Run For Your Life

By M. Arbon

Bored with himself, his life, and everything in his imaginable future, Reed dared himself to appear on a haunted house reality show. The kitchen was a slaughterhouse. He had to stick his hand in a goat's skull filled with maggots. He nearly pissed himself with fright on national TV.

He said he wanted to change his life. Now, in the days after his experience, it seems that his wish might be coming true--but not quite in the way he'd anticipated.

Run For Your Life: A story about finding yourself with the help of someone you've never met.

This 9,700-word story originally appeared in Shousetsu Bang Bang.

• Language: English
• Publisher: M. Arbon
• Release date: Oct 25, 2020
• ISBN: 9781989089149

M. Arbon

M. Arbon writes stories, mostly queer, often sexy, about people who try hard not to be jerks. M. lives and works in Toronto, Canada. M.'s stories have appeared in the anthologies His Seed and Best Gay Stories 2017, as well as being published as stand-alone volumes.

Book preview

Run For Your Life

M. Arbon

Thirteen Flowers Press

Run For Your Life

Reed hovered in the darkened doorway and wondered why he'd thought it would be a fun idea to spend his day off pissing himself with fear on national TV. The two candles on the mantelpiece cast just enough juddering light that he could see the darker gloom of the bed, against the left wall, and the wardrobe, in the corner. The far wall was entirely concealed by floor-length curtains.

Reed sidled in, keeping his back to the wall. He considered picking up one of the candles, but having the light that close in front of him would mess with his night vision, or at least as much of it as was left after the lighting flashes on the stairs. His left sneaker squelched coldly with what he hoped was fake blood; the kitchen had been a slaughterhouse.

Bed, wardrobe, curtains. Where would they put it? Wardrobe? Under the bed? He didn't know if he had it in him to look under the bed.

The wardrobe was certainly big enough for someone to be hiding in it. Reed approached it, still sliding along the wall, trying to keep both the door and the opposite curtains in his line of sight.

He could do this. He could do this. Reed extended a shaking hand to the door of the wardrobe and heard himself whimper. There didn't need to be anyone in there; by this point he was so wound up the sound of his own breathing was freaking him out.

He grabbed the handle and yanked the door open.

Something tumbled out at him. Reed shrieked and jumped back.

The thing on the floor didn't move. Reed held the wardrobe door open to let the meagre light   seep in and illuminate the shelves. They were stuffed with cloth—lace, he found, poking at one. Filthy, rotting lace.

This was familiar, though—there'd been a gem in the rats' nest of shredded newspaper and human hair in the cellar. He quickly shook out the clumps of dusty fabric, dumping them on the floor. On the third shelf, a low gleam caught his eye, and he grabbed for it.

Got it! The gem's clear faceted plastic glowed bluely from within. The—ninth? Tenth? The clock must be winding down. He shoved it into his pocket and glanced around the room for the clue about where to go next.

No picture on the walls that might be a hint. Nothing on the mantelpiece. The hearth was empty.

He crossed the room in a bound and reached the safety of a new wall at his back. Now he could see the black stain on the bare mattress beside him. The darkness under the bed was solid, and the sight raised the hairs along his arms and the back of his neck.

There's nothing under there, he whispered to himself, to the mic clipped to the neckline of his shirt.