Frightmares: A Fistful of Flash Fiction Horror

by Unknown

  Just when she thought it was too late, a shadow appeared, moving toward her.

  A voice asked, “Are you all right?”

  In the shadow, there were no details, even this close. Yet she was dimly aware of dark hair and intense brown eyes staring down at her. His voice was deep and mellow, the sort you might hear on all-news radio—soothing. He was probably the owner or manager of one of the alley’s businesses, closing up and trying to get home before the second wave of ice and snow smothered the city.

  She croaked something about her pain. He leaned to hear her better.

  His deep brown eyes—so dark they were almost black—widened with shock as the knife slid deep into his throat, tearing through flesh and silencing him with one swift movement. He instinctively flew backwards, then slid down the wall, his eyes still looking at her in confusion.

  While he fought to breathe, she saw the moment when he knew there was no changing what was to come. His body continued to fight, but his mind accepted the inevitable.

  When his gurgling breaths stopped, she stood and dusted herself off. She carefully threw the knife and her gloves in the dumpster. She took a new pair out of her purse and put them on.

  “For him,” she said bitterly.

  She pulled a final knife out of her purse and put it in the outer flap where it was easily accessible. It’d been a long night, but she was almost done.

  Just one more.

  She walked a few blocks to another short alley that connected a cluster of shops—a lone woman on a dangerous night.

  There was a killer on the loose, the news had said.

  The first snowflakes began to fall, blanketing everything in white.

  Bon Tindle lives in Missouri and is known on the web as Bon The Geek. You can keep up with her newest projects or contact her at www.bonthegeek.com.

  THE BEAT OF INTENTION

  GREG CHAPMAN

  Ba-dum! Ba-dum!

  He had to get to the heart of the matter; the rhythm of his soul. He breathed deep, cold air flooding his lungs, freezing his blood. Fate called to him, pounding ever louder.

  Ba-dum! Ba-Dum! Ba-Dum!

  All his life he’d felt it stirring within; a cauldron of malice, boisterous, boiling. His parents just called it arrhythmia, but he knew better. It was the beat of intention. A beat he had to dance to. He could take all the pills he liked, but the throng could only be answered–tempered–with blood.

  Ba-dum! Ba-da-dum! Ba-dum!

  Irregularity meant impropriety; deeds that needed to be performed, deeds so dirty and loveless that they satisfied his–no, satisfied the Call’s–bloodlust in an instant. He scanned the street, staring into the aura of the city, ozone white.

  Ba-dum! Ba-dum! Ba-dum dum!

  Then she appeared, the Queen of Hearts; dazzling, hair like the silk threads of some god-like spider, snaring him in.

  The bitch surgeon–he’d given his heart to her and she’d broken it, told him she could fix it only to betray him. She saw him, but paid him no heed. If only she could hear the drumming of horrible desire inside his chest.

  Ba-Dum! Ba-dum! Ba-Dum Ba-Dum! Ba-Dum! Ba-Dum! Ba-Dum! Ba-Dum!

  That was the signal. The call intoned in blood; valves opening and closing, so fast, as fast as tongues slipping across lips and over palates. It spoke to him and told him to follow his heart, to submit to the pull of its many strings.

  Ba-Dum! Ba-Dum! Ba-da-da-dum!

  His heart quivered, sending waves down into his gut and up into his head. Dark thoughts kept in time with the beat; thoughts of blood, of flesh oozing in the moonlight, oozing onto his hands, his lips, down and down, bringing the beat down, lower and lower, delivering him into the arms of serenity.

  Ba-Dum! Ba-dum! Ba-Dum! Ba-Dum! Ba-Dum! Ba-Dum! Ba-Dum! Ba-Dum!

  He quickened his pace, shoes scraping the asphalt. She turned the corner, from light to dark, from safety to peril. His heart skipped a beat and then another–a sign the time to strike was close.

  Ba-Dum! Ba-dum! Ba-Dum! Ba-Dum! Ba-Dum! Ba-Dum! Ba-Dum! Ba-Dum!

