed he was the only one who noticed the storm was died out, because he saw no one else on the street. They all must still be sleeping in there cellars, waiting for the storm to pass.

He started to pick up pieces of blown shingles that he would have to have to replace, off the ground. While he did so, there was a faint feeling inside of him that told him to look to the left. Confused by this unsuspecting urge, he turned his head. All he saw was a pile of leaves. So he thought it was nothing once again, but he still had a desire to look under the leaves. So, he pushed the leaves aside and saw something brown and soggy. He brushed the leaves off, scattering them to all different directions, and observed the obscured figure. A book, thought at first. He flipped open the cover and peered at the first few pages. No, it was just a diary.

He decided to close it and leave it on the ground for the owner to find it when they came outside to clean up. But that feeling inside of him told him to hold onto it. He couldn't resist, so he slid the tiny diary into the pocket of his jeans and decided to go back to his comfortable bed and start to clean up in the morning with everyone else.

He stopped on his way to his bedroom by the living room. He had a feeling that he had to be there, for something, but not quite sure what it was. Quickly deciding, he decided to sit down on the couch and maybe watch some TV, if it was even possible after the storm, and he knew the cable would be out.

But he sat down anyway, and immediately pulled out the wet diary. He did not know why, but he felt he had to open it, to read it contents, as if they he was meant to read it. Just to get his curiosity out of the way and go back to his bed, he opened the diary.

He turned to the first, drenched page and looked down at the blank piece of white paper. He turned the page-it was blank too. He grabbed the edges and skimmed through all of the pages. They were all blank. Peter was relieved that there was nothing to keep him awake and bother him, so he decided to finally go to bed.

Yet, he continued to stare at the diary, giving it one more chance to make words magically appear upon the pages. He examined the diary and continued to stare at its bank contents. After a few moments of nothing, just the faint howling of a wind blowing against the trees, he started to see something. He saw blood starting to drip on the paper. No, it came from within the dairy. As if it were stabbed in the middle, and let out its cry of pain.

Too scared and amazed to do anything, Peter just sat and watched as, drop by drop, the wet page started to cover with dark red blood. Then the blood started to shift and form words. It said:


November 3, 2006

Dear diary,

I've lost you, my beloved.
And I will find you and take
my vengeance upon he
who has befouled you.


Peter slammed the diary shut, sweat running down from the top of his head, his palms moistened. This was too much for him. He was scared to death, and chose to just forget what he just saw. Put it in the back of his mind and pretended it never happened. Yet, he couldn't put the diary down. He knew what had happened, he saw with his own eyes. But he slid it back his pocket and went upstairs to his peaceful bedroom.

Peter woke up about an hour after he had somehow finally falling asleep. His eyes were wide open, his mouth tightly sealed so that he could not breathe, and his heart felt like it had stopped beating. He listened closely. Outside his bedroom door, he heard scraping against its surface. He then a little girl said, "Please, sir. Please give me back my diary," continued by more scraping. He was frozen with fear, and felt like he was going to have a heart attack.

He remembered what he had seen in the diary, and he was scared to death that this would be the end. He thought this was all just a bad dream. He kept reminding himself that none of this could happen, and he would wake up back in his cellar while the storm raged on. So he slid deeper under the covers of his bed and tried unsuccessfully to fall back asleep. But the scraping of the long, sharp nails against the wood continued. It was like the screeching of a cat, or a shriek of death as one lies on the floor helpless to the beast. As he quavered in fear beneath his blanket, he heard the door open, little by little. Creaking in its evil way.

"Please, sir. Please give me back my diary," the little girl said as she entered the room. Peter could her soft foots steps, seeming to stagger on the wooden floor.

Peter, unable to resist, had to peer out from under the covers and looked at the girl. What he saw made him throw up in his throat and kept him paralyzed with fear. He saw a little girl that had her eyes plucked out, her flesh rotted, her clothes torn and dirty, and she was covered all in dark red blood. Her request started to turn into a dark growl.

"Please, sir. Please give me back my diary," the dark demon said as it came closer to Peter. "Please, sir."