Frightmares: A Fistful of Flash Fiction Horror

by Unknown

  So, I started going into work early, and made sure I stayed late every night. It’s not like I ever get natural sunlight in my cubicle anyway. And I’m salaried, so my bosses don’t care how much time I spend there, as long as my work gets done and I don’t sexually harass anyone.

  It worked for a month. Then, I noticed I had stopped eating food and the cravings began.

  We zombies are simple. We want brains. It doesn’t matter what kind, either. It took a quick phone call to a couple of butchers before twenty pounds of beef and pork brains were delivered to my apartment. Some scrambled eggs and brains for breakfast, a brain sandwich for lunch and brains on crackers for an afternoon snack.

  Living this way can get pretty lonely, though. Sometimes I think it would be nice to have someone to talk to, someone to give tips on where to find good brains. A group has a better chance of survival, don’t you think?

  So, don’t worry. In a month or so, you’ll be just like me.

  Oh, did I tell you about my connection at the morgue? He was the first I infected. So, I’ll have new friends soon.

  Don Haas is a writer living near Philadelphia. He spends his days doing this or that, but mostly trying not to get caught. At night he hones his super powers and tries to decide whether to use them for good or evil.

  ABSORB

  LANCE DAVIS

  “Wake up.”

  Something sharp poked Jerrod’s chest as he struggled to open his eyes.

  “I said, wake up!” The old man croaked, jabbing again.

  Pain cleared Jerrod’s vision, a sharp wooden stake coalescing from the nonsense.

  “What . . . what are you doing?” Jerrod asked.

  His arms ached, metal biting into his wrists and ankles.

  “I got you shackled,” the old man warned.

  Jerrod struggled to get his bearings. A barn, the smell of hay overpowering. A single, naked bulb cast its fitful light across various tools, including the shovel that was likely responsible for the pounding ache in his head. The old man, wild-eyed with fear or madness, pressed the wooden stake against Jerrod’s chest.

  “I knew your kind would be here sooner or later.”

  “My kind?”

  “Yeah, your kind,” he snarled. “Been all over the news.”

  The man limped to a radio sitting on top of a toolbox. Through the window beyond, Jerrod could make out a two-story farm house illuminated by a pole light in the front yard.

  The old man turned on the radio, getting nothing but static. Frustrated, he knocked it to the groundand retrieved a hammer from the toolbox. “Looks like you got them, too.”

  He stalked towards Jerrod. The look in his eyes was manic, murderous. Panic washed Jerrod’s entrails, tears stinging his eyes.

  “Look, I don’t know what’s going on . . . please . . .”

  “Please what? You think I’m gonna let you do it? Let you come in here and suck the blood out of my family?”

  “What?”

  He pressed the stake to Jerrod’s chest.

  “You’re making a mistake!”

  The old man cocked the hammer back.

  “Wait! Talk to me! What . . . what’s your name?”

  “Nothin’ that means shit to you.”

  “What would your family think of you killing an innocent man?”

  Something in his eyes, barely a flicker, but something.

  Jerrod pressed him. “You think you could knock me out that easy if I was one of them? Get me out of this . . . I can help!”

  The old man dropped his toolsand pulled a key from his front pocket. “You’re right. I don’t like it, but you’re right. My wife and grandson are in the house. We got to go.”

  He unlocked Jerrod’s restraintsand made for the door, but the stake pierced his back, as though his flesh was as soft as wet paper, and pushed clean through his bony chest.

  Jerrod leaned close, hissing in the old man’s ear:

  “We’re not vampires.”

  Blood poured out, covering Jerrod’s hands. It didn’t stain, instead it absorbed into his young skin, which fast began to sag and wrinkle, his hair graying.

  Jerrod flung the featureless body to the floor, searching its pockets until he produced a wallet. Ah! A driving license . . .

  “Leonard Edwards,” he read. He stretched and turned, the name still echoing on his lips as he limped towards the house, and the family awaiting him within.

