Frightmares: A Fistful of Flash Fiction Horror

by Unknown

  July 13–It’s been a busy couple of days. We’re getting close to Jacksonville, so the countryside around us is teeming with zombies. I’ve been riding with Danny, the tow truck driver, and popping them out the window as we drive past. We came up to six wrecks today alone, and me and two other guys had to stand guard while Danny hooked the vehicles up and moved them off to the shoulder.

  July 14–We passed the city and finally got to stop for a night. I took a bath in a cold creek in a stand of forest. I was rank.

  July 16–The fucking chopper went missing today. We were using it to spot smash-ups before we got to them, and at around two, it set off again after refueling. The pilots were a black guy named Terry and an Irish drunk named McDermott. I think they went AWOL, just took the bird and went.

  July 18–The tank ran out of fuel an hour or so ago, and we left it on the outskirts of a little town just across the Patricia County boarder. One of the pick-ups overheated because the dumbass driving didn’t put water in the engine—had to abandon it about twenty miles back. General Kurelko had the driver shot and hung from a street light in Faye.

  July 23–Our vehicles keep dropping like flies. The road behind us is littered for at least twenty miles with RVs, trucks, a jeep, and one of the personnel carriers. We haven’t been in touch with Washington. The only thing we can raise on the radio is static.

  July 25–We’re on foot now. Thirty-nine of us. A few guys deserted, and another got shot for disobeying an order. We’re going to Thomaston, in Georgia—there’s a base there. We can’t raise it, but it’s worth a try.

  Joseph Rubas is the author of over 150 short stories and many poems. A collection of his flash tales, Pocketful of Fear, will be released in 2012 by Firefly and Wisp Book Publishing. He resides in Virginia's Northern Neck with his family.

  NIGHT SHIFT

  TARA FOX HALL

  “Pass the scalpel, please.”

  Becky blinked, the world a gray haze before her eyes. Why wouldn’t they open?

  “Is she under? Her eyelids fluttered.”

  “She’s under; it’s just a reflex. You should know that by now . . . ”

  Her surgery. God, she’d woken up in the middle! Frantically, Becky tried to move her limbs, to open her mouth and scream.

  “Up the anesthesia slightly, Nurse Jordan. Now please.”

  Becky tensed, fighting, then relaxed; gray haze becoming black nothingness. It barely seemed the space of a thought before she swam in the gray again.

  “Only take three vials.”

  Dr. Miller. Becky opened her eyes a crack.

  “She’s strong enough for four—”

  “No, Jordan. We need her alive.”

  Jordan leaned over her, empty vial in hand. “We can’t survive on just ten vials apiece—”

  “And I can’t have another of my patients die,” Dr. Miller hissed, baring fangs. “You’re going to blow our cover here—”

  Nurse Jordan snarled, his own fangs bone white. “Some patients die in surgery. It’s routine—”

  Becky managed a squeak, her eyes roving in panic.

  “She saw us,” Jordan said, smiling. He connected the vial. “Now we have to.”

  Please don’t, God, please, please . . . her heart beat like a trip hammer as she watched the vial fill.

  “You’re right, Jordan. She won’t remember anything anyway,” Dr. Miller assured, tapping a syringe. He slid it into Becky’s arm, then depressed the plunger.

  Their leering faces dissolved, gray smears against the deepening darkness.

  ***

  Becky blinked, moaning softly.

  “She’s coming out of it, Doctor.”

  Becky opened her eyes, struggling to sit up. “It’s over?”

  “Yes,” Dr. Miller said, patting her arm. “You did fine. We got the tumor out, but you did lose a lot of blood.”

  Becky squeezed his hand, smiling in relief. “Thank you, Doctor. Thank you so much.”

  “You’re welcome,” he replied, turning to the nurse who stood nearby. “Nurse Heather, please see she gets a transfusion as soon as possible.”

  Nurse Heather nodded. “Of course. We’ll take care of it right away.”

  As Dr. Miller watched her wheel Becky away, Nurse Jordan came up to him. “You’re needed in emergency surgery, Doctor.”

