Small Horrors: A Collection of Fifty Creepy Stories

by Darcy Coates

  A ewe, horrifically mangled to the point of being barely recognisable, lay spread on the dewy grass. It had been partially skinned, and its limbs were torn from the body. Even Dale, who had seen his fair share of dead animals as a cryptozoology researcher, felt queasy.

  “And this is the third time, correct?”

  “Aye,” the farmer replied.

  Reports of a strange creature plaguing the small town of Wilton had been filtering through Dale’s professional circle for several months. It wasn’t until a farmer claimed to have seen the creature—described as taller than a human, with a skull-like face and viciously sharp claws—that Dale’s interest had been piqued. Most of the cases he investigated turned out to be faked. But a sighting of a creature, even at night and from a distance, took effort to produce. Either the Wilton Monster was a very elaborate ruse… or he had a hot lead.

  “I’m going to have a look around,” Dale said, gazing about the countryside. “Thanks for your help.”

  “Aye.” The farmer turned towards his farmstead and whistled for his dog to follow.

  Dale set off towards the woods bordering the edge of the field. All of the reported attacks had happened at farms that bordered the same forest, which indicated that the creature lived within. The sun was falling low in the sky. Dale knew he couldn’t stay out long without substantial risk, but his rifle was a comforting weight across his back, and he didn’t intend to go far before returning to the village’s inn.

  The innkeeper had shared a plethora of stories about the monster and given suggestions about where to search for it. Dale suspected the keeper’s stories became more and more embellished with every retelling, but he’d listened patiently, knowing he might pick up on a vital clue. Out of the dead animals—there were either nine or twelve; no one could agree on the number—most had been sheep, though there had also been two pigs and one chicken. In every case, the strange cloven animal prints had been discovered in the area.

  Even if he didn’t find anything noteworthy or even if it turned out to be a sham, it would make an excellent article to write up for his society’s journal, and the story might even gain him some new sponsors.

  The woods were thin and filled with sickly trees and sparse bushes. Dale walked carefully, aware that it would be all too easy to slip and fall into a pit or to twist his ankle. He kept his eyes focussed on the ground, searching for any animal prints or signs that a hulking beast had been through the forest.

  As he moved deeper into the trees, the light began to fade. Walking through the woods during the day was one matter, but he didn’t fancy becoming lost in the dark and spending the night outdoors. He’d almost resolved to turn around when he caught sight of a shape in the distance.

  Dale froze as the hairs across the back of his neck rose. He thought he’d seen a face between the spindly trees. Not a human countenance, though—but some sort of animal face, so white that it almost looked like a skull. Dale took a careful half step forward and caught a fresh glimpse of the creature between the trees. It stood on two legs but towered a full foot above him. It stood perfectly still, looking away, apparently captivated by something out of Dale’s eyesight. Very carefully, barely breathing, Dale pulled his rifle off his shoulder and raised the barrel to point at the creature’s head.

  Then a blinding pain burst across the back of his head. Bright lights flashed over his vision, and Dale fell to the ground.

  When he opened his eyes again, he found himself on his back, staring up at the treetops. A noise came from not far away; it seemed to be a scraping, metallic sound. Dale tried to turn his head to look at it, but the pain coursed through his skull again, and an involuntary groan escaped him.

  “Oh, awake, are you?” a familiar voice asked. The innkeeper’s face swam into view. “That was fast. Well, Mr. Harrington. What do you think of my ruse?”

  “Ruse?” Dale mumbled. The innkeeper nodded to one side, and Dale caught a glimpse of the monster again. What had appeared to be alive from a distance was, at close quarters, very clearly a costume made from animal skins and some sort of animal skull.

  “It’s been an awfully good boon for the town,” the innkeeper said. The scraping sound continued. Dale managed to turn his head a little farther and saw the innkeeper was sharpening a knife on a rock. “It’s saved my little inn from closing, at least, and others are reporting increased business from the tourists, too.” He placed the knife to one side and knelt beside Dale, who struggled to raise his hands to protect himself. “But imagine how much more attention we’ll get when renowned paranormal researcher Dale Harrington succumbs to the beast. Thank you, Dale, for what you’re going to do for us.”

  The rock came down before Dale could defend himself.

  22

  Angel of Mercy

  Beryl rubbed at the bridge of her nose. It had been a long day—long and gruelling. The patient’s file open in front of her was full of hastily scribbled notes left by doctors and other nurses. She’d read it twice but still couldn’t understand how the patient had died.

  “See you tomorrow, Beryl,” Mel said as she passed the desk. She was wearing more makeup than normal.

  Must have a late-night date with the fellow she’s been seeing. He must be exceptionally patient to agree to an eleven-thirty date.

  “Have fun.” Beryl gave her co-worker a smile then looked back at the folder. It made no sense; the patient had been diagnosed with cancer, and although it had likely been terminal, he’d only been in the early stages. He should have had at least six months, if not several years. And yet, he’d died in the middle of the night, from unknown causes. The coroner’s report had come back with an uncertain finding. No sign of a heart attack. No evidence of an overdose. No obvious injuries. He’d simply… died.

  Beryl had been on shift on the night he’d died. He’d seemed well and alert. Then two hours later, she’d entered his room to give him his evening medicine, and he’d been gone.

  She was reading through his notes to try to understand it. Her first thought was that he might have accidentally been given two lots of his heart pressure medication, but according to his notes, all medication had been administered in the correct quantities and at the correct time. Unless he had an allergy we didn’t know about…

  Beryl sighed and closed the file. She had the graveyard shift, and on a good night, there was very little to do once the patients went to sleep. The only staff left were Beryl, Dr. Stallen, Nurse Marlene, and Nurse Rochester. The ward felt virtually empty, save for the faint sound of footsteps echoing from deeper in the white polished hallways.

