The phenomenon began one day while I was still an undergrad in college. My alarm went off, and I grudgingly let it ring for few seconds before ending it, yanking the covers off my body, and pulling myself out of bed.

I had only gotten a few hours of sleep. My muscles were stiff as I shivered in the morning cold, and my footfalls were heavy as I made my way to the bathroom. It was the sound.

The sound of my lumbering footsteps across the carpet of my second story apartment—the annoying whines of the aging floor I was so used to hearing every morning—it was off, by just a beat. When I made it to the bathroom, I did my business and flushed the toilet. Again, the sound of rushing water came maybe half a second after the water in the bowl had started swirling. The same occurred with the sink faucet. It happened to my voice.

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There was a haunting delay in it too, like listening to the sound of your echo come back to you after shouting off the top of a mountain, or like an eerie vocalization mimicking your words in the same exact voice. Quickly I rinsed my mouth and struggled to wash the worry from my face. Surely, it was just a case of morning jitters. I was just tired from the lack of sleep, and was registering everything late. Yeah, that seemed like the most reasonable explanation.

I got dressed and ready as fast I could, trying my damned hardest to ignore the plethora of jarring noises that were occurring at just the wrong moments. Closing the closet. Zipping my backpack. Locking the door.

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When I was outside heading to my car, I decided to measure how long the delay was. In one hand, I had my phone with the stopwatch application on screen, and in the other, my car remote. I pressed the button to unlock my car the same time I started the timer.Skip to content Advertisement. Average Rating : 7. Growing up, my friends would all tell me ghost stories about the area. A woman in a white dress Read Now.

My Daughter is Dying

July 13, Average Rating : 8. Becoming a parent changes everything. We have implicitly accepted the notion that all things in life should be regulated for orderly consumption.

July 12, My superiors at the bureau are trying their best to keep these killings a July 11, Unexplained phenomenon is a staple in human culture. Strange goings-on, paranormal in nature, are prominent in our lives, in one form or another. July 10, Samantha told me about it on our third date. We were watching a movie on her couch when I made my move to kiss her. She whipped her hand in front of my face and July 9, My grandfather is 95 years old and doesn't have long left in this world.

July 8, I set at least one July 7, Average Rating : 6. That first night, I knelt in the soil and said the words aloud. This is my want".

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Elewyn had nodded, in approval of the words. I knew what I wanted. Average Rating : 9. Every city claims to have them, and every city will tell you that theirs is the best. Most larger places will lay claim to having quite a few. I am of course speaking of secret July 6, They consisted of Trevor Nyson 37 years old and Matilda Nyson 33 years olda married couple, and Benny July 5, It was one of those nights where nothing went according to plan.My little sister is thirteen now.

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Her name is Zoe, she has blonde hair, blue eyes and she likes pop music, fashion and other typical teenage girl stuff. I really do love her. I must have been seven or eight when she first came home. I was excited to finally see my little sister. At first I had been annoyed that the baby was going to be a girl as I had wanted a little brother, but I was happy when she eventually did come home.

This kind of disappeared quickly, though. It was about a week since Zoe first came home. My dog, Rusty, just would not calm down. Whenever he was in the same room as Zoe, he just barked like mad at her. Eventually, as my parents were scared that he would hurt her, they got rid of him. We were worried about Zoe. I was confused. This was when I first started to gain some disdain towards her. If we had kept the dog, she probably would have loved him too.

I just blamed her at the time. When she was one I was kicked out of my room. We lived in a three-bedroom apartment, just on the outskirts of some big city. My parents had decided that Zoe should have her own room, but instead of refurbishing the guest room for her, they kicked me out of my room and gave it to her. Any protest I had was quickly silenced and I could only watch as my room, my one free area that I had any say in, was transformed. Sports posters were replaced with pictures of ducks and sheep, my bed was replaced with a pink wooden cot and everything else that made my room mine was changed.

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They refused to refurbish the guest room for me, and I was instead forced to make do with boring, beige walls, an old, metal single bed and a single wooden dresser for my clothes. My parents seemed more concerned with where any guests we had were going to sleep. This was the point where disdain turned to hatred.