  Lance Davis is a thirty-something writer living with his wife, Kelly, and their two children in Huntsville, Arkansas.

  I USED TO FIND THINGS

  KEITH DEININGER

  Once, I found a severed cat’s paw lying by a clump of sagebrush in the forest behind our house. A soft peach color; it belonged to Oscar, my mom’s cat. My mom said it was coyotes–sometimes you heard their howls at night–but I wondered . . .

  There weren’t a lot of kids to play with in my neighborhood, so I spent a lot of time in the woods, wandering, exploring; waiting for the older kids who lived down the street so we could work on the tree house. I was too scared to climb the trees on my own, didn’t like the greasy feeling of them beneath my fingers. But most of the time, I was alone.

  Sometimes we burned things. Once, I lit a fire when the older boys weren’t there. It leaped up and caught in a sage bush, the smoke stinging my eyes as I ran to the backyard and slipped in the wet grass. I filled a bucket from the faucet and ran back, but it wasn’t enough. My dad saw me through the window. He followed me and stamped out the fire with his big, bear-claw feet. I was grounded and forbidden from hanging out with the older boys ever again. You could have burned the neighborhood and the whole goddamned forest down! Dad’s breath was more sour than the smoke I could still taste in the back of my throat.

  I didn’t do as Daddy said. I used to find things as I explored the woods all the way to the road. The trees were thicker on the other side; tangled, wild. There was a bottle over there I wanted for my collection. I tried, dashing across the blacktop to snatch it up, but I was so stupid. I felt someone watching from the woods, so I dashed back empty handed. It didn’t keep me away from the woods, though. There was something about the woods; never changing, never dying, tight and twisted. Sometimes I’d hear a voice calling me, as if from a great distance, deep, deep within the tangled growth.

  Once, I watched a yellow-haired mutt strolling down the road, head uplifted in the bland summer sun. I saw a branch creep out of the shadows like a snake. The mutt yelped once, and was gone. I stood, fascinated; listening to wet spluttering snaps and crunches. After a while, the sounds stopped. I left, shivering.

  I kept thinking how easily the sagebrush burned that day, how exciting it was to watch the flames dance. To see the branches shrivel and blacken. How they cracked, how they sputtered and whined!Like living things, writhing in agony as they burned. Perhaps I’ll go back to the woods one day. I know they’re still standing, though it’s been many years. Perhaps I’ll hear the music of their suffering again, as we wither as one.

  Keith Deininger is a Ray Bradbury Science Fiction Writing Contest award winner and a Conceptions Southwest editor's choice; his work has appeared in MicroHorror, Necrology Shorts, Conceptions Southwest, and others. He works in a University bookstore and people think he's weird (including his wife). See more at: www.KeithDeininger.com.

  DEAD RECKONING

  HOPE SULLIVAN MCMICKLE

  Frank Straker had been walking around dead for the last three months. Little bits of decaying flesh continuously flaked off onto his desk, creating drifts of debris that he periodically brushed aside with dead fingers.

  He wasn’t quite sure if the Arkansas humidity helped or hindered the situation; although it expedited his decay and intensified the smell of rot that permeated his body and clothing. The humidity also made him, well, kind of gooey. Shit, maybe the gooeyness helped maintain his limberness, such as it was.

  The effects of rigor mortis had set in before the virus had fully run its course, tightening muscles, fre
ezing joints; making the use of everyday devices like the telephone all but impossible. He’d finally resorted to email for primary communication, clumsily but persistently pecking at the letters on the keyboard. Working the mouse was an entirely different challenge. After an hour of painstaking effort, he contacted his client in Little Rock:

  To: nyan@rdtindustries.com

  From: frank@strakerinvestigations.com

  Per your request, I am attaching the still-photos from the surveillance cameras and the crime scene report on file with the LRPD. It appears that their investigation is moving slowly. Two persons of interest have been identified but are not yet considered suspects in the murder of your daughter. Do you wish for me to interview them personally? I may have methods of deriving information that extend a bit beyond the techniques utilized by our partners in law enforcement. I obtained their addresses from public records and am able to speak to these individuals on your behalf to ascertain their involvement. Please advise. Note that my expense report is also attached. The costs associated with this investigation exceeded your initial advance, so payment is required before I can proceed.

