483
A short horror story about the things we keep locked up.
Sometimes, writing a story feels so seamless you don’t remember writing it at all. It just appears, brought rather than dragged to life. This was not one of those stories. This one was a fight. A struggle. An exercise in overcoming friction. But that’s what this is about. Persistence, practice, and embracing the unfamiliar. Maybe the friction adds to the fiction. Maybe the struggle makes it more real. I don’t know, but I do hope you enjoy it.
Ursula looked up from Store It, Save It’s front desk in time to see Harold Galloway leave.
“Want to know something weird?”
“Always,” Spencer said. He was on the other side of the room, sliding padlocks in plastic cases onto thin metal bars.
“On the 15th of the month – every month – that man brings a suitcase in but I’ve never seen him take a single thing out.”
“Why’s that weird?”
“Aside from the routine, his unit’s not big. He should have run out of space a long time ago.”
“Maybe he’s taking stuff out when you’re not here. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“I’m not worried. I’m just curious.”
She shook her mouse, reviving a screen with a list of names she planned to spend the afternoon chasing for payment.
“Who’s your next victim?”
“Let’s see,” Ursula said, tapping the keyboard. “Martin Harris.”
“How late?”
“Three months. If he doesn’t settle up today, we’ll be getting serious.”
“Ok, how about this,” Spencer said, moving toward her. “You call Marvin.”
“It’s Martin.”
“Whatever. If he answers, you take the money, job done. If he doesn’t, we go and see what that other dude’s hiding.”
“You’re crazy,” Ursula said, waving the idea away. “Do you have any idea how illegal that is?”
“So?”
“No. I don’t like this job, but I need this job. Besides, we’d never be able to open it.”
“I can pick locks.”
“Bullshit.”
“I can! My brother taught me.”
“And you decided to work here? No, Spencer. It’s not worth it.”
Spencer thumped a fist on the desk. “Come on. Let fate decide. If Martin answers, you settle up. If he doesn’t, we open up.” He pointed a finger at the phone, eyebrow lifted in invitation.
Ursula considered what could or couldn’t happen. Thought about the security cameras she could turn off and the probability of getting caught. Thought about all the times she’d seen Harold drag a heavy suitcase into the building and leave empty-handed.
It had been quiet all afternoon. All month. She struggled to remember the last time she’d felt a rush of excitement or done something that made her insides stir.
She picked up the phone. Put it to her ear. Pressed the numbers Martin Harris had left on his account.
It rang once.
Twice.
By the fourth, she was nervous.
At the fifth, possibility tickled her guts.
Ursula caught Spencer’s eye and she realized it didn’t matter whether Martin picked up. Nothing did, because all Spencer wanted to know was what was in that storage unit, and she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t thinking the same.
“You’re sure you can pick it?”
“For the millionth time, yes,” Spencer said, kneeling in front of unit 483. He was maneuvering hairpins around the bottom of a bronze padlock, tongue gripped between teeth. She’d never liked how lonely these corridors felt. How much time she’d spent wondering what people locked behind its blue doors.
“Well, can you hurry up?”
“I’m trying. It’s not as easy as it looks.”
“I’m serious. If you don’t pick that lock in the next 30 seconds, I’m–”
“It’s done,” Spencer said, sitting back on his heels.
“Shit,” Ursula whispered.
“I told you I could do it.”
She watched him unwrap the padlock’s metal and place it on the floor beside him. He looked over his shoulder at her, waiting for an acknowledgement that whatever happened next was her decision as much as his.
She nodded and Spencer swung the door open.
“Don’t tell me I did all that for nothing,” he said, standing up. “You’re sure this is the right one?”
“Yes,” Ursula said.
“So why is it empty?”
“I don’t know.”
When Spencer stepped inside the unit, she was expecting him to turn around with a grin and say something funny. So when she was met with an odd grunt as he lost his footing and saw his body fall through an invisible hole in the floor, she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Ursula stood in silence. Took in what had just happened inside a storage unit that loomed like an open mouth. There was nothing Spencer could have fallen through. No evidence that anything had been tampered. Its bottom was as it should be: boring, flat, and metal.
“Spencer?”
Ursula gripped the unit’s doorframe. Held on to the firmness Spencer had just missed.
She lowered herself to her knees.
Leaned forward.
Stretched out her hand.
Extended her fingers.
Was about to press their tips into the place her friend had fallen when she heard a shuffle of movement behind her and the pressure of something pushing hard against her back.
Ursula thought she’d hit concrete.
Thought she’d broken bones until salt water started filling her mouth.
She struggled against it. Forced her arms and legs to move toward the murky light above her. Eventually, she broke it. Gasped. Savoured the sensation of air entering her lungs.
“Spencer!”
She spat. Spluttered more wet coughs.
“Spencer!”
She looked for him. Circled the same spot over and over for a flash of anything breaking the waves. Only, there was nothing. All that surrounded her was ocean. An endless expanse that stretched forever out and down.
No land or boats severed the sky.
No hope filled the horizon.
She was alone.
“Fuck,” she whispered. Her voice shook. Her limbs ached. “Choose a direction and swim, Ursula. Swim far enough and you’ll hit land.”
She used the words to move her. Leveraged the sound of her voice to propel her forward. She swam. Pulled herself through water so cold her arms and legs were growing numb.
When her hand hit something hard, she yelled, pushing it away in a flurry of movement and bubbles. As the water settled, and the bubbles burst, she saw it was a wheel, small and plastic, attached to something red.
She picked it up. Turned it over. Noticed another one floating a little further out.
When she saw the handle and fabric clinging to the water’s surface like oil – all parts of the suitcase she’d seen Harold Galloway drag into Store It, Save It – a different chill entered her gut.
Why was it in pieces?
What had torn it apart?
As if in answer, the waters below her darkened.
Her teeth chattered as she attempted to hold her breath. She tried to focus on the tides. Tried to concentrate on whether there was a difference in the way the waves licked her skin. She looked down. Peered past a t-shirt floating around her body like a ghost.
It was still.
Quiet.
Empty,
until she saw movement.
“Shit.”
She threw herself from it. Forced warmth into arms and legs that thrashed against the cold. Pushed herself from whatever had just plagued that watery pit beneath her.
She didn’t know how long she’d been moving. Had no idea how much distance she’d covered or the water she’d swam through when she dared a look behind her.
As she did, throwing her head over her shoulder, it wasn’t the deep that caught her attention. It was something above her, suspended in the sky.
At first, she wondered whether it was a balloon or a bird, but the longer she looked at it, the more she realized it was a head. A human head hanging out of what looked like a slit in the sky.
It was a head she recognized. A head with hair. A head with eyes that watched as the waters bruised around her, and whatever lurked in them opened its mouth.
Before you go
My latest book, Waxwing Creek, is out now. It’s a collection of interconnected horror stories about a haunted motel in a small town called Hunt. It’s available in paperback and on Kindle (including Kindle Unlimited).
Feel free to check out reviews on Goodreads or click the button below to grab a copy.
If you want to read more of my fiction on Substack, you can check out Lightbulb, a short horror story about a haunted lamp.
If you want to connect, I love hearing from readers. I keep an Instagram updated and post regularly to Threads and Notes. You can also find me on TikTok.
/ JJW
Terrifying!
so creepy!