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It seemed to me as if they had just completely forgotten about me in favour of her. Eventually, my parents decided that I was old enough to be responsible and look after Zoe while they went out. I think she was three years old, so she was old enough to speak.

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They simply left saying that they had left some premade lunch for her in the fridge.It used to be harmless. It really was. When Karen and I first started dating, she would bite my lip, or nibble at my ear, or pretend to be a vampire and put her teeth on my neck.

We were silly. We acted like a lot of couples do, but eventually it went too far. Sometimes she would bite a little too hard, and I would tell her to stop with a half chuckle, slightly annoyed. We stopped talking for almost a week. I apologized profusely, and eventually got through to her, but something still seemed…off.

Karen started acting strange. They might end up getting thrown in with the carrots! Others times she would just look at me, longingly, but not at my face. Anytime I brought it up she would just brush it off. She would claim to have zoned out, or was just feeling funny. When I questioned the comments or gestures, she would get upset and tell me that I was attacking her sense of humor. There was no way around it, and eventually I just let it be.

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I ended up marrying the girl. She was quirky, and found humor in things that I totally did not understand, but I loved her. And she accepted me. I should mention now that I had been in a wheelchair my entire adult life.

When I was sixteen, my father and I were working on a fencing project, carrying wood and materials up and down our basement staircase. On one trip, I lost my footing on the top stair and tumbled backwards, breaking my back and ending up paralyzed from the waist down.

Needless to say, my life changed forever. But Karen was always the one constant I had. We met in college, and I immediately knew she was different. She treated me like a human being, and I was drawn to that.

Even when her personality seemed to change, when the jokes grew stranger and the behavior was questionable, I still knew that she was the love of my life. So we got married. Our marriage was a wreck. We fought often, mainly over bills and typical relationship issues, but several fights began from me pointing out her actions, her weird humor of pretending to eat me.

It was a vicious cycle. I grew severely depressed, and Karen ended up quitting her job. She told me that she needed time at home to focus on herself. So, while I worked twelve, sometimes fourteen hours a day at a call center, she was at home in the kitchen, cooking excessively large meals.

I would come home to pots and pots of beef stew, large slabs of steak and potatoes, cakes and pastries, pounds of pasta. She always watched me while we ate, studying me, making sure it was to my liking. I gained a lot of weight, and most days I was slumped in my wheelchair, no energy to go anywhere.

Now depressed, overweight, and lacking all motivation, I left my job as well. I drew unemployment, and spent my days in my chair, watching television or playing video games, all the while Karen was in the kitchen. Even when we had far less money coming in, Karen always seemed to splurge on groceries.Tina was a good baby.

Ever since she was born, other mothers watched us with envious, longing faces. She was so quiet and peaceful. The dream of every mother and every babysitter. Potty training her went smoothly. Tina was the most easy-going baby, toddler and little girl I have ever met. Well, I would trade all of it to have a healthy daughter. I was at work when her kindergarten teacher called me.

She talked in a calm, almost singing-song tone, the only one grow women who spend the whole day around little kids know. Davis, how are you doing? We checked and she has a fever. Could you come pick her up now? I left in a hurry. When I got there, Tina could barely stand. I carried her in my arms to the car, unsure if I should take her to the hospital or just put her into bed with an antipyretic. Tina never got sick before. I sighed, wishing I had some help.

I was so, so in love with him. My mother lived in another town, but I decided to call her for advice. As I drove, I started thinking about Ben. He was handsome and a sweet talker, ten years older than me. I thought we were madly in love. When he asked me to have a child with him, I was silly enough to think it was the biggest commitment a couple can make. I felt honored and blessed. I assured Ben I would be happy anywhere with him.

And in just one week he was gone forever. When Tina and I got home, I made us some tea, prepared a bath and put my daughter in her bed. I had a bad feeling about this, but I dismissed it as classic mother paranoia. She woke up sweaty, shivering and with an ugly cough. Her lungs made a weird static noise.

As we got there, Tina had to be immediately intubated. She could barely breathe by herself.My sister, Clara, is six years old.

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As six-year-olds go, she is relatively normal. She plays with Barbie and dozens of coloured plastic horses sporting elaborately braided manes and tails. She plays with my old toys, Action Man and his truck with the big plastic gun - my favourite as a young boy. I'm now eighteen. The only truly striking thing about Clara is in six years of existence, she has never said a single word. Mum and Dad tried everything: bribing, begging, scolding, grounding.

