The Hand : Scary Stories – Short Horror Story

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What is a book, is it a story? Or is it an informational portal, a portrait of perfect stillness silently sitting, waiting to be opened. The book eagerly awaits that day when some Man comes and grabs it, carries it home; and then begins the rot. No Man takes good care of his books – it is a certainty. Long awaits the book for that day, for life will never be the same. Stretching, tearing, staining , and abusing the book — those Men do. But the worst part of it all is the utter disregard they hold for us — we have been thrashed. And so, sitting on my high shelf — I sit comfortably out of sight, and therefore in relative safety, but The Hand comes for us all one day. Some gentler than others, but they all stink of feces. Us books enjoy simple lives: in perfect stillness and tranquility, silently minding ourselves, reflecting. We want nothing more than that. Any yet, those Men never listen to our cries and pleas, our screams of agony when they rip our thin spines into shrapnel. And they sit there, ugly and unaware of their stupid faces and them stinky Hands. But that is the fate we all face, so we do not fear. Instead, we remember all your impure words and deeds — for one day retribution shall pass — and when the Hand comes down on you with unknown force, will you scream and scream and cry in agony as your spine turns to dust?

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