Tick tick tick

Flash Fiction | Lore

She dug her hands through her hair, ripping them out with such ferocity that clumps of hair came with it.

So close. So soon. Running out of time.

Her eyes darted to the clock, its glowing green numbers staring at her in the darkness. 4:03 AM. He would be here soon. He promised. He was never late.

She was, though. Late to everything. To her own wedding, to her own son's birth, and now, to her goddamn death. She’d already seen him, standing in the grocery store, a gallon of milk in one hand and a dozen eggs in the other, and it had been one of the scariest moments of her life. Arms too long, legs too short, eyes too wide, a black reaper cloak wrapped around his shoulders - the kind of demon you see on TV and know that somebody's gonna die.

That day, it was supposed to be her. She knew it. She could feel his cold tendrils wrapping around her heart, stabbing fear into her mind as darkness moved in, fading the edges of her vision. Then he pointed his finger at her and said something that burned into her brain for all of eternity:

No begging - he won't bargain

Your tears are not enough

When you feel those hands come callin'

He's a godless end, the Suff

Then he was gone, and she was back. Poof, just like that.

The Suff. The stuff of childhood nightmares and monsters under the bed. She’d heard stories about him, told by her parents and aunts and uncles as warnings about what happens to naughty little children. She'd even jokingly shared them with her own son as she tucked him in at night. Never once thought they were true.

Chancing another glance at the clock, she swore under her breath. 4:16. Moving too fast. Needed to slow down. Almost done.

So close. So soon. Running out of time.

Her hands cramped up again, and she blew on them, rubbed them furiously together and tucked them into her armpits for warmth. The office she sat in was ice-cold, probably thanks to the blizzard outside. It was the first place she'd found with a desktop visible from the window. Normally she didn't like taking chances, but with the Suff's warning echoing in her ears, she chose to ignore common sense. She needed that computer, and it wasn't until she was actually standing over the keyboard, her hand dripping with glass-sliced wounds from a weak window, that she realized it probably wouldn't work anyway.

When she pressed the space bar, though, it blinked to life. No password, no booting up, nothing. Like it was waiting for her.

4: 22.

It was all there, in her head. 270,391 words of pure agonizing backstory of The Suff himself, the horror story that parents whisper to their children at night. A crypt with a robe in Suffolk, a dead-eyed party girl on Halloween night, an outer space malfunction that sent someone screaming silently into the abyss. Be good, or the Suff will get you.

Write this, he'd whispered, straight into her mind. Just like in the movies. Do it, and you won't die yet.

Not like Michael, her son. Not like her husband Alan, and their little flea-bitten dog that they'd adopted off the street. All of them, dead before their time. One by suicide and two in a car crash that collided with their house and destroyed everything. First responders found half-scorched little notes on the dashboard - THE SUFF - but nothing made sense and no one wanted to investigate.

4:26.

It wasn't her time. Not yet, but soon. She didn't know when, but she knew that. All she could do was fixate on the only thing that could extend her days: the book. Write this, and you won't die yet.

Her leg jiggled as she tapped her foot, full of nervous energy. She had to get out of here soon. No telling when someone would show up, if the security system was even engaged. Not to mention her own death. Untucking her fingers from her armpits, she flexed them experimentally, then resumed stabbing the keys with a vengeance akin to murdering a faithless ex-lover. So driven and obsessed, she missed the door creaking open behind her.

A sudden chill made her bones ache, her fingers freezing on the keys. Pressure wrapped around her chest, causing her breath to come in short, choppy bursts. Her lungs screamed with the change, burning as she failed to take in enough air.

"Only nine pages?"

Her hands shook at the sound of his voice, filled with screaming demons and fiendish laughter. The slow flap of a vulture searching for its lunch, the crunch of graveyard gravel at midnight. The rhythmic lullaby of shovels digging six feet under.

"I was expecting better."

"I... I...." All of her excuses died in her throat as she felt those hands brush against her neck.

... when his hands come a-callin'...

"I suppose I should've known better," the voice whispered sadly. "Never send a human to do... well, you know."

Her eyes turned glassy, rolling back in terror. She could feel her breath slowing, her blood turning to ice underneath his touch. Every joint in her body suddenly felt so heavy, so painful, trying to hold her up. Why was she here? Why this? Why didn't she run when she had the chance?

The old Suff stories rolled back through her mind, tumbling over each other in chaos. All his victims went crazy. Whether they murdered everybody they loved or merely lost their minds depended on the Suff's mood. She'd hoped that she'd earned a bit of sanity by working on his book, but as the darkness crept in a second time, all she heard was his voice in her ear, his lips a breath away from her skin:

Don't wander by the tombstones

Don't pray upon my grave

Cuz he'll catch you like a rabbit

Gonna rock you like a babe

She gargled, trying to choke out anything - a plea, a beg, a for-the-love-of-God, but something was lodged in her throat and she couldn't breathe, couldn't swallow, she was drowning, choking on her own spit and he was there, the Suff, that terrible awful thing with too-long arms and too-short legs and then it was Michael, calling for her, screaming Mommy, Mommy, are you there, Mommy take me home!

The desk chair spun as her body collapsed, dumping her on the floor with a thud, her eyes sightlessly watching the ceiling. To one side, the Suff stood with its arms dangling, staring at the computer screen with contempt.

Nine pages. Not the best, but a decent start. Now to find someone else to continue the story.

---

Hello, dear readers!

This is a continuation of an ongoing collaboration of fiction writers on Substack. You see, there was this document, and… well, here’s what happened:

And now, it’s a living legend. More and more is being uncovered about The Suff, so much so that it even has its own page.

Thanks for enjoying my little piece of it. If you’re still here, why not check out the spooky little group that started it all?

Have you heard of The Suff yet? Do you have any spooky true-story moments like a strange document that won’t be deleted? Share away!

I hope you have a delightful week, dear readers. See you next time!

<3 Olivia

(Photo by Markus Spiske, Pexels)