  He found her waiting for him, a blade gleaming in her hand. Before he could speak she strode forward and plunged it into his chest, up and to the right. The Call shrieked, its drumming cut short.

  Ba-Dum! Ba–

  She cradled him to the ground and kept on cutting. He was swimming in his blood and she gladly splashed around in it. He felt her lips on his ear.

  Ba–!

  I can hear your heart beat—because it belongs to me, she told him.

  Ba ————————————————————————

  As darkness claimed him, she took his heart in her hands and walked away.

  And in her chest a melody of calm resounded.

  Ba-Dum... Ba-dum... Ba-Dum... Ba-Dum... Ba-Dum... Ba-Dum... Ba-Dum...

  Greg Chapman is a horror author/artist from Australia. Damnation Books published his novella Torment in March and The Noctuary will be released in December. He is currently illustrating a graphic novel penned by HWA President Rocky Wood and Bram Stoker Award winner, Lisa Morton. (www.darkscrybe.blogspot.com)

  THE BUOY

  SCOTT SCHERR

  It was Eric’s idea to spend spring break on a five-day Caribbean cruise aboard the luxury liner, Morning Mist. He insisted the trip would help their marriage. Claire was well aware of his adulterous affairs, in spite of Eric’s denials. Still, she agreed to join him.

  The seas were particularly rough that evening as Claire allowed herself to be coaxed topside so Eric could catch some fresh air. As each wave crashed alongside the ship, the spray rose, nearly soaking them both. Claire became claustrophobic, realizing that only three feet of walkway and a flimsy life line separated her from the storming seas.

  “Eric, I’m going back inside,” she said.

  “We’re just about done here anyway,” Eric said with an unfamiliar, cold detachment. “We’ve been done for a long time.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Eric shrugged his shoulders in reply.

  Tiring of his games, Claire turned to leave him.

  Before she knew what was happening, she felt a strong push from behind that sent her over the railing.

  Claire cried for help, but her shouts were drowned out by the roaring sea.

  Eric did nothing.

  She could see him, watching her from the rail.

  He pushed me! Her mind screamed.

  She saw him then blow her a kiss and depart from view.

  My God, he planned this!

  There was no time to consider the broader implications of Eric’s actions as the cruise ship became smaller; the deck lights growing dimmer upon the erratic surface of the sea. She cried out in vain, but struggling against the waves was taking its toll. Soon, she was all alone in the darkness. The Morning Mist was long gone.

  Disorientation and panic nearly overwhelmed her.

  Then she saw the buoy.

  Just fifty yards away, a dark pillar bobbed up and down in the night, an inviting sight in an otherwise desolate ocean.

  What on earth is that doing out here? Claire wondered.

  Claire swam for the buoy, locked an arm around its base to keep her head above water, securing herself against it before passing out.

  ***

  The Coast Guard found her at 9 AM while conducting routine checks on all navigational aids in the area. Claire was dehydrated and suffering from hypothermia. As they pulled her from the sea, she managed to tell them who she was and the name of the ship she’d been on. Her rescuers believed she’d become delirious. A medic gave her a sedative.

  The following day, the Coast Guard Captain that rescued Claire, walked into her hospital room with a ship’s manifest and some disturbing news.

  “Did you find my husband?” Claire asked.

  The manifest held the names of all 700 people on board the Morning Mist, including Claire and her husband. A terrible storm capsized the vessel five years ago. There were no known sur
vivors.

  The hazard buoy, where Claire was rescued, marked the location of the wreck just 30 feet below.

  Scott Scherr, author and poet, hails from Northeast, Ohio. He’s written four books to date–a collection of short stories and three books of poetry–and is currently working on his first novel. A preview of his work and book information can be found at (http://eckovision.wordpress.com).

  GOLDEN AMELIA

  FRANCES AUGUSTA HOGG

  They say that when you encounter your loved ones in heaven, they are as beautiful as when you first loved them. That’s how it is with me and Amelia. When I see her, I see her golden hair, her pale, thin face, and her eyes as blue as cornflowers.

  I had just come back from mowing the big south lawn when I found her. She was only four or five years old. I guess she woke up and felt lost, and looked for a door to knock on. They seem to have some consciousness or instinct that survives in them for a little while.

