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The Collector
An unreleased short story from the book:
Horrors We Shared: The Risks of the Shared Economy
Eve had always loved the quiet of her apartment. Nestled on the top floor of a building with peeling paint and cracked windows, it was a sanctuary from the world. A place where she could escape, be alone with her thoughts, and keep to herself. Life had always been solitary for her—no roommates, no intrusive neighbors. Just a small circle of friends she rarely saw. And that was fine. She didn’t need much.
When she posted an ad online to rent out her spare bedroom, she expected nothing more than an easy transaction. She wasn’t looking for friendship—just someone to help with the rent. She wasn’t picky about who responded. The ad was simple: “Room for Rent. Quiet building. No pets, no parties. Short-term or long-term.”
It was Darren who first reached out. He was polite and unassuming, just a man in his early forties, looking for a place to stay while he searched for work in the city. He was pleasant on the phone, always respectful, and seemed eager to keep to himself. His past was vague, but he said he’d moved from the outskirts of the city and just needed a temporary place.
At first, Eve thought it was perfect. He settled into the room without fanfare, unpacking quickly and keeping to himself. But it wasn’t long before things began to feel strange.
It started small—an unsettling noise that Eve would hear at night. A soft scratching sound, like something delicate being dragged across wood, coming from Darren’s room. Eve tried to ignore it at first, thinking it was just the building settling. But it became impossible to overlook. Every night, just after midnight, the scratching would begin. It wasn’t a random sound. It was systematic, rhythmic. Like a person… working.
She’d knock on Darren’s door in the morning, asking if he was okay. He always seemed fine—tired, maybe, but polite. He assured her he had been working on a few projects late at night, but there was nothing to worry about. The scratching, though, continued. She could hear it, feel it creeping up her spine. A whisper of something darker lurking behind the closed door.
Then came the strange requests. Darren would sometimes ask to borrow her kitchen utensils—large knives, scissors, even a carving fork. At first, she thought it was harmless enough. People used knives to cook, didn’t they? But the way he spoke about them… he treated them with a reverence that sent a chill down her spine.
“I’ll take care of it,” he would say, his fingers lightly grazing the edge of the blade. His smile was polite, but there was something in his eyes that unsettled her.
One evening, she found a bloodstain in the sink. It was small, almost unnoticeable, but unmistakable. Dark red, almost black, splattered across the porcelain. Eve’s stomach twisted. She scrubbed at it, trying to convince herself it was just a mistake, a spill from a dinner. But the mark was too stark. Too fresh.
When she went to confront Darren, she found him in his room, sitting perfectly still in the dim light, staring at a large leather-bound book. She had never seen it before. His hands moved delicately across the pages, as if tracing each line with great care.
“What are you reading?” Eve asked, her voice trembling more than she intended.
He didn’t answer immediately. His eyes flickered up, an odd glimmer of recognition flashing across his face.
“Just a collection,” he said softly. “Of memories.”
Her breath caught. She had never liked the way he said “memories.” Like they were his, like they belonged to him.
Over the next few days, Eve’s unease grew. She started to notice the photographs in Darren’s room, tucked haphazardly into corners, stacked in piles. Photos of people she didn’t recognize, faces she had never seen before. The faces stared back at her, blank and cold, their eyes hollow. She could not shake the feeling that the faces were watching her, even when she turned away.
The most unsettling photograph was on his desk. It was a close-up of a woman, bloodied and bruised, eyes wide in terror. The picture was not just disturbing—it felt like a violation. It made her sick to her stomach.
The next morning, she asked Darren about the photo. He smiled, but it was tight, almost forced.
“Just someone I knew from a long time ago,” he said, barely meeting her gaze. “It’s nothing. Just a reminder of what happens when you don’t take care of things.”
Eve’s stomach turned. She tried to push the thought away, but the picture haunted her.
The night after, things escalated. The scratching returned, but this time, it was accompanied by a low, guttural sound—almost like a soft growl. Fear tightened in her chest. She couldn’t ignore it any longer.
Eve waited until the noise stopped before she made her move. She couldn’t just let it go. She had to confront him.
Her hands shook as she reached for the door, the knob cold against her fingers. She opened it slowly, just enough to peer inside.
What she saw made her blood freeze.
Darren was standing over his large wooden desk. On it lay the body of a woman, her skin pale and drawn tight over her bones, her eyes closed in a way that didn’t seem natural. Darren stood above her, humming softly to himself as he worked with a scalpel. The woman’s chest had been sliced open, the wound raw and fresh, blood spilling across the table in slow, careful drips.
But what truly chilled Eve was the collection of jars along the desk. Inside each one were preserved parts—human limbs, fingers, toes, eyes. The woman’s eyes were nowhere to be seen, but there were plenty of others, carefully labeled and stored, as if Darren had been working for months—years even—gathering his “collection.”
He turned when he heard her gasp, his eyes wide with something dangerously close to delight.
“You see?” he whispered, voice slow and filled with satisfaction. “Each piece tells a story. The body, it’s a memory. It’s all about preserving the truth, Eve. Do you see the truth now?”
Eve stumbled backward, nausea rising in her throat. Her feet tangled as she turned and ran for the door. But Darren was faster. He was already there, his hand catching her wrist with impossible strength, pulling her back toward the room. His smile was wide, sickening.
“Don’t run,” he murmured. “You’ll be part of the collection too. Don’t you want to be remembered, Eve?”
Her mind raced, her pulse pounding in her ears. She fought with every ounce of her being, but Darren’s grip was iron, his eyes unblinking, as though he had already claimed her.
The last thing Eve remembered was the sharp scent of formaldehyde as she was dragged back into the room. Her screams filled the apartment, echoing through the hallways, but no one would come. No one would hear.
Darren had collected her memory. He had preserved it for his collection.
And she was never leaving.
If you enjoyed this short story you will probably like our latest release available now:
Horrors We Shared: The Risks of the Shared Economy
$3.99
In today’s world, the rise of the shared economy has reshaped the way we live, work, and interact. We share our homes, our cars, our time, and even our most private spaces. But behind the seemingly harmless transactions lies a darker, more sinister reality.
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