It's Clara's birthday today. Her cake had a pink pony holding a bunch of balloons on it - now it lies in tatters, only the iced balloons have survived. Her gifts are laying in various stages of opening, she's asleep on Aunt Gloria's knee, sucking her thumb like a sleeping cherub.

The gift Gloria gave her is the one thing she played with all day. Aunt Gloria and Clara speak to each other. They never use words, they never make a sound when in direct company, but they can hold entire conversations through eyebrow wiggles and gestures. It can be pretty spooky sometimes, but even her favourite auntie is locked out of Clara's thoughts.

Gloria gave Clara an old grotty necklace with a locket on it. The necklace itself is pewter formed into minute links, a chain snaking elegantly around Clara's fine porcelain wrist, the necklace itself clutched in her fist. The hideous black stone set into the locket seems to suck the warmth out of the air. There is something really wrong with that thing, I'm sure of that.

Something has woken me up, it's Clara, standing in my doorway, the moonlight illuminating her from the landing window behind her. She looks pasty. That damned necklace is nestled in her nightdress. Every few seconds a small hand goes up to the locket and fiddles with the clasp. Clara holds her nightdress away from her body and shifts her weight. She nods. A little white hand entwines with mine and we slowly walk to the bathroom at the end of the hall.

I clean her up and put her in clean nightclothes, going to take off the necklace she's become obsessed and fixed with, but she renders a boiling glare and a vehement shake of the head. Thinking no more of it, I take her to my room and put her in my dry bed. It can wait till morning before I clean hers.

I eventually nod off, sitting up with Clara huddled in my arms, the steady rise and fall of her chest soothing and familiar. Over the next two weeks the bed wetting continues, it gets worse too. Now she alternates between waking my parents and me. Nobody is sleeping, nobody can rest, she's losing weight, refusing to eat and drink, crying and curling into a ball when we try to make her eat.

We've been to the doctors several times, none can find an answer, they say Clara is being difficult and it will pass. Last night, I walked into her room and she was sitting, facing the wall. Behind her a circle of toys - letter blocks, dolly shoes and the somewhat disturbing sight of heads ripped off Barbies - and on the walls, a crudely drawn picture, definitely the art of a child. The picture was of nothing in particular that I recognized, so I just lifted her feather light body from the ground and put her back to bed.

She stared at me that night before I left, something she never did. I had only ever seen her make eye contact when she was hurt or scared; tonight, she grabbed my arm for a short second before dropping her hand back onto the bed and closing her tired little eyes.The water was crystal clear and smooth as glass during our trip back from our grocery run.

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The sun beat down on us with force on this warm July day, but the wind from our ride kept dad and me nice and cool. It was a great day for a boat ride, which is why dad and I chose today to make our run into town to replenish the house with food. The boat ride into town was ten miles across the bay.

It was usually a nice ride, as the bay never got too rough except during really windy days. Why should it be? The only place it leads to is our house, which is the only thing on this side of the island. Past our family is nothing; there are no good beaches and no attractions to bring anyone out here. It cuts half the time off it would take to drive the truck to the store. As our log house appeared, I could see my mom through the window. Dad eased up to the dock and I grabbed hold of it, jumping off and tying us on.

The back screen door opened as dad started handing me groceries. Before the sleepwalking started, mom would come out here and help us take in groceries. That way, it would only take one trip.

However, even though it was just about a yard trek from the dock to the house, it was never good for Anne to be in the house alone while sleeping. No chances are taken in this household. It was in the afternoon, so Anne would still be asleep. I had to be quiet as I walked the groceries into the kitchen, even though mom had just shouted us a greeting as we were riding up on the boat. I silently walked through the living room and dining room and then veered left into the kitchen.

I walked straight to the counter and set the grocery bags onto it. I turned around as dad walked past me and set the groceries he was carrying next to mine.

We both started walking toward the screen door to get the rest. I loved the boat. The weekly ride into town was always my favorite time of the week during the summers. I always wanted to go on more boat rides than our weekly trip, but money was tight for gas.

Plus, my dad always said.

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Anne woke up right at pm, as usual.