  Dr. Miller took the proffered chart, Nurse Jordan keeping brisk pace as they made for emergency. “Brief me, please.”

  “Accident victim; male; mid-twenties. Severe neck injuries. Emergency personnel had to cut him out of the wreck.”

  “Is his family here?”

  Nurse Jordan smiled. “They were all in the car, sadly. All D.O.A.”

  “Is he conscious?”

  Nurse Jordan shook his head. “No. It’s just you and me, Doctor.”

  “Then my prognosis is he won’t wake,” Dr. Miller said, the tips of his fangs grazing his lower lip. “Let’s go to work.”

  Tara Fox Hall has numerous writing credits including nonfiction, flash, short and novella-length horror stories as well as contemporary and historical paranormal romance. She divides her free time unequally between writing novels and short stories, chain-sawing firewood, caring for stray animals, sewing cat and dog beds for donation to animal shelters, and target practice.

  THE MAN IN THE CARNIVAL BOOTH

  ERIC HOUGE

  There was a man at the carnival, tall and pale, haloed by blue and pink knickknacks on the shelf behind him. He had a little booth between the Tilt-a-Whirl and the Ferris Wheel, which served mostly as a pit stop for the patrons from either ride, as they took a quiet moment to keep down their funnel cakes.

  His sign was composed of blinking light bulbs. The sign read, between blinks, “Death Foretold.”

  “Don’t you guys normally guess weight or something?” asked a teenager in a varsity jacket, whose name was probably Steve.

  “Too vulgar,” said the man, spinning his straw hat with spindly fingers.

  “How much is it?” asked the gently inebriated girl hanging on Steve’s arm.

  “Fifty cents,” replied the man.

  “Fifty cents.” She grinned. “That’s adorable.”

  “It’s a scam,” said Steve.

  “Aw, come on, it’s just for fun,” reprimanded the girl. “I don’t believe in this stuff, you know. I don’t make decisions based on my astrological sign or anything.” She paused to stare at the blinking sign above her head. “But it’s so quaint. And it’s only fifty cents.” She giggled inexplicably. “Two bits.”

  It was four bits, actually, but the man didn’t correct her.

  “Well, what do we get for fifty cents?” asked Steve, grudgingly fishing his pockets for loose change.

  “I predict your death,” said the man. “Year, day, hour, right down to the second. I tell you how and where and what you’re doing.” He smiled. It was eerie. “And, if that’s not enough, I will also guess your weight. No extra charge.”

  “No extra charge,” repeated the girl, giggling again. “I like your hat.”

  Steve scowled, as he handed the money over to him. One quarter, two dimes, five pennies. Even his change was determined to be difficult.

  The man nodded graciously. “Will it be yours or hers?”

  “Hers,” said Steve. “She’s the loony.”

  “All right.” The man touched his flimsy cane to the ground and leaned forward, catching the girl’s wavering glance. He stared into her eyes so intently and for so long that she giggled again, this time nervously.

  “You will die,” he pronounced, “in sixty two years, nineteen days, three hours, and forty-one seconds. You die peacefully in your sleep. And you weigh one hundred twenty two pounds.”

  “Wow,” said the girl, eyes flickering into momentary sobriety. “He’s right. About the weight I mean,” she added, when Steve stared at her.

  “Fine,” said Steve. “Can we go now?” He half-led, half-dragged her away from the booth. She followed placidly.

 
It was a few moments later that a car on the Tilt-a-Whirl derailed. The momentum threw the car into a guardrail, hurtling an axle pin through the girl’s eye and into her brain. The mother and daughter in the car suffered minor injuries. The girl was dead.

  Steve stared at her prone body for a long moment before saying, “What?!”

  “Hmm,” said the man at the booth, stroking his chin. He turned to Steve. “I guess you get a prize, then,” he said, indicating the shelf behind him.

  Eric Houge lives in Chicago and states that he runs the least commendable horror blog on the Internet, “In the Garden of the Death Orchids”. He has also contributed to Hair Trigger magazine.

