Client Commissions

The itching started three days after the surgery. At first, Dr. Mercer assured me it was normal—just the healing process. But when I felt something move under my stitches, I knew something was terribly wrong.

I never meant to spy on my neighbors. It started innocently enough—a glimpse through their window from my fire escape while watering my plants. But then I saw something I shouldn't have, and now they know I'm watching.

The highway stretched endlessly before me, empty except for the occasional set of headlights in my rearview mirror. The same headlights I'd been seeing for the past hundred miles. The same ones that slowed when I slowed and exited when I exited.

Everyone in the neighborhood envied the Richardsons. Perfect house, perfect jobs, perfect children. I was their nanny for three years before I discovered what happened to the children who weren't perfect enough.

Mother always told me never to go into her garden at night. "The plants are hungry after dark," she'd say. I thought it was just another of her superstitions until the night I saw her feeding them.

The old radio in my grandfather's attic picked up more than just music. At first, I thought the voices were interference from another station. Then they started calling my name and describing things only I could know.