  I didn’t know how she got out. I couldn’t inquire. I couldn’t let on that I was interested in a recently deceased child. Especially one that had gone missing. I know it’s illegal to harbor the reanimated, because I’m the groundskeeper at the Barley County Cemetery. All employees of Tennessee crematories, morgues and funeral homes have to be Zombie Response Initiative certified. If you come upon one of the risen dead you’re supposed to either shoot it or notify the police and let them do it. But as soon as I saw that sweet and lost child, I knew I couldn’t do that. So I brought her inside.

  Of course, they asked me if I’d seen her, and I felt a little bad about lying to them. I understand the reason for the law. If people could keep the ones that make their way back, who knows what terrible things might happen? And terrible things often happen, because those who do not remain dead, are dangerous.

  Even Amelia is dangerous. Maybe less than others, because she’s small and shes never tasted human flesh. That’s because I started her off right away on roadkill. She doesn’t seem to know the difference. I keep her tied to the chair, and if she has a ‘possom haunch or a piece of ’coon or squirrel to chew on, she’s perfectly content. It keeps her busy.

  For a few nights after I took her in, there were men with dogs in the woods. But eventually, they stopped. They probably decided she wandered into the river and was washed away. That’s the fate of most zombies that rise up out of our cemetery, because it’s bordered on two sides by the Chatanooska River. Anything that falls in gets pretty beat up by the wild rapids about a mile downstream. When they fall apart or get torn apart they aren’t a threat to anybody.

  She’s not holding up so good. Her movements are stiffer now. Maybe when she gets so dried up she can’t move or eat, I’ll let her go. When she turns to dust, I’ll bury her. But for now, I don’t see a wretched figure of decomposed bone and skin. I don’t see the holes that were her eyes. When I see Amelia, I see gold, like the sun.

  Frances A. Hogg, an editor and story coach, still enjoys writing herself. Specializing in humor, mystery and memoir, she was drawn kicking and screaming (and especially, SCREAMING) into horror writing.

  LIKE A PUFF OF SMOKE

  P. A. CLARK

  Sweat trickled down my forehead as I cowered in my bed, the sheets bunched in my fists, pulled up to my throat. That image, that horrifying image appeared again, as if tempting me to scream out like a child calling for his mommy in the dark of night. I had no idea who she was, but she always appeared in the corner of my bedroom apartment, her body seeping through the floor, as if she had been sliced in half.

  The smell of smoke permeated the room upon her arrival.

  Her hair was like charred wires sticking up from her blackened scalp. Her teeth glinted through her blackened lips. I often felt paralyzed by her eyes, still whole in a face with no nose. Then after a while, she would vanish, as if she were only a bad dream that had finally allowed me to awaken.

  A sigh of relief always escaped me, as I tried to convince myself to the idea that I was only seeing things. But there was only so much that could be explained away by the dark shadows of night, by the trees that shot their shadowy images across my bedroom floor. She was there all right, every night. I had to get rid of her.

  I started by getting some background information on the building. I was shocked to find out that there had been a fire; several second story inhabitants were trapped by the blaze.

  There was only one casualty: Maureen Bates. The woman who I was seeing? I wasn’t sure.

  The next evening she returned, like a bad habit. I trembled under her gaze, but forced myself to speak to her.

  “Maureen Bates! You’re no longer welcome here. It’s time for you leave now,” I commanded firmly.

  Maureen just looked back at me with a smile. Then she spoke to me.

  “Daniel Cruz, I’ll leave now since you asked me to go, but I need to tell you one last thing.”

  She stared at me intensely, her eyelids burned away. Then she turned to my bedroom door. As I followed her gaze, I detected the scent of smoke in the air. Then the door of my apartment caught on fire.

  As the fire drove the shadows from my room and Maureen Bates disappeared with them, she said, “Your neighbor passed out forty minutes ago, a bottle of 151 in one hand, and a cigarette in the other.”