  HOUSE ON FREDRICK'S WAY

  REBEKAH GALAS

  I had heard the rumors, grown up with them even, heeding their every word when I was young. But, for reasons which escape me now, I decided I was too old to be afraid of the house on Fredrick’s Way and took on a dare to spend the night there.

  Stupidest mistake I ever made.

  I went up to the large, Victorian house with my shoulders squared and a smirk on my face as if challenging the house to do its best.

  You see, everyone believes it to be haunted and that none who ever entered after dark came out alive. These paranormal stories would be one of the two reasons the town’s folk won’t tear it down. That and it’s old enough to be considered a historical landmark.

  The windows stared down at me with a malice I refused to let sink in, the chill of the autumn twilight kept at bay by my thick jacket.

  Without any power going to the house, I figured I was in for a cold night and hoped my flashlight would last me through.

  The door opened with an ominous creak, and a chill that sent a shiver running down my spine blew from inside.

  I paused in the doorway, my friends’ taunts about me being a scaredy-cat reaching my ears and making me puff up defensively like a blowfish. I wanted to prove them all wrong.

  That thought marked the beginning of my end.

  Turning on the flashlight, I went through the house, jumping at the slightest sound.

  Finally, about an hour later as I sat in the old, dusty living room, I turned off the flashlight and got ready to call it a night.

  Then a cold breeze swallowed me, and I was sure there was someone else in the room. I turned my flashlight back on and a scream stuck in my throat.

  Standing there, half transparent, was the form of a boy a little younger than myself. I recognized him as the boy who had gone missing about a year back. No one could figure out what had happened to him and his case was closed when the cops declared him a runaway.

  Shakily, I stood and backed up, running into a wall.

  “Easy now,” the figure said, his soft voice echoing menacingly as he glided silently towards me. “This won’t take long.”

  Before I knew what was happening, a rusted sword that had been mounted to the wall fulgurated towards me. I didn’t have time to react, and the next thing I knew the stupid thing impaled me.

  “You,” the boy said, “will replace me. Find someone to take your place, and you shall be set free also.”

  And that’s how I died, my body to never be found and, surprise, surprise, I was declared a runaway, too. I’ve been here for over a year now, waiting for someone to come and replace me. Waiting . . . always waiting . . .

  Perhaps that someone will be you?

  Rebekah Galas is an 18 year-old who was born and raised in Nebraska. She aspires to be a well-published author and poet and is planning on studying creative writing when she starts college. She enjoys reading fantasy and medieval history and works on honing her sword fighting and archery skills.

  MURDERED ANGEL

  VALERIE D. BENKO

  Snowflakes swirled in lazy spirals to the frozen ground, their crystalline forms shimmered like diamonds in the moonlight. But all Renee saw were ruby red drops staining the white, and the broken wings of a murdered angel.

  “Lola?” She shivered, tears stinging her eyes, though whether from cold or fear she couldn’t tell. She pulled her zipper higher as icy, unseen fingers ran across her collarbone.

  She sunk to her knees besides the body, seeking signs of life, but Lola’s brilliant blue eyes were vacant as a china dolls. Her friend lay on her stomach, head turned to one side, blonde hair splayed around her, expression frozen in surprise.

  White angel wings, the wires that supported them snapped and twisted, lay crushed to either side of her. Regular crimson trails ran back and forth across Lola’s back. Like claw marks.

  Renee’s mind went numb.

  Both women were models for an up-and-coming fashion designer, booked to work a show that evening at the prestigious Hotel Delpar. The show was in full swing now, the hotel lit up bright as a Christmas tree.

  No one knew she’d left the building.

  Hours earlier, the pair had arrived in their dressing room to prepare. Lola was modeling lingerie and swimsuits, bedecked in angel wings made from genuine bird feathers, in keeping with the season. She’d been so happy about the costume, barely able to go a minute without remarking on its beauty; like a child come Christmas morning . . .

  Renee wiped away tears. She should get back inside, call the police.

  She stood, brushing snow from her knees.

  As she exited the garden, Renee noticed the tracks in the snow. All led into the garden. None led out.

