Ayden Clay


I awoke laying down next to a heaving mess beside me. What did happen last night? I couldn't remember anything beyond leaving work. I reached over 'it' and grasped my phone, squinting against the light I made out an image: what I assume was the lady next to me, sprawled in front of a car with her shoulders slumped over the bonnet. As my wallpaper. Classy. I thought perhaps it best to wake my despicable passenger and ask it what happened. Then I realised I'd have to actually communicate with it.

I slowly crawled out of bed, shuffled to the door, slid it open and slithered down the steps hoping to come across an escape. My head ached and I found myself short of strength, "What's happening to me?" I pleaded. My eyes dodged and dived and dipped away from any focus, just walking was a chore.

I wearily stepped forward before noticing something at the very edge of my focus. Despite my near-blindness, it remained clear. My breath became smooth and natural, my heartbeat consistent, punctual, regular. Something in whatever it was, too clear to miss, too blurry to make out, was... normal, to me. I dutifully approached the room in which this object was stored, my breath became audible. I tapped the door, sliding it open as I did, "H... hello?" I said, trying my best not to be heard. I quickly shut the door. The inside of the door had a sign which read: "Welcome!" Strange place.

I swiftly glanced around, jerking my head far more than I'd hoped, a small grumble escaped my lips as I rubbed my head. Though my heart and lungs had corrected their misdemeanour's, my eyes were still recalibrating.

What was the object I saw before? I asked myself, slowly turning around. The fleshy curtain that blurred my vision and pained my head separated. My head sang as I spotted that which attracted my attention. A typewriter, not dissimilar from my own. No, it was mine. The very one I'd used for my entire life. The very one I'd been using before I forgot... well everything of the night prior.

I dropped into the cushioned wooden seat adjacent to the typewriter. Pulled myself in as usual. Tucked in my shirt which, as always, was not so. Rolled up my sleeves ensuring to smooth each crease the rolls made. Before finally raising my fingers to the keys.

Strange, the thud of the type-bar hitting the page sounded... textured. I began to shake. Glancing around everything seemed normal. My page was... filled with text. Somebody had been using my typewriter. I could hardly make out actual words... It read:

Get out. Whatever happened last night I hope you've forgotten, I've written this in-case you considered staying a while longer. Hurry out, this tomb shall not house two. It certainly won't house you. You were... I was, angry. Really angry.

Get out.