Dripping Dungeon: A Short Story

The Deep and Dripping Dungeon I could feel it breathing. In the dungeon, where no one escapes. The man, the man whom no one knows, has been jailed for kidnappings on multiple occasions, a man who has been considered dead for over ten years, breathing down my back, raising the delicate hairs on my neck like an autumn breeze. My mind flashes to that street I traveled down when I was stupid enough to look down that alley; playing in the dark depths of the night, pouring rain drenching through my shoes to the sock. Seeing the man, peering into the streets following my every move, grinning like Ronald McDonald.

He started to walk towards me; his old, tattered clothing looked clownish in the moonlight. He looked like he hadn’t eaten in a year;

I wish what happened was just a dream, that I would wake up from a deep slumber. But I knew I wouldn’t get out without at least a few scars, and that there was a chance I might not get out alive. The bag still covered my face, allowing me to see nothing; his breathing as cold as a early spring air when you're playing baseball with your family in the field next to that unused gas station. I convinced myself to yell, “Stop it, Stop the breathing!” yet he doesn’t stop. I feel like it will never end. My body admits defeat, my mind wanting to fight back, remembering the other cases of disappearance in our town throughout the

First day of school, not knowing or caring about anything happening in the world. On the drive to the first day of school, I felt nervous, thoughts racing through my head like race cars around a track. As we pulled into the school property, I saw everyone hustling around, trying to find to their new homeroom. My mom stopped the car in a parking spot and unlocked the car doors. I sat patiently in my car seat,, waiting for her to come and unstrap me. She took me from the car seat and placed me down on my new white shoes. Together, we walked towards the classroom where I’d I learn the alphabet. My sides started to itch so, in the dream, I scratched them, but that itch turned into a different feeling. The same breathing. I wake up instantly, his face in front of me,the same face that limped toward me, but in greater detail.

His cheeks were wrinkled like the parched skin on chapped lips. His eyes wide, darting around my face with high speed. His smile, yellow like a nightmare sun, blinding anyone who looked at them. His rounded cheekbones stood sharp from the rest of his worn out face.
“Hello,” he said, “welcome to my humble home.”
I stared back, holding back tears, trying not to make a sound.
“Don’t be afraid, I am your friend.”
His face starts to try to look more happy than tired, showing effort in his muscles to just get that extra inch of a smile.
“Let… let me go,” I say, “I don’t want to be