This is a short story, in 1350 words.
It was prompted by the above photo, sent to me by Darlene Foster.
https://darlenefoster.wordpress.com/about/

When she split up with Joanne, the first thing Carrie wanted to do was to get out of Vancouver. She put in to the RCMP personnel department for a transfer to anywhere, and it wasn’t long before Alberta was offered.

Edmonton, somewhere she had never been. She accepted it without a second thought, and told them she would stay in a motel until she found an apartment to rent.

It was an Inspector’s job with the detective branch. Most of the others were well established already, and she knew she wouldn’t get anything high profile until she proved herself. After a couple of weeks getting used to the place, and settling in, Carrie found a decent apartment, then set about getting on with the job. She arrived early, and stayed late. When there were no cases coming her way, she looked for work.

Superintendent Roy looked at her as she tapped on his office door. “Can I help you, Inspector Chang?” She held up a file. “I was looking through this old case, sir. Be alright if I take some time to check it out?” He took the file, and flicked through it. “An old missing person job, out near Busby? Jeez, that’s over three years ago, Carrie”. She shrugged. “Looks funny to me sir, almost like it was let go. The guy has never showed up, not anywhere. I think it’s suspicious”.

She had come with good reports, and an excellent case clear-up rate. He thought he might as well see what she could do. “Sure, drive up there and look around. Take a week if you need it, then let me know what you think”. That night, Carrie took the file home, and read it in bed. Something had been missed, and she knew what that might be.

It was forty-five miles to Busby, and she made it under the hour. Not much happening there, just a small farming community. Even the gas station had closed down, probably unable to compete with the new one she had passed on highway forty-four. Taking the detailed map, she spread it over the front of the car and scanned it carefully. If she was right, she should be able to climb the tumbledown fence, and walk to the place.

The patrol car pulled in just behind her. Local cop. He walked over, smiling. “You lost, ma’am? Need some help?” Carrie flashed her badge. “I’m heading for the Duggan House. Were you around when that young fella went missing a few years back? Luke Anderson, he was a student at The University of Alberta, down in Edmonton”. He took off his hat and rubbed his crew-cut hair. “You mean that kid from Grande Prairie, nineteen or so?” Carrie nodded. “He told his room mate at the student accommodation he was going to head out here to look over the Duggan House. Nobody ever saw or heard from him again. He didn’t have a car, so he must have got the bus from Edmonton, and walked from the stop”.

The cop put his hat on and started to turn back to his car. “As I recall, there was a big search for him, and nothing showed up. If I was you, I’d keep away from the old Duggan House. That’s a bad place”. Then he was in his car, and driving away. Carrie folded the map and put it in her backpack. Then she locked her car and left it in the pull-off by the side of the country road. It took less than ten minutes to cross the fields until she saw the house in the distance.

It looked to be unloved, to say the least. The glass was gone from the windows, the roof shot, and there was light between the planks that had been used to build it, God knows how long ago. She walked straight up to the gap where the front door had been, and went in. The floor boards creaked under her feet and dust rose in small clouds that settled over her shoes. It seemed very cold inside, much colder than it had been out in the field. The ground floor was just one big empty room, and her footsteps echoed as she walked around it.

At the side was a lean-to. Judging from the single tap still bolted to the wood, she guessed it had served as a kitchen at one time. She headed up the stairs, which groaned under her light weight. The hand-rail looked like it would easily come away from the fixings, so she left it alone. There were two bedrooms upstairs, with an old iron bedstead still in one, and the other empty. Much of the upstairs space was taken by a big old storage space at the front. It was dark in there despite having no window, not even the frame. She took out a small flashlight from her pocket and shone it into the space.

Only dust and boards, nothing to bother with. Just about to turn and retrace her steps, she saw something glinting in the beam. She held the light on it and walked into the far corner. It was a small digital voice recorder. The chrome trim had reflected the light.

From her other pocket, Carrie took a latex glove, and a small evidence bag. She picked up the recorder in the gloved hand, then dropped it into the bag before sealing it up. It was getting colder all the time in there, so she decided to head back to her car. In the statement from the room mate, it was clear that Luke had been heading for the Duggan House. But it was also clear now that nobody had ever searched the place at the time. Or they would surely have found that recorder.

Back at the station, Carrie wrote up a report about what she had seen, then found some fresh batteries in the storeroom, and turned on the voice recorder.

“This is Luke Anderson. First recording for the Duggan House. It’s eight at night, and I am just going through the doorway”
Then there was the sound of footsteps, and creaking boards. Carrie began to jot down some notes in the file.

“Okay, the flashlight isn’t showing anything but an empty room. Going into the side room. I think this was the kitchen, but according to what I have read, nothing happened here”.
Creaking and heavier breathing followed. Carrie guessed he was walking upstairs.

“The old bed is still in one of the rooms, no furniture anywhere though. It feels really cold in here, considering it was around sixty degrees outside. Got to check out the old storage loft now, should start to get something where most of it happened”.
He probably meant that big empty space with no door or windows, Carrie made some more notes. Then there was just breathing, heavier this time. Almost a gasp.

