Short Story by P O'H, from: Cleveland

“It is truly disgusting, the state of society today,” John said disapprovingly from behind the paper he was reading.
“What makes you say that?” I replied.
“The stories you read; the world out there just becomes worse and worse,” John said in a mellow tone.
“Ah, what happened now?” I sighed. I began to grow weary of John’s tiring tales of murder and mystery. I had been visiting my old friend for the first time in years in his small, lonely house tucked away in the woods. He'd been sharing tales of the bizarre with me for a couple hours now, something only the devil knows why he likes to do.
“The most bizarre murder has occurred in the middle of nowhere, it seems,” John continued, not moving his stare from the paper. His voice had grew soft and upset. “I’m not sure if I’ve heard anything quite so repulsive.”
“After tonight it seems as though I've heard everything. What’s so bad about this one?” I asked as I grew slightly more interested due to John’s shock at the story.
“The police, after getting a call from a real estate agency about an abandoned house, found the location and were forced to break the door down. Upon entering, they discovered a body lying on the floor, covered in blood. Slashes and stabs were found all across the body, mainly on the throat, chest, and wrists. It was determined (by the size and depth) that these wounds were inflicted by a pair of scissors.”
“Scissors? Is that all? Yes, certainly its gruesome, but come on John, surely you’ve heard worse than that,” I replied, not very impressed.
“I wasn’t finished. The body was taken in and identified as a Mr. ¾¾¾. The autopsy revealed that the man hadn’t eaten for at least a few days before his death. Also, it had been there for a few months. Though it was half-decayed, the hands of the corpse could still be seen clutching a pair of bloody scissors. There were no fingerprints on the scissors but the bloody ones of the corpse himself. He must not have been stabbed, but stabbed himself, and more than several times.”
This was a bit shocking. “Now why would someone kill himself, alone, in his own house, and with scissors?! I'm no expert on suicide, but I am definitely sure there are better ways to go about it than that.”
“It appears that Mr. ¾¾¾ stabbed himself in order to escape even more suffering. It says here that he was in fact trapped inside, with no hope of escape.”
“And how exactly does one go about getting trapped inside his own house?”
“It also says that not only was this not his house, but it was, among other things, a most peculiar house. The front door was found locked, padlocked, from the inside. And the back door was locked securely from the outside. There wasn’t a single window to be found in the whole house. The police were baffled and are still seeking solutions.”
“Then who was responsible? What kind of monster would go to so much trouble to be so cruel and so brutally cold in murdering someone? Surely, a shooting or stabbing would suffice. Not suggesting that murder is acceptable, but honestly, that is sadistically overdoing it!” I said, now interested, bewildered, and disgusted.
“Just as I said, it's the sad state of the world today,” John replied, now with a casual tone.
“I still don’t get it-the cruelty of humanity.”
“No one ever will.”
After spending a few moments staring at the wall, disbelieveingly replaying the story in my mind, I told my friend, “You know, I think I have had just about enough murder and mystery and torture for one night. Furthermore, I must be up early tomorrow.”
“Very well,” John said calmly after a short sigh. He continued, “Go and find your coat while I make sure the door is open and the light is on for you.”
When John got up, I saw him put the paper that he was reading down on the table that we were sitting. Once he was out of sight, I picked up the paper to see the illustrious story for myself. But there was no mention of a murder anywhere on the front page. Confused, I flipped through all of the pages and found no such story anywhere. Perhaps he told me it from memory, while reading some other story. Odd, I thought to myself, but didn’t think much of it, and went on to the coat room to find my coat and be off and away. However, my coat was not where I had left it.
“John, did you move my coat?” I called.
No answer.
My call must have been drowned in the coats and he couldn’t hear me, I thought to myself. Finally, I found my coat a few hooks over, and underneath a couple of other coats. Why did this guy have so many coats? Strange, I thought, but didn’t think much of it. I started my way toward the door. My friend was nowhere in sight, but I was now anxious to leave, farewell or no. Upon trying the door, I discovered that it was locked-padlocked.
“John?!”
Before I could finish shouting every light in the house suddenly shut off. Then it hit me. It was only now with the lights off that I realized the house did not have a single solitary window.
Darkness.
Black.
Pitch.
Void.
Void of all light and sound.
There was no difference whether my eyes were open or closed. The only sound was that of my own heavy panting and adrenaline-pumped pulse, deafening my ears. He has trapped me in here just as in the story. Is this to be my tomb? It couldn't be. It just couldn't be. I need to find a way out. Screaming would accomplish nothing, for I knew there was no living soul besides perhaps that madman within ten miles.
Frantically, I ran to the back door. Just as I knew and feared-locked and from the outside.

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I am alone. Desperately alone. Outside there was no help for me, so I began to look inside. I felt my way around the house looking for something, anything to help me.
No phone.
No food.
No way out.
In my search of the house I found nothing but this tattered old notebook, a pencil, a small candle, and a single match. They were no doubt set out for me by John, most likely so that he could return later and review my last thoughts, to increase his own sick pleasure. The candle is short, perhaps shorter than my life. What would I do when the candle goes out? I cannot take another moment in the menacing darkness and the suffocating silence of this house-turned-hell. With my last moments I have decided to tell my story, a story that was told to me by a madman. A story in which I turned out to be the main character. And the victim.
But no! Why? Why do I write when I know I will soon die? I cannot be defeated by this house. I will not be. But what, oh what could help me now?



Ha!
Ha!
I no longer dread but rather chuckle! And I am not mad! No, for I laugh at the madman! He who was so clever to torture me and kill me like this has missed a small but very important detail that will allow me to emerge alive and victorious. Indeed I shall have the last laugh. My cell phone. The idiot forgot I have a cell phone!
Triumphantly I pick up my coat from the floor where I had left it and reach for my cell phone



in the pocket i left my phone, i do not find my phone,









but a pair of scissors.