  A chill raced up her spine, her stomach gyrating. All sense and sanity shrieked for her to run, but the sudden smell of decay halted her in her tracks. The beast emerged from behind a stone fountain, eyes glinting in the moonlight, black lips peeling back in a rabid smile.

  Renee bolted.

  She didn’t make it more than a few steps before the beast dragged her to the ground. Red ripped across her back, agony driving the breath from her lungs as she pawed at the snow, trying to crawl away. The beast bent its weight upon her, crushing her down into the soft, freezing white, its teeth and tongue scouring her back as it slit and tore, intent on spilling her.

  Snow continued to fall, stars hanging cold and hard as diamonds against the utter darkness as her life seeped away. No angels descending from on high to raise her amongst them. She’d learned tonight that angels bled, angels died.

  And so would she.

  Valerie D. Benko is a Communications & Community Relations Specialist who resides in western Pennsylvania. She is a frequent contributor to Chicken Soup for the Soul and has also been published in Patchwork Path editions. You can visit her online at http://valeriebenko.weebly.com.

  GRIZZLY POSSIBILITIES

  D. M. SLATE

  Your body jerks violently awake and your senses are on high alert. Your upper torso is frozen in mid-air—your tensed muscles hold it in place. You don’t dare breathe as you strain, listening for any movement in the thick, ink-like darkness of night. Your heart thunders several times, but you hear no other sounds. A laborious exhale shatters the deafening silence and turns your stomach into a quivering mass of Jell-O. The sound is only inches away . . .

  Clambering backwards from the unknown threat, you only succeed in drawing more attention to yourself. Your eyes widen in fear. The unknown presence outside, presses ever closer. Your pupils dilate to their extreme, picking up the rough outline of shapes. The tent poles come into view, along with the outline of the zipper-front door. The massive beast presses its snout up against the thin, lightweight material of the tent. Even in the darkness, you can see the enormous openings of its flared nostrils. The monster inhales deeply, smelling . . .

  Your head spins with vertigo, considering your limited options. The beast emits a deep huff. You retreat into the furthest corner of the tiny tent, trembling, doing your best to remain silent. But you know that it can smell your fear . . . even if it can’t see you. Tears cascade down your cheeks as the grim reality of the situation sinks in—you’re in the middle of nowhere, all by yourself, and no one expects you back for days.

  Your thoughts are cu
t short as the towering giant pulls itself upright, onto its hind legs. The eerie luminescence of the moon radiates around its dark form, just enough to be seen through the polyester tent material. For a split-second, you think that the bear might actually go away—but the feral animal has other plans. It lunges forward, in extreme slow-motion, and you see it coming toward you—but there’s nowhere for you to go. You’re trapped inside your tent.

  Your feet scramble fruitlessly as you press yourself into the corner, but the material begins to collapse around you. The bear’s massive paws smash the tent to the ground—the snapping of the tent poles echoes loudly in your ears. A blood-curdling wail tears from your throat, just before the beast bears down upon you. The brute impact of its weight crushes the air from your lungs, cutting your scream short. You realize, too late, that your arm has found its way into the fiend’s mouth. The crunch of bone sends jolts of electricity singeing through your entire body.

  You recoil, rolling onto your side, and you struggle into a fetal position. The mangled tent wraps itself tighter around your body. You freeze, holding absolutely still, waiting for what’s next to come . . .

  Danyelle (aka D.M. Slate) resides in Colorado, where she's lived for most of her life. She attended college at the University of Northern Colorado, where she completed a business degree. Danyelle is married to her high school sweetheart, and together they have a young daughter and son.

  MOTHER HEN

  PHIL BLEDSOE

  I am not well-hidden.

  My arms are chaffed from hanging on to the bundles of dry branches that made up the thing’s nest. The sleeves of my shirt have worn away hours ago. The muscles in my shoulders and back, once screaming in pain, have now settled into a low, continuous ache. I am too weak to climb back into the nest. If only I hadn’t shoved its eggs over the side into the chasm. But after what it had done to Kelly. . .