  Frank punched the enter button, sending the correspondence off with a grunt of satisfaction. Payment would be wired to him within the hour; he had a highly motivated client. He’d also be paying the two suspects a visit later that day. Well, even if they wouldn’t give him the information he wanted, they’d at least provide plenty of food for thought.

  Hope Sullivan McMickle is a writer and musician who has been a fan of horror since she was old enough to read and a creator of dark works since she was old enough to be trusted with a pencil. A graduate of Franklin College, she resides in Franklin, Indiana.

  THE FINAL FIGHT

  KEVIN BROWN

  [To all who hears, I give my goodbye note, rendered in the form of this audio recording]:

  By the time you hear this, It will be dead. Before my voice brushes the hair follicles of your ears, the nightmare that has plagued this city, that has kept families locked in their homes, that has kept children wide awake at night, teary-eyed, will finally be over. Due to the negligence of local law enforcement, It has gotten away unspeakable crimes. Torture. Burnings. Mutilation. Cannibalism. It has toyed with the media, created a marionette out of government officials. It has blindfolded communities, made them question their friends, family, their sanity. Themselves. But not me. I see It for what It really is—Evil.

  I have decided to kill It and I will do so with one of Its own knives. Through circumstances outside my own understanding, I sealed my fate when I came upon the blade, the blood on its edge still hot. As if I had been guided to it. As if I were chosen.

  In keeping with Its custom, I promise I will not make it quick. I pledge it will not be merciful.

  Being what It is, I am most certain I will die as well in these endeavors. However, I implore you not to look to me as a hero, a martyr, a savior. Though I am of flesh, I am the servant of the Lord. The Shepherd protecting His sheep. The Keeper of all that is righteous. And I will be blessed. In dying, I will live forever.

  And now I hear It. I smell It. It has found me for the final fight. And so I leave you with this, my summation: YOU’RE WELCOME.

  It stands before me, a nose apart between noses. This beast, this abomination. It stares at me staring back, uncanny, our resemblance. And with the blades raised, we come together as warriors.

  As Darkness and Light.

  As one.

  Kevin Brown has had work published in over a hundred journals and magazines, and was nominated for a 2007 Journey Award and a three Pushcart Prizes. His first book, Ink On Wood, was published in the summer of 2010.

  LANGUAGE

  BUNNY ULTRAMOD

  I suffered under a father who had the dual curses of being mad and inventive. He had a theory that Hebrew was the language of God, the original language, and so a child who never experiences language will spontaneously start speaking Hebrew.

  So, for the first five years of my life, I never heard a word uttered, and was never let near anything associated with language, including televisions, radios, books, street signs. Functionally, this meant I either had to remain home, which I did most of the time, or had to be shuttled from place to place wearing ear plugs and blinders.

  I did not speak for five years. I communicated through a series of self-invented signs and occasional nonsensical noises. But we are creatures of language, and eventually I was likely to start forming words. And my father watched to see what my first word, created by myself, would be. And one day I came to him with a strange look on my face. I gestured for a moment, but then stopped, and my mouth started moving. I was about to form my first words. My father leaned in close to hear what I might say. And, suddenly, spontaneously, I spoke.

  “Ia! Ia! Cthulhu Fhtagn!” I said, and bit one of his cheeks off.

  Bunny Ultramod is a member of the pop punk band The Ultramods. As Max Sparber, he has been anthologized in books by Strange Horizons and Underground Voices, as well as in the collection "People of the Book: A Decade of Jewish Science Fiction and Fantasy."

