A note from: HG

So, did you like the thrilling stories? Are you hungry for more? Or are you so frightened that your breath is catching in your throat like a splinter?

I didn’t write these to entertain you. I wrote them to empty myself. Every word you just read was a pound of pressure taken off my chest and placed directly onto yours. You felt it, didn't you? That tightening in your ribs? That’s the dread finding a new home.

The truly horrid thing about a "short" story is that it doesn't have enough room to contain the monster it describes. Once the story ends, the monster has nowhere to go but out. Out of the book. Out of the screen. Into the room where you think you're safe.

You’re a part of the collection now. You’ve read the names, you’ve tasted the ink, and you’ve felt the rhythm under the floorboards. You can close the book, you can turn on every light in the house, and you can tell yourself it’s just fiction. But deep down, where the cold starts, you know the truth:

The stories are over, but I’m still writing you.

Sweet dreams. Try not to grind your teeth; the Postman is expecting a delivery.

sincerely/HG