“Jesus, it’s so cold in here. I can see something in the far corner. Going closer. Wow, it’s as cold as ice now”.
The next part made Carrie jump back in her seat. Luke was shouting, really loud.

“OH NO! OH SHIT! PLEASE, NO! STOP! PLEASE, STOP!”

There was no more audio.

Placing the recorder back into the evidence bag, Carrie put that and the case file into her backpack, and reached for her car keys. The case had taken a completely different turn now, just as she had suspected. Grabbing an extra flashlight from the desk drawer, she headed down to her car. It was already dark.

The best time to go back there, and try to find out what happened.

On Friday morning, Superintendent Roy walked into the main office. He raised his voice so they could all hear him. “Anyone seen the new girl? You know, the one from Vancouver, Carrie Chang”. Everyone shook their heads in turn. He raised his eyebrows. “She hasn’t let me know her progress, and it’s been three days now”.

He turned to the admin girl who was seated at the back.

“Janice, get on to the uniforms. Ask them to send someone to check her home address”.

This is a short story, in 1210 words.
It was prompted by the above photo, sent to me by Ed Westen.
https://deartedandjody.wordpress.com/about/

The first shop didn’t have any Bakewell Tarts in stock, and it took two more tries before finding some in the fourth. They had to be Mr Kipling, the only brand Mildred liked. Albert reversed the car out onto the main road, and headed for home. Why his wife wanted to eat Bakewell Tarts all of a sudden, and at nine at night, he had no idea. It wasn’t as if it was one of those pregnancy fancies. She was sixty-six last birthday, and they had been sleeping in separate rooms for nine years.

Oh well, anything for a quiet life.

When his mother died, Albert had started to feel lonely. Almost fifty years with her had become a familiar, cosy feeling. It had never bothered him that he didn’t knew who his father was, as he was never alone when she was alive. He had asked her about who his father was once, and she had just shrugged. “Can’t remember love, there were a lot of men back then. I was quite a looker, though you wouldn’t think so now”.

For two years, he muddled along. Then the house began to feel empty, and he could hear his own breathing when he was watching television. So he joined a club, a Bowls Club on the edge of town. That was where he met Mildred. It was her idea to get married. “Just for company though, Albert. None of that lovey-dovey stuff, okay?” That suited him just fine.

It took him quite a while to work out the truth. Mildred didn’t want company, she wanted a servant. And a chauffeur, and a cook, and someone to pay the bills. Albert regretted ever telling her about his inheritance, as she gave up her job the week before they got married. He had to work until he was sixty-five, coming home every day to get her dinner, do the washing and ironing, and watch her play Bejewelled on her phone for hours on end.

At least he wasn’t lonely.

The light on the road ahead looked like someone had left their full beams on, but then it got brighter and brighter until he couldn’t see anything. Scared he might crash, Albert pulled the car over and stopped on the verge. The light got closer and closer, then seemed to pass over him, showing up the blood vessels through his skin. And there was a noise too, like the drone of a million bees, right inside his head.

It stopped as soon as it had started, and the road was plunged into darkness once again.

Mildred insisted on a plate, so he brought the three Bakewell Tarts back on a nice Royal Doulton tea plate, and watched as she wolfed them down. She had been checking the Bingo numbers in the daily newspaper, and spluttered crumbs everywhere as she shook her head in disgust. “I only needed two numbers. Bugger it!”

Three days later, Albert woke up with a bad pain in his jaw. It felt like toothache, and his gums were swollen close to the pain. But it was in a spot where he had had to have two back teeth removed over three years ago, so he didn’t see how it could be toothache. He found an old bottle of tooth tincture, and rubbed some onto the area. It didn’t help much, but Mildred was asking when he was going to hang the washing on the line, so he had to forget about the pain, and get on with his chores.

Later that night, he was aware of a terrible sharp pain in his mouth, and when he went into the bathroom, he saw some blood around his lips. Gingerly touching inside, he could feel that his gum had broken open, and the pain was getting worse. Mildred came in, complaining that his putting the light on had disturbed her. When he told her what was happening, she just switched off the light, and turned to head back to bed. “Well go and see the dentist tomorrow, but don’t wake me up again”.

They said there were no appointments, but when he told them he was a private patient of Mrs Gomez, they fitted him in. She was perplexed, to say the least. “Albert, I have to tell you that I have never seen anything like it. The two teeth I took out are growing back, and seemingly very quickly too. I need to take X-rays, and do some tests”.

She showed him the X-ray on her computer screen. “No doubt about it, look here. See? They are almost fully grown again”. When Albert told her that they had only started hurting the day before, she shook her head. “Amazing, just amazing. Would you mind if I wrote about this to the Institute of Dentistry? You could become famous, Albert”.

He was given a prescription for pain killers and antibiotics, told to be careful what he ate on that side, and to come back in ten days.

