The Whiteboard, part eight

Welcome  to all my news fans and followers…if you are just now getting into The Whiteboard, you have a bit to catch up. We are about to start on Part Eight. If you want to read part seven go here

The Whiteboard Part Eight by ©Kim Smith


Anne rose from bed on Friday morning to go to the bathroom, and as she always did, she glanced at the mirror.

Black marker dotted her throat as if someone had drawn the dashes to create a pattern to slice it open.

She screamed in terror.

High on the mirror was the handwritten note of the writer.

“Live or die, the choice is yours.”

She clutched at her throat and tried to wipe off the hateful ink, but to no avail.

Panicked, she grabbed a washcloth and wet it with water. She tried to remove the marks, even to the point of scrubbing her neck until it became red and inflamed. The marks faded only slightly.

It was like she’d been tattooed in her sleep.

Who had done this evil thing? She looked at her reflection in the mirror. No answer there.

What did this even mean?

“You know what it means,” she told her face as she looked at herself. This was terrifyingly real. The writer had somehow broken into her home, accosted her person, and written on the mirror without her even stirring.

“How? How did this even happen?” she questioned aloud.

She strode to the door. Locked from the inside, and just as she’d left it. She strode to the windows. None had been jimmied.

What if this writer had come and done this to her personal space while they had the keys and she’d been too overwrought last night to notice? She’d thrown her clothes on the floor, slipped into a teeshirt, and gone to bed.

“I never even brushed my teeth.”

What if the writer had taken the liberty of making copies of her keys? It would be a small matter to follow her home, and let themself in while she slept. They had done their damage and let themselves out again?

That didn’t seem as plausible as her first thought about coming in while she still worked. She re-entered the bathroom and gazed at the writing.

Who hated her so much?

She turned her head and looked at the marks on her throat again. Whoever this was had started this assault out so innocently, and now had invaded her home.

Anne strode to her bedside table to call the police. Abusing her whiteboard was one thing. This was another.


Hope you are having a great day! Be sure to share the link on your social media accounts.

Part Seven of The Whiteboard is here!
I hope you are enjoying this little strange tale. I think you will enjoy how things speed up from this point forward. Poor Anne. She’s a victim but she can’t seem to understand how to deal with it.

You can read part six here

Last time, she went to her boss for help…we left her about to explain to him what has been going

©Part Seven of The Whiteboard by Kim Smith

“Yes. A visitor,” she repeated. “And whoever it is, you see, I don’t know their identity, so whoever it is, is writing on my whiteboard.”

He stared at her, waiting. She couldn’t fathom how what she’d just told him didn’t shock him, but he didn’t look at at all shocked.

“You mean, without permission?” he asked, politely.


“What is this person writing?”

“Nothing earth-shattering. They or he or she made mention of my social life and put up a bit of song.”

“Nothing violent? Nothing threatening?”

She shook her head.

“Anything that could be deemed harrassment?”

She shook her head again.

He leaned forward. “So, why are you telling me? If it’s not threatening or harrassment, there’s very little the company can do.”

“The whiteboard is company property. Can’t I report it as being misused or damaged or something?”

He thought a moment before speaking. “What do you hope to accomplish by reporting misuse of company property? The worst that would happen is that it would be removed. Is that what you would like?”

“I would like to find out who’s been doing this, is all, sir. They have taken to writing on my car, as well. I…I believe they may have stolen my car keys. I’ve just gotten back from the garage, where they were lying on the ground just under my car. I am hoping you can help me figure out who this maniac is.” She hated the way her voice turned into whining.

“Are you sure you didn’t drop the keys? I don’t mean to sound skeptical but this all sounds like high school stuff.”

“Doesn’t the company have video cameras around?”

“No,” he frowned. “They have them in the parking lot, as a security measure. But if this person is really up to no good, they will figure out how to get around that. Haven’t you ever watched the crime dramas on television?”

She bit her lip, trying to think of another way to get help, as he was beginning to grate on her nerves. Did he think she was a total idiot? How did he get to be in his position, anyway?

He interrupted her thoughts. “Was there any damage to your car?”

“Not that I could tell.”

He leaned forward and gave her a piercing stare. “How is this person getting into your office at night?”

That was the one question that she dreaded the most.

“I don’t lock my office.”

He glanced at his watch ready to put this behind him. “I see.”

He placed one hand over the other and she felt like she was standing in a lawyer’s office, getting advice.

“I think you should start,” he said.

Her heart fell like a stone. No help forthcoming from this man. Her mind went higher, to his boss. Maybe someone else would show a bit more compassion.

She turned and walked toward the door. “Thank you for your time. I’ll do that.”

