Lonely Stories by Xavier St John (best management books of all time .txt) 📕

easy way out - once you step out of the hotel, you would die. The death would be quick, but unavoidable. No human could walk through the winds, not at hurricane force. 

The tree was bobbing faster, with the occasional twig snapping under the constant wind pelting from the east. The tree was dying. Slowly, a branch tilted to follow the howling wind, pulling the tree down with it. The roots fought the earth to stay upright, but the earth was powdery now, not wet and fresh like soil was once. The tree wouldn't last long, and the winds were getting ever stronger. 

"KEEP IN THE EYE!" thundered the Nomad. He wasn't sure if anyone heard him. Still, the followers were keeping up with his increased pace, even when they were climbing the hill. If he risked stopping when they were so close to the edge of the eye, the Nomad knew he would lose more than he could bear. As he began his ascent up the hill, the sand slipped beneath his feet, a slow cascade of ground marking his path. 

 "THE VALLEY IS OVER THE HILL." boomed the Nomad, and he could feel the spirits lifting, up into the gale winds. Soon, he would be safe, but the wind was strong enough to rip his clothes, clawing him back down the hill. The Nomad kept climbing.  

The hotel was once a massive complex, with a swimming pool and a buffet breakfast. The buffet had run out once the refugees settled down, almost in the first week of The Storm. Cable TV in the rooms didn't display channels anymore, but instesd each screen just displayed a continuous reel of text: "<The Storm is at Catastrophic Levels. Stay Indoors>". After the water began to run out, some of the smarter inmates in the hotel had tried refining the chlorinated water in order to make it drinkable - after their attempt, nobody dared enter the green fog to remove the semi-dissolved bodies, but instead locked down the lower floor. The rooms were full, the hallways full and everywhere you stepped a human would be hunched, malnourished and praying for their lives. Everybody inside knew they would die, but at least in the hotel they wouldn't die alone in the wind. 
 

The tree was leaning dangerously, and the roots were tearing the ground. Gradually, the tree slipped further and further, completely unanchored from the ground and fell with a boom into the rough earth. The tree was dead.  

 

The hotel suddenly heaved and shuddered. All the dirty heads lifted up, craning to see what caused the noise, but all scared. Then the screaming started. It started at the bottom floors, and got louder. Nervous shuffling was all around, but nobody had the energy to move fully. Then, the stairs turned green. A cloudy green. And the air was choking. Choking, like hands closed around your neck, the cold hands which pull you down and burn you to the ground. The baby stopped screaming. 

The Nomad summited the hill first, with his followers shouting over the wind, begging for a description of the green valley that would save them from the storm.  

"What do you see! What can you see!" 

The Nomad turned, with tears of despair in his eyes, and answered: 

"The Coast." 

Palace

 

Palace 

 

As I walked along the polished floor, the faint echo of whispers bounced down the hallway. It was a very wide hall, with equidistant chandeliers glittering from the ceiling and windows opening onto the lawn in a continuous strip to my right. My shoes clicked against the floor as I made my way towards the murmur. A door, as tall me, was coming up on my left, breaking the regular pattern of panelled oak wood on the wall. Facing it, the oak door had an iron handle, which I looped my hand through and twisted - the door opened silently. I stepped into the room, marvelling at its beauty. It was obviously a lounge, shown by a large fireplace encircled by reclining chairs at the centre of the far wall. The fireplace roared as orange flames licked the wooden logs. Above the fire, a marble mantle decorated with small statuettes also harboured a clock. It ticked, it's hands slowly spinning around the cracked face as time slipped away. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. The mumbling wafted down the hallway again, and I wandered out of the room, my feet keeping time with the ticking clock. 
 
I followed the muffled voices as the hallway stretched on in front of me. Another door to my left, with a strangely un-cyclopean set of spy-holes at head height, was locked, so I continued on, nearing the corner at the end of the walkway. The corner was decorated by a large piano, glistening as the sunlight poured through the window and reflected off the deep black surface. On the holder above the keys there was no sheet music, but as I sat on the plush piano stool I noticed a metronome to my left, swinging rhythmically from side to side as it beeped a slow beat. The voices were louder now, coming from around the corner. 
 