  THE GIRL NEXT DOOR

  LEV HELLER

  He looked at her corpse. He had never liked her, and her death did not weigh heavily upon his conscience. All the same, he felt regret. Murder was a heinous crime that he could not reconcile with his morals. As he wrapped her bloody form in the carpet, his guilt gnawed at his sense of responsibility. He shouldn’t have done it, he thought. He couldn’t have done it. He had never done it. The floor was clean, the corpse gone. Obviously, he had imagined it all! It had never happened. There was no girl. What girl? What was he thinking about? What was he doing? He looked outside. There was that girl who lived next door. He had never liked her . . .

  Lev Heller is studying philosophy at the University of Maryland. He enjoys hiking, reading, and meeting new people.

  DEATH IS JUST A TICK AWAY

  KELLI A. WILKINS

  Dave couldn’t sleep. The ticking echoed through the house. Even at 35 years old, the damn thing still spooked him. Lots of families passed down stories to scare kids, but most of them didn’t involve cursed objects that could kill.

  He was seven when Dad had told him about the clock. His great-great grandfather had severely beaten a servant who had forgotten to wind the clock, and the old lady had cast the curse on them. If ever the clock was allowed to wind down to a stop, one of his family members would die.

  Three days ago, Dave’s father had been found lying at the base of the black walnut clock, one arm stretched toward the ten-foot high carved demon. Paramedics said he had suffered a heart attack. But Dave thought he knew better. Dad had been trying to wind the clock.

  Dave cast a glance at his sleeping wife, Helen.

  Any affection for her had died long ago. She was a nag and succubus of his bank account, and had merely endured him and his parents because she hoped to inherit from them. Why couldn’t it have been her? Dave thought.

  He got up and lit a cigarette.

  His father had believed in the curse. So had his mother. Aunt Maggie did, too. She kept the clock going for years, until it stopped while she was on vacation. A bus jumped a curb and mowed her down in Italy. But Aunt Ruth had refused to believe in such nonsense, and she deliberately let the clock run down one day in 1978. That had caused an uproar in the family. The next day, Uncle Corey was dead.

  Aunt Ruth had merely shrugged and said, “The clock’s good for something after all.”

  Everyone knew Uncle Corey had been cheating on Aunt Ruth.

  Dave thought about that. Did Aunt Ruth know a secret about the clock? Could it be set to kill spouses? It would be cheaper than divorce.

  He crept down the staircase and gazed at the massive contraption. In the dim light, the clock looked evil. Two carved spirals jutted from the top like horns. The face was a faded sun and moon design that had always given him the creeps. Both day and night mocked him with a wicked smile. He was glad the clock never chimed.
It probably would’ve let out a cackle instead of a gong.

  He studied the clock. How had Aunt Ruth done it? Dave opened the clock’s glass front door. The ancient moon face grinned down at him as the pendulum swung back and forth. There was a little door in the clock floor where the key was kept. Maybe he could put something in there? A lock of Helen’s hair, perhaps? A fingernail clipping?

  Dave lifted the lid of the key compartment and scowled. There was a folded note inside.

  He opened it and immediately recognized the handwriting. His loving wife had written one word on the paper.

  “Dave.”

  Kelli A. Wilkins enjoys writing horror stories and visiting haunted places. This story was inspired by a real clock that was never allowed to wind down. Kelli's horror fiction has appeared in Weird Tales, The Best of the First Line, and other horror anthologies. Readers are invited to visit her website: www.KelliWilkins.com to catch up on all of her writings.

  BLACK ICE

  BON TINDLE

  The girl fell to her knees and gasped in pain. The rain had thickened before finally turning into chips of ice driven by a howling wind. A thick glaze covered everything, bringing down power lines and reducing traffic to emergency vehicles only. It was the worst ice storm the city had seen in twenty years.

  She couldn’t see more than a few yards into the gritty alley that sheltered her somewhat from the full force of the elements. She tried to cry out for help, but her weak voice disappeared into the night. There was a killer on the loose, the news had said. A new victim will pay the price tonight.

  On her hands and knees, she crawled blindly, praying that help would come.