“I’ll speak to Joe downstairs about the video cameras and see if they have copies of the recordings. I wouldn’t pin all my hopes on it though. We likely have to have a piece of legal paper to get at them.”

She turned to give him a last moment to offer something of assistance to her. She clasped her hands in front of her and let out a held breath. “Okay. Thank you.”

When he spoke next, she knew assistance was not forthcoming.

“Close the door, will you?” he asked, waving her out.

She did, a little strongly. On the other side of the door, she resisted the urge to just lean against it and cry.

“Not helpful at all,” she whispered as she walked away.

She fretted over the situation all afternoon, and found herself looking around for someone watching her all the way to her car that evening. Nothing happened, and her car seemed quite un-molested.

Then, Friday came, and everything changed in Anne’s world. A dreadful, insidious force had found her and they weren’t going anywhere anytime soon.


Hope you are loving this short story. It’s hard to believe we are up to PART SEVEN! I am rewriting it now, putting more in, and editing it *yes, you have been getting first draft material here* egads! I hope to have it in a published form sometime this year. 

Please feel free to leave a comment below if you have something to add.


Part six of The Whiteboard

You can find part five of The Whiteboard here


So, here is the sixth part or installment of our strange tale. The Whiteboard is about a woman whose dry erase board at her job suddenly starts issuing someone’s opinion and becomes the object of their interest with her as the recipient.  Today we find out what happens next.

©The Whiteboard Part Six by Kim Smith

The writer didn’t put out new whiteboard writing at all on Thursday. By the time Anne got ready to leave work, she had convinced herself it was just a silly office game someone was playing with her and best left ignored. She wanted no part in it.

But when she prepared to leave for the day, she couldn’t locate her keys.

She was fastidious to a fault and to misplace anything was not her norm. She checked her sweater hanging on the back of the door, took every item out of her purse. turned it upside down and patted it to make anything inside fall out.

Nothing did.

And she had an immense set of keys. They were impossible to miss when they were lying on the desk or in the bottom of her purse. She checked her desk, every nook and cranny, even looking all around on the floor.

The keys were officially missing.

She gazed up at the whiteboard. Nothing there to give her a hint.

Or was there?

In very tiny writing, using the yellow marker this time, was one single line that she had completely missed.

“I like your car.”

Now, a cold drip of fear sucked through her belly. Did the writer take her keys?

She had to go to her car.

Of course, the writer had taken the keys.  Why else were they missing? The writer was taunting her. Anger made her breath come out in a whoosh as she strode from her office headed straight for the elevator.

If this lunatic had done anything to her car…she’d kill him. Or her. She didn’t care. When she got her hands on them, they’d be a believer.

When she walked outside, she blinked at the brilliance of the sun as it shone on her face. She would love to be able to just sit on the concrete steps and enjoy it. But instead, she thought about how unfair life was. She couldn’t even enjoy the seasonal beauty because someone had gotten focused on her and now had her heart filled with hate.

When she arrived at the car, her keys were lying just underneath the car’s door. Did she accidentally drop them? Had she been all keyed up over the writer’s activities and been at fault all along?

She scooped them up and walked around her car, suspiciously. She had had to have them in her hands to lock the vehicle’s door’s with the clicker. It was obviously locked. Besides, hadn’t the writer said in the latest writing that they liked the car?

Frustrated, she rushed inside the building to go straight to her boss’s office. Enough was enough. When she walked into her supervisor’s office, it was like it wasn’t even her moving her legs. She was a robot performing some weird pre-designed action.

“What’s up?” Mr. Stanton asked.

“I…I have a problem,” she replied, looking at the various items on his desk, formulating her thoughts.


He was being kind.

She was approaching this all wrong. She dove in anyway.

“Y-yes,” she stammered. “I’ve been having a visitor at night in my office.”

She glanced at him.

He steepled his fingers together and sat back.

“A visitor?”


Well, there you have it, my friends. What do you think will happen next?




Part five of The Whiteboard

Here it is! Part five! Good day friends! I hope this finds you happy and well. Are you enjoying these tidbits of story? I am having fun writing them.


If you recall, the last time we met, Anne was frustrated to find the writer had turned her windshield into a new form of whiteboard. This time, she finds that even silence screams loudly when executed aright.

THE WHITEBOARD part five by ©Kim Smith

By the time Anne reached the highway, she’d worked herself into a terrible headache. She’d been having a lot of those lately and wasn’t too happy about it. She’d been a sickly child and headaches seemed to haunt her. Remembering her childhood sicknesses were a quick way to become depressed. They had been the reason her father was never home, she was sure. He couldn’t stand to hear her crying she supposed.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, think about something else,” she chided aloud. So, she turned up the radio and sang off-key as loud as she could.