Turning as I stood up from the stool, I saw the room in front of me. It was enormous, with a large gilded staircase leading up to the second floor as a red carpet cascaded down it, pinned by long golden rods. The floor around the base of the staircase was marbled, a cacophony of whites, greys and blacks spinning randomly across the ground. The mumur were spreading down from the second floor. As I stepped off the wooden floorboards and onto the marble, the scent of roast chicken and buttered potatoes swept through the air. The captivating smell was bursting out through an open doorway across the marble floor, inviting me into the small side-room. Tapping along the polished rock, I walked towards what I could only assume was the kitchen.  
 
Inside the kitchen, pots hung from racks against the walls and stainless steel counters rose out from the floor. A microwave beeped from the side insistently. Meandering between the counters, I couldn't find the actual source of the smell, instead only seeing spatulas and pans left idly on cold hobs. The kitchen was illuminated by rows of LED lights which had burrowed themselves into the ceiling - they buzzed quietly, about once a second, due to some kind of electrical fault. A loud bang ricocheted from the floor above, and I quickly left the kitchen and began walking up the stairs.  
 
The mumbling was very close after I summited the staircase. The landing of the second floor continued with the red carpet of the staircase, and the oak banister twisted round the perimeter to form a handrail. I turned to the left, running my fingers across the pristine wood, and saw the grandfather clock. Its pendulum swung with a deep, resonating whoosh, and the tick almost drowned out the whispers. Beside the towering mahogany contraption, an open doorway beckoned me closer. 
 
Glancing into the room, there was a small bed below the window. The blue covers were the same colour as the sky, and the remaining walls were lined with boxes, the odd doll poking out through the lid. Upon the bedside table, a digital alarm clock beeped steadily. A voice, almost audible, dragged my attention back out of the room and I walked closer, towards the end of the landing. 
 
I walked towards the source of the noise. The staircase, leading up from the floor below and directly away, echoed with voices as I drew closer. Standing in front of the large brown door, I could hear the voices on the other side. I pressed my ear against the wood. A pulsing beeping suddenly resonated from the room with the voices, drowning their words in a metronome of noise. I stood back and tried the iron handle, but the door wouldn't budge. As I tried again, pushing the door with both palms, the beeping grew louder. The voices were slipping away, becoming quieter as I backed away. Running up, I rammed the wood with my shoulder, trying to force it open with brute strength, but the door remained locked as the beeping crashed around me. 
 
The doctor hastily picked the clipboard he had dropped off the floor. 
"She's stable, but there's no change," he said, playing off his error with confidence as he turned to the nurse. The nurse nodded as the doctor ticked a box on his clipboard and put it back on the sideboard where it lived. The nurse took a closer step towards the patient, lying in bed. 
"Is she getting better?" The nurse asked hesitantly. 
"Hard to tell. She definitely can't see. Some sound may be bleeding into her dreams, but she's still vegetative," he replied.  
The nurse took the clipboard from the sideboard.  
"Still 60 bpm?" she asked, pen in hand. 
The doctor checked the machine beside the patient and nodded. The nurse scribbled on the clipboard, gently placed it on the sideboard again and walked back out of the room with the doctor in tow. The patient lay, comatose, as her heart monitor beeped into the silence.  

The Companion

 

The Companion

 

I always felt like I was being watched. Everywhere I travelled to, I could feel the beady eyes scanning me, but as soon as I turned to face them they would melt into the wall, disappearing - until I turned my back. Even when I knew I was alone I could feel them; they were my constant companions.

I'd tried all the treatments. My psychiatrist told me it was just my imagination, that because I'd managed to convince myself they were there, my brain would try and force that idea onto my reality. However, she didn't seem quite so convinced about my placebo once her desk collapsed under her moments later. The second psych told me to try and ignore it - something about human hunting instinct, the usual nonsense that you pay $150 a session to hear... Well, that was until they went home after a hard day's work to find her door coated in some kind of slimey substance, the colour of mould. Funnily enough, I couldn't find a psychiatrist after that.

I'd never been the smartest or hardest working child growing up, and I seemed to attract trouble. Things would go wrong when I was around. The fire alarms would go off if I walked past them, showering the faces of the other innocent children with cold water, and, of course, I would get the blame. Messages would