#mod noa

I’d often heard of Adam’s life in Eden.

Tales told in the cathedral walls.

Preaching that we’re damned to strive for God’s perfection.

But,

Lying here, in the storm,

Lights dancing across the walls,

With an endeavor as warm as the coffee in my belly,

I cannot dare to understand

How Heaven

Can compare

To This...

-

me, mod noa, writing, editing, and submitting a story the day before the deadline for the contest:

They had been taught that playing with the unholy works was an act of mischief, surely leading to eternal damnation in the fiery pits of hell, where red skinned devils would cut your flesh and leave you to bleed, skin raw over the flames. But being stuck in a musty old building where it rained 204 days out of the year any heat was a welcome thought. Thus, Andrew Sheridan and Michael Yin found themselves tempting to coax the evil spirits into the small room with the cracked window they shared, fifth floor, third window from the left.

Andrew Sheridan, a boy of 12 years of age and five-foot seven- NOT five-foot six- glanced nervously up at his roomate, who incidentally became his best friend after a week in which the boards leaked forcing them to share a bed to shelter from the rain. Michael Yin, a boy of just-turned-13 years of age and a fantastic shot with a spitball, which always landing him in detention, furrowed his brows.

“Michael, I don’t think anything is going to happen. We’ve been sitting here for ten minutes,” Andrew said, his fingers curling against the ouija board planchette.

The light from the candles they had snuck from the church flickered off of Michaels face, giving a dark appearance to his round baby face that still had years of development left to it.

“Lemme’ try one more time,” he said, his voice just above a disappointed whisper.

The rain pattered on the walls, echoing through the room. Michael pushed his fingers taught against the planchette, coaxing Andrew to do that same. Michael took a breath and opened his mouth to speak.

“Is anybody there?” he asked, his mouth hanging open in the aftermath of the question, as if a spirit would fold up their answer and place it on his tongue like a communion wafer.

There was silence in the room, followed by the buzzing of the electricity in the old, old building.

“Michael, there isn’t anything-” Andrew was cut off by the shuffle of the planchette against the board. Michael’s eyes widened and his mouth hung open now, but not in the aftermath of a question, but in fear and shock.

Andrews fingers trembled as the planchette slowly moved across the board to the word YES. Their hearts pounded, creating turbulent waves of thumping blood turning over in fear in their bodies. Everything had suddenly become to loud. The tapping of the rain against the window. The buzz of the electrical system wired through the walls. The creaking of the floorboards outside the hallway. Approaching, slowly, deliberately, approaching.

The door slammed open, and nasty noises echoing from the boys throats, lurching back from their positions at the board. Fear struck the boys turned to see Father Elijah standing in the doorway, hand on the door knob and the vein in his temple pulsing.

“Boy, what are you doing up! Lights out was twenty-minutes ago,”he said.

“Yes, Father Elijah!” Michael said, a quiver in his voice. He had run into trouble with the priest at the door enough times that he felt right at home in detention.

“We were...we...just-” Andrew attempted to stutter out, in hopes that he could coax the priest from punishment.

Then, the priests eyes landed on the wooden board on the ground, scattered wildey. He turned, wild eyed, his glasses flickering in the candlelight, to Michael. The boy gulped and waited for his punishment.

“Boys...is that…” the old man started.

“Michael made us use it! I told him not to, but he insisted!” Andrew yelled out.

He flicked on the light switch and marched into the room, hand reached out for the board.

“Hey! That’s mine!” Michael argued. Father Elijah tucked the board under his arm and started for the door.

“Lights out, boys! We’ll talk about your punishment tomorrow!” the old man said, before turning the light off and slamming the door.

Michael turned to Andrew, resentment in his eyes.

“ Michael made us?” he repeated Andrews statement with daggers in his throat.

“Aw, c’mon, man, you know how it is,” Andrew tried to argue, but his friend had already blown out the candles and was climbing into bed.

-

“You’re not real,” I say to her

“How do you know I’m not?” she says

I had never believed in the dead haunting the living

Until it happened to me

I never believed in creaking doors

Until they were mine

I never believed in glasses flying across rooms

Until my orange juice shattered against the wall at breakfast.

I never believed in horror stories

Until I was living in one.

Unknowing what is truth

What is fiction

And she laughs

Feeding from my pain and fear

Pressing into my chest in the dead of night

Collapsing the air in my lungs

Stealing movement from my limbs

And she laughs

Who would believe theres a ghost in my house?

Who would believe in the myth that keeps me up at night?

Who would believe it until it happened to them.

Salt sprinkled among the walls.

Oujia boards left scattered in the corner.

Sage left burning by the window.

None of which can keep her away.

While I scrub dishes,

And watch tv,

And brush my hair.

She is there,

As a shiver down my spine,

Waiting for me to acknowledge her.

“You can’t ignore me forever,” she says.

I turn up the tv.

“Watch me,” I say.

The longer I ignore her the louder she becomes.

Air dropped to below freezing, pressing icy nails into my back

She whispers to me things of the past

Whispers of her revenge

Whispers of her running

Running through the dark

Heart pounding

Hands sweating

Panic at the memory

Unknowing what I’m running from

Unknowing what is truth

What is fiction

Air collapsed from my lungs

Stolen movements from my limbs

The dark laughing at my fear

The insufferable laugh

The laugh like the creak of cabinet doors

The laugh like glass shattering against the wall at breakfast

And I run

Her icy nails pushing me forward

Into the house, into her domain.

I climb the steps

Wood creaking under my weight

The smell of death close behind

And I slam the door shut

Earth fills my lungs in a dark, empty hallway,

And she laughs at my fear and pain

“You thought you could outrun death,” she says to me

“Please, let me forget,” I beg

The knife in my hands

Her blood on my skin

“You thought you could outrun death” she says to me

“I had no choice,” I say

Running

The dark swallowing the world

Until my eyes can see no more

Yet she follows

She stays behind

It seems even death won’t keep us part

And as I shake in the dark of my home

I hear her laugh

“You’re not real,” I say to her

“How do you know I’m not.”

-

Hi! I'm Mod Noa. I'm an aspiring teacher and writer. I run this blog with Mod Ala, who you've hopefully already met. She's great so it would be a shame if you missed out on her.

I have a variety of characters and stories that I am working on currently, but for the most part I write short stories. I will try to update this blog regularly with my own original work and also am looking forward to interacting with all of you, either with prompts or simple conversations.