Come on Doug, don’t you want to know what happens next?

I look around the office, blinking, trying to ignore both the internal voice and my written words. Everything looks exactly as it should nothing has changed inexplicably. My desk still overflows with stale coffee and assorted writing accessories, my furniture though well worn is not dusty, and my boxes line the shelves like they always have. The boxes… they sit like obedient school children, silently and in neat rows, though somehow they are different.

The boxes have an ominous presence now as if I can feel all the pieces of myself that I locked away in the typed pages and organized by numerical dates watching me, judging me, waiting. The heart palpitations are back along with all my other psychosomatic symptoms of fear and paranoia, but still a part of me wants to open the boxes at random and see what stories they tell, what nightmares.

My hand starts to ache, cramped fingers and a burning palm, but I prefer it to the hell reading these pages could unleash. Again I consider shutting the pages into a neatly labeled box. What’s another pair of staring eyes? How much could it add to the itchy sensation between my shoulder blades?

What about plan B?

“Yes, fire cleanses all things,” I tell myself aloud hoping to strengthen my resolve, but still I don’t move. Because curiosity always wins…because I have to know…because I cannot stop myself.

I dare you, I double dog dare you.

I flip to the last page and turn it over. There are five lines of text.

My name is Doug.

No one can help me.

There is no way out.

They are always watching me.

I choose the story.


By Jeannette Woitzik



Sometimes I want to choose the story too. I hope you liked this serial blogged story. If you want to see how the story started click here, and please let me know what you thought.