The Stove

*This is just a short story I wrote for school a while ago, but I thought it was cool, so I am sharing it here! We had to use specific vocabulary words, so the wording might sound strange in places, and it is a little strange and… intense, I guess. Also, it didn’t originally have a title, so I just gave it one, although it doesn’t represent the story very well. Don’t judge a book by its cover, or, by extension, it’s name! Anyway, here it is. Hope you enjoy!*

 

The stove was on downstairs. Sam woke up abruptly, heart still racing from an artificial dream. The clock read 1:58. She stepped out of bed, her bare feet making an odd noise against the grubby carpet. As her vision cleared, she saw odd shapes on the ground. Her mind, still fuzzy from sleep, recognized the shape of footprints. As she stumbled out the door, her feet seemed drawn to the footprints, and she felt a dark, sticky liquid on the floor. In the dark of the night, they looked black. It felt like a strange production of some horror film, and a cold sweat beaded up on her face. But she had to turn the stove off.

As hard as she tried, Sam could not stop stepping on the footprints. When she got to the wooden stairs, she slipped and slid halfway down, leaving a dark smear on the partly rotting wood. Some link was missing, nothing made sense. It was like a sentence without a conjunction. But the sound of the fire on the stove grew louder. Sam had to complete her mission. She stumbled down the rest of the stairs, slipping again on puddles of the black liquid.

When she got downstairs, the light from the stove illuminated everything, making her blink. Half-blinded, she lumbered into the kitchen. She saw the dishes and silverware drying in their regular position, the knives and plates gleaming yellow with the light of the fire. The utensils sat harmlessly on a towel on the low side table next to the sink. She continued on to turn off the stove and get back to sleep, still occasionally sliding in the strange liquid. Her vision not quite cleared up yet, Sam reached out to turn the knob to turn the stove off. But she slipped and, arms flailing for balance, turned the knob the wrong way. A blazing inferno rose up before her, and she fell hopelessly into the flames.

Screaming in pain and vision almost completely dotted with black spots, she scrabbled to get up and go to the sink, face and arms blistered and charred. But she slipped again, this time landing on the drying dishes. The towel slipped and she fell to the ground, her arms cut with broken glass, and a long bread knife lodged in her stomach. Only then did she realize, in a daze of mind-consuming pain, that the liquid was not black, it was red. The chinking of the broken dishes was like thousands of bells ringing in unison, and a voice in her head, almost like telepathy, told her to get to her room. She ran, blood dripping into the bloody footprints on the floor, slipping on the stairs, the knife still lodged in her chest. At last she stumbled into bed, and everything went quiet. The world went black…

Sam woke up abruptly, her face sweaty, her heart racing from all too real dreams. She looked at the floor and saw footprints. The stove was on downstairs. She looked at the clock. It read 1:58.

About the author: KatherineElizaEponineHamilton

I absolutely love to read, and I pretty am pretty much obsessed with every broadway musical I've ever listened to, including but not limited to: Hamilton, Dear Evan Hansen, Newsies, Bring It On, 21 Chump Street, and Waitress. And The Greatest Showman. Other fandoms: Harry Potter, Divergent, Maze Runner, and probably some other ones that I can't remember. Oh, and I love horses. A lot. And nobody can tell me that Sharpay isn't the best character in High School Musical.

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