When he woke up the next morning, the pain had gone, and he had two brand new teeth. But his fingernails and toenails were all over two inches long. He couldn’t get his slippers on his feet, and when he tried to use the nail clippers, it was hard to grasp them with the strangely elongated fingernails. He managed after a while, and went downstairs to tell Mildred. But she was busy with an online slots game on her phone, and waved him away.

By the afternoon, Albert had made his tongue sore, by rubbing it constantly on those new teeth. And his other teeth seemed to be bigger and stronger too, as if they were filling his mouth. He tried to eat a slice of fruit cake, but could hardly hold it with fingers that had long nails that had regrown. When he finally bit off some cake, he found he was chewing his tongue along with the cake. In a panic, he drove back to the dentist, and waited until she could see him.

Mumbling through a mouth full of fast-growing teeth, he managed to tell her his problem, and showed her his fingernails too. She looked scared, and said she would have to ask advice from the head of the practice. Meanwhile, he should go home, and she would phone him.

It was impossible to walk to the car, let alone drive it. He had to pull his shoes off there and then, on the rain-swept pavement. His toenails had ripped through his socks, and were as long as the claws on a wild animal. He just about managed to drive without hitting them on the surface above the car’s controls. Once out of the town centre, Albert had to open his mouth slightly, to allow his tongue to hang out and take the pressure off. Mildred would be angry that he had been gone so long, he knew that.

But he knew something else too. He had to go back to where he had pulled off the road onto the verge. Then he had to wait for the bright light to return.

He could only hope they would come back for him before it was too late.

This is a short story, in 748 words.
It was prompted by the above photo of an image, sent to me by Jennie Fitzkee.
https://jenniefitzkee.com/

Oscar wasn’t a bad boy. Not one of those ‘deep down’ bad boys who nobody likes. But he was a boy, and everything that came with that. Boisterous, getting dirty, ripping his clothes, scuffing his shoes. Most of the time he did as he was told, but like most youngsters, he sometimes had his bad days.

Paula soon discovered that it was best not to tell him not to do something. “Don’t walk along the edge of that wall, you will fall” would guarantee that he would continue to walk along the edge of the wall. When Richard warned him not to climb the old Oak tree in the garden, it took them over an hour to get him back down from the branches.

He should never be dared, either. When his cousin Martin dared him to eat a worm, he ate twenty, just to show off. Paula had to get Richard to clear that up after he had been sick. She hated worms. Martin also dared him to climb out of his bedroom window, and hang on to the chimney stack, pretending to be Santa. That rescue had involved having to call the Fire Brigade.

After that, they never again left Oscar alone with Martin.

Visiting Richard’s Aunt Mary was always something of a chore. She was a nice old lady, but she lived such a long way, and the traffic was always bad. When Oscar had been small, Paula would ask Richard to make the trip on his own. But now Mary was getting very old, and had asked to see the boy. So they packed up the car, and told Oscar to behave himself when they got there. The small Tablet Paula had bought proved to be worth its weight in gold, as Oscar sat watching cartoons on it the whole way.

Mary was delighted to see them. She had prepared a lovely afternoon tea, and Oscar devoured the scones with cream and jam. As they chatted about nothing much, there was a squawking sound from another room. Oscar put down the last part of his third scone. “What’s that noise, Aunt Mary?” She leaned forward, whispering. “That’s Captain Beak. He’s my parrot, and he was once owned by the famous pirate, Blackbeard”. Paula smiled at her tall tale, but she could see that Oscar had believed the old lady as Mary continued. “It is said that the spirit of Blackbeard went to live inside the parrot after he died, and Captain Beak has lived for hundred of years, before I got him”.

Oscar’s eyes were wide. “Can I see him please, Aunt Mary?” They all went into the old-fashioned parlour, where the green parrot sat on a perch in a corner, next to an ornate Victorian cage. It squawked again as they entered. Oscar watched as it moved sideways on the big perch, its head bobbing up and down. “Does it talk?” Mary smiled. “Only to me, Oscar. He has just told me that you mustn’t touch him, just look. Pirates don’t care too much for little boys, and Captain Beak is well-named, for his powerful sharp beak”.

Back in the dining-room, with his parents chatting to Aunt Mary about grown-up stuff, Oscar was bored. “Can I use your toilet please, Aunt Mary?” She turned and nodded. “There is one by the front door, or the bathroom upstairs. Whichever you like”. Of course, Oscar had no intention of using the toilet. He went straight back into the parlour, and walked closer to the parrot. It didn’t squawk this time, but bobbed silently, watching as Oscar got close. The boy stood up on tiptoes to reach the perch, smiling as his hand stretched out to stroke the bird’s head.

Almost dropping her tea cup at the sound of the scream, Paula was on her feet in seconds. But there was no sign of Oscar in the toilet by the door. Then she heard a sound from the parlour. “Pieces of Eight, Pieces of Eight. Pieces of eight”. She opened the door to find her son clutching his right hand, his face white, and blood dripping from his fingers onto the carpet.

Richard got the car round, and they rushed him and his index finger to the nearest hospital. It was sewn back on, but it never worked properly.
The doctor said something about nerve damage.

Still, he is learning to write quite well with his left hand now.