When the Lights Go Out

A short story

Photo by Jessica Furtney on Unsplash

A few weeks ago I issued a prompt for you to submit your scariest stories to the Fictions publication this October. Maybe I put the word out too soon and you missed it, maybe you’ve been busy watching the WNBA playoffs, or you could have been laser-focused on Taylor Swift’s new album; whatever the reason, three days into the month my inbox is empty. I don’t want to just reissue the prompt (you can click the link above for that), so instead, to kick things off, I give you an old scary story of mine that I reworked recently. There’s still plenty of time to send me yours.

As is so often the case in my life, I should have known it was a bad idea from the start. In my defense, there was a lot of foolish optimism running around as we neared the end of 1983, especially after Reagan invaded Granada in October and smoked all those Cubans; he was so much tougher than Carter had been. I was newly and happily discharged from the Army, in the longest-lasting relationship of my life (six months and counting), and eager to experience all Savannah had to offer. As the Hostess City of the South, she owed me no less.

This ill-advised optimism is the only reason I had agreed to the idea of sharing a house with my girlfriend’s best friend’s boyfriend (try saying that three times fast). It was not ill-advised because I didn’t like Joey; on the…