I raced down empty London streets in corset and bonnet, my breath laboured. I’d get the bus with my first wages, I thought.
Graffitied skeletons gaped from the Vaults’ ceiling, hidden beneath Waterloo’s tracks. A train thundered overhead and a shadow shifted in the dusky light.
My throat tightened. “Mr Dickens?”
I’d chuckled at the pretentious advert, enjoying cobbling together a Victorian costume for the acting role. Audiences loved dark, Dickensian settings. All the job entailed was a convincing scream. Easy.
He emerged, pale as milk, grasping a dagger.
The audience remained absent.
Only he would hear my tragic scream.
4/20/2026
The Words That Got to Me
Graffitied skeletons gaped from the Vaults’ ceiling, hidden beneath Waterloo’s tracks. A train thundered overhead and a shadow shifted in the dusky light. *This sets the scene eerily well! This part, too: in corset and bonnet, *Then, after reading this: He emerged, pale as milk, grasping a dagger. The audience remained absent. Only he would hear my tragic scream. I've come to the conclusion that NO ONE does horror better than you Brits!! You and Tim Margetts can scare me witless so easily. (And you seem like such NICE people, too!! Talk about not being able to trust my instincts anymore!! Sheesh!)
YIIIIIIIIIIIKES!!!! This would have swept this week's Flash Fiction Challenge with no close seconds...even if a THOUSAND people had entered!! Exceptional job - I'm still quaking!