That would exorcise any demon.


The next day, Thursday, when she arrived in her office to prepare for her meeting, she was shocked to find that nothing appeared on the whiteboard. Her question seemed stark, bold.

“Who ARE you?”

The writer had obviously taken the high road and given up. She was a little sad that she didn’t get a reply on the person’s identity. She chuckled as she wiped the board clean.

Her meeting came and went, and she gathered her lunchbag and headed to the kitchen. A strange anticipation filled her. Would the writer strike during the day again?

Did she really want this odd messaging to continue? Wasn’t the writing on her car enough? This person was stalking her in a way. They even knew her car.

As she stood in front of the microwave, she decided she might want to follow Beatrice’s advice and go to someone higher. Someone in authority might be able to stop this. But she shied back, fear of judgment from someone over her at work filling her mind. Wouldn’t do to tell anyone now. There was no evidence–only her words saying so. No way she wanted her superiors to think she was encouraging the writer, and they would because she was not trying to stop it.

She was the one leaving the door open. She had encouraged the behavior of the writer, hadn’t she? If she wanted this to stop, she only had to start locking up. Show the writer that she was not playing anymore.

Her reflection glowed in the stainless of the microwave. Was she that lonely? Desperate for a relationship so that she secretly welcomed the writer’s intrusion?

She took her lunch out of the microwave and headed to her table. She couldn’t focus all of her attention on this. Not now, not ever. It would make her even more mousy and timid. She hated feeling like this. Trapped. Like she didn’t have good choices to pick from.

She sighed as she blew on a hot piece of broccoli.  Maybe the car incident would be the last. Maybe this was just a phase. Maybe one day the writer would come into her office and ask her how she liked his or her activity.

It was just a big joke, wasn’t it?

_____ ~~@~~_______

Welllll… so…there ya go- part five in the can. Check back in a few days for another installment.



The Whiteboard part four

Welcome to the latest (fourth) installment of The Whiteboard. This story has been keeping me company for weeks now. I am sort of liking the fact that I can just write about 500 words on it (equivalent of 2  pages or so) and let that be the writing for the day. A writer writes. So, I am. I hope you are enjoying this little tale. (I actually do have an ending!)

Here are the three previous links to parts one, two, and three.

Part one

Part two

Part three

The Whiteboard by Kim Smith ©2017


She was disappointed in Beatrice’s reply. Her co-worker hadn’t seen anyone coming or going in Anne’s office, except Anne. This was met with a bit more dismay than Anne wanted to admit.

She walked up to the board and wrote in her boldest hand, “Who ARE you?”

“I’ll play for one more day,” she said, aloud. Then, she gathered her things to go home. When she touched the doorknob, she considered locking it. What was going to be learned from someone who snuck into her office and played games, anyway?

Finally, she left it unlocked. One more day, she told herself. Then it’s going to be locked up tight.

As she headed toward the elevator, she remembered an 8:30 a.m. meeting on Thursday that she would be having in her office. The writer had better be prepared to divulge their identity and get out quickly or face a few others crowded into her small office to be a new and less attentive audience.

She forced herself to breathe in and out and smile inwardly. Nothing to be done about this business now. There was a well-dressed man on the elevator when she got on. She had never seen him before, but that wasn’t all that remarkable. She didn’t know everyone person on every floor of the massive office complex.

He allowed her to exit before him, as a well-bred man should do. At least, in her opinion. Not that she was an authority or anything . She didn’t even have brothers or uncles and her father had never been home long, preferring to work two jobs and long hours.

She was something like him, she supposed.

When Anne reached her car, she looked up at the building where she spent so much of her time. She couldn’t see her office from this vantagepoint, but she knew where it was. Her life seemed wrapped up in that one place. Now someone was invading her space. It was enough to make her frown as she clicked the button to open her car doors.

When she sat inside, she could see the writing on her windshield, in the dust of the pollen that had begun to collect everywhere thanks to the abundance of trees around the garage.

“Mirror, mirror, on the wall,” it said in the perfect handwriting she’d already come to recognize.

A drip of cold fear gripped her. What did that even mean? How did the writer know her car? This meant the writer KNEW her and her habits. Should she take this to the authorities? Was it harmless or dangerous. She sat there a long time before finally turning on the washer and wipers, obliterating the writing from her view.

“Take that, you weirdo,” she said, putting her seat belt on.


I hope you enjoyed this fourth installment! More to come! Please feel free to leave a comment and tell me what you think…