  P.A. Clark currently resides in Sacramento California. He graduated from San Jose State University in 1999 with a B.A. in liberal studies. His works include thrillers, mysteries and short stories. His current project is a series of audio book thrillers called The Lin Wu Chronicles.

  JUSTICE FOR GINGER

  GRAHAM DUCKER

  “Leave me alone!”

  Grabbing my purse I scrambled out of the car and sprinted up the hillside, knowing Ginger’s killer would follow me into the deep brush.

  How easy it was to let him pick me up at the same bar where Ginger had last been seen.

  I slipped my hand into my purse as I faced the brute. “If it’s money you want, I have lots; just don’t hurt me.”

  “I don’t want your money,” he growled.

  “Well, how about this?” I eased out my Berretta Bob Cat.

  One twenty-five caliber bullet blew through the pig’s groin and a second took out his right knee. His surprised faced ploughed into the ground like a felled tree.

  I stayed out of his reach. A wounded animal can still be dangerous.

  “Now, I am going to ask you some questions, and you will answer immediately. Do you understand?”

  Hatred oozed from his face.

  The bullet tore off half his left ear. “Yes!” he screamed.

  “You are the one who has been raping and killing women around these parts aren’t you?”

  The question was redundant, but when he hesitated his right ear splattered.

  “You are taking way too long,” I stated.

  “Yes!”

  “That’s better. Today your slimy lawyer had an inept judge free you on a technicality.”

  “Yeah, I had a good lawyer.”

  Had, I thought as I pictured how earlier two bullets arranged the attorney’s arrogant face as he sat in his BMW in the parking garage.

  “Now, let’s see how good your memory is. About a year ago you picked up a tall blonde at Marvin’s.”

  I could see the guy was trying to remember, but I raised the Bob Cat to help.

  “Yes, yes! Maybe! Possibly!” he yelled, holding out his hands. “Gimme a minute, will ya? Can’t you see I’m in pain here?”

  “Not as much pain as you gave her when you raped and killed her; and certainly not the agony I have been living with these past years looking for justice for Ginger.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I remember, a tall blonde, tall like you.”

  “Do you know who she was?”

  The beast shook his head.

  “She was my twin sister!”

  The Berretta coughed. His head snapped back as a third eye appeared in his forehead.

  On the sun visor, Ginger photo cast no incriminations as
I topped-up the eight-shot clip.

  I stroked the picture.

  “Two down Ginger, and one to go. Now let’s pay a visit to Judge Parker at his secluded cottage on Baker Lake.”

  Graham Ducker has been writing short stories since high school and has many published nationally and internationally. Published books include Don't Wake the Teacher and Observations of Heart and Mind. www.grahamducker.com.

  HYDROPOD SLUG INVASION

  ZOLTAN VARGA

  Once, a newscaster claimed a monster was destroying the city. Who could believe such a ridiculous tale? I scoffed at the news of a gigantic invader leaving a swath of destruction throughout the city. The freaky newscast had to be a mistake.

  Right?

  ***

  It was twelve-thirty with a half moon. Jeez, I was exhausted from my new business. I should’ve hit the sack sooner, but I was putting the last twelve bottles of home-canned hot chili peppers on the kitchen counter. Twenty cases were filled. Open packages of sea salt sat ready for the next batch.

  I was behind schedule, yet I was too tired to cook anymore. My customers wanted thirty additional cases. Finishing the job would take at least another six weeks.

  A few minutes later, my neighbor, Jake, pounded on the front door like a mad drummer.

  Jake yelled, “Get out! A monster is headed this way! It eats houses!”

  I stood speechless at the doorway as he jumped in his van. His kids were wailing. His wife looked frightful in hair rollers and blue face cream. They followed him into the van then they careened together down our cul-de-sac and smashed into a mailbox.

  Hah! That jerk was nuts to believe the news. It had to be a fake.

  Didn’t it?

  Frankly, a gigantic alien monster that ate houses was the craziest thing I could ever imagine—until moments later something pounded against my windows.

  It shook my house so hard it felt like an earthquake. A strange odor like burnt rubber and musty swamp gas stung my nostrils, followed by this thunderous, deafening noise.