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Rusty: Short Story
Rusty pushed past the last branch and stood in my personal space. His heavy breath masked the tranquillity, and it slightly annoyed me. This was the first time he’d come to my secret place, and I couldn’t help but worry he might spoil its magic.
“Oh man, thanks again for the invite,” Rusty said.
“That’s okay, but that’s the third time you’ve said that. Can’t you just enjoy the quiet?”
“But I love caving. I haven’t done it in ages, man. It’s been ages since I’ve actually been out anywhere.”
“You’ve never gone caving, Rusty. You’re not even appropriately dressed.”
“Why, what’s wrong with my drip?” he said, gesturing at his outfit.
“Drip? Rusty, you’re wearing five hundred dollar designer sneakers and a Hawaiian shirt.”
“What are you talking about, man? I look dope.”
Hobbs Lane: short story
Sometimes it’s not the monsters or aliens that get under your skin — it’s the silence. Hobbs Lane began as a university assignment, a simple prompt about lawn ornaments, but it grew into something darker. A foggy street, a dying engine, and the uneasy feeling that you’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere familiar.
This story isn’t about jump scares or gore; it’s about the tension that creeps in when the world stops feeling safe. A place where headlights flicker, shadows linger too long, and the only thing breaking the stillness is your own heartbeat.
It’s a different kind of Almost a Cult Classic — one that trades VHS static for quiet dread. A short trip down a suburban road that may never end.