  An idea was building in the back of Beryl’s mind, but she hated to consider it. Angel of mercy. They were uncommon, but Beryl had read enough true crime stories to fear the concept of a doctor or nurse who deliberately extinguished their patients’ lives.

  You’re letting your imagination run away with you. Beryl returned the deceased patient’s folder to the filing cabinet. You know everyone who was on last night, and they’re all decent, hard-working individuals. No power plays. No overblown egos.

  And yet… Beryl hesitated, her fingers resting on the cold metal drawers. She glanced behind herself. The hallway was empty. Stark white lights reflected off the tiled floor and the multitude of posters stuck to the aging plaster walls. She rose and left the nurse’s station.

  Dr. Stallen and Nurse Rochester’s voices came from the kitchenette, where they seemed to be in a debate about soccer teams. They would cope fine without her for a few minutes. Beryl crossed to the elevators and pressed the button to go down.

  Old patient records were kept in the basement, and right next door to it was the morgue. Beryl tried not to think about the dead patients who would still be there, locked in the chilled, oversized drawers.

  The number at the top of the elevator changed from 2 to 1, then 0, and finally B. The doors slid open, and Beryl stepped into the cold concrete hallway. It stretched on forever. She hurried through it, her footsteps echoing horribly in her ea
rs, and tried not to look at the morgue’s doors as she turned left into records storage.

  She began opening drawers and working back through the folders, running her finger across the fading labels and coloured stickers in search of familiar names.

  Jane Edgell. She’d passed away from cancer a year before. Beryl pulled the folder out and flipped through it. She didn’t like what she saw. Jane had been in decline for months, but was expected to live for another half year at least, with a chance of recovery after chemo. She’d been admitted to hospital for a persistent cough and had passed away during the night.

  Beryl let her breath out between her teeth and moved to the next folder. The hairs were rising on the back of her neck, and though she told herself she was overreacting and building up monsters in her mind, she came across yet another case of a patient who had mysteriously passed before their time.

  After this sixth case, Beryl’s fingers were shaking. An angel of mercy… in our hospital. Who is it? They’re clearly working frequently to have access to all of these patients over the last five years. That means I must have worked beside them dozens—or hundreds—of times. I’ve said hello when we’ve passed in the hallway. I’ve shared coffee with them, joked with them possibly, maybe even eaten with them. Worse, I’ve said goodnight to them, not realising that they were planning to kill my patients once I was gone.

  A feeling of hopeless horror and guilt crawled across Beryl’s back. She left the records room at a brisk walk, again averting her eyes from the doors leading to the morgue.

  The angel of mercy, from what she could tell, only killed patients who were either nearing the end of their lives, were terminal, or had low chances of recovery. She tried to remember if any patients in her ward fit that description. The most likely target was Jerry Hoffenbacker, whose cancer had recently metastasised to his lungs. A combination of surgery and chemo might prolong his life, but for no more than a few years.

  Beryl slammed her fist into the elevator’s button. She’d left her three co-workers upstairs. If one of them were the angel… if the other two had been distracted, and Beryl had been busy in the basement…

  Her breathing was shallow as she watched the elevator’s numbers climb, praying she wouldn’t be too late.

  I knew this would happen eventually. Amber brushed a strand of loose hair out of her face and inhaled as the elevator doors opened. She turned towards the patient rooms. Beryl isn’t stupid. Of course she would figure out something was wrong. I just wasn’t expecting it to be this soon.

  Dr. Stallen and Rochester were still talking by the kitchenette. That was good. They didn’t look as though they would be moving any time soon. She turned right, towards Room 8, where Jerry Hoffenbacker was snoring.

  I’ll be safe for a while yet. Amber pulled a needle out of her pocket and discarded its plastic packaging. Beryl won’t suspect herself. Why should she? I’ve left no clues to tip her off, no signs that could make her suspect she has multiple personality disorder. As far as she knows, she’s completely innocent.

  Amber pressed the tip of the needle into Jerry’s neck, into the main artery, and injected a bubble of air. It would be a quick, painless death; the bubble would block a valve and force cardiac arrest without leaving signs of damage. Nothing would come up on the pathology tests. His death would be mysterious but not especially unusual. He was in the later stages of his life, after all.

  Amber dropped the used needle into the sharps bin and returned to the elevator. She would ride it back to the basement level, then back up. By the time the doors opened a second time, Beryl would be back in control and ready to discover the newest death on her ward.

  23

  Tune

  Dan woke with a song looping through his mind. Its tune, low and slow, seemed familiar. He lay on his back for a few moments, listening to the notes and trying to place where he’d heard it before. It felt connected to his childhood. Is it from a kid’s TV show, maybe?

  He glanced to his left. His girlfriend, Jenny, was still asleep. He moved to wake her then remembered that it was a Saturday and she could sleep in. Dan sighed and rolled out of the bed, slipped his shoes on, and shuffled to the bathroom.

  As he brushed his teeth, he found himself tapping his left hand on the sink in time with the song’s beats. It was bothering him that he couldn’t place it. It had a very specific tune, and he knew it meant something… or was used for something… or started something. But what?

  By the time Jenny came out of the bedroom, Dan was already nearing the end of his second bowl of cereal. She bent low over the table to see his face and gave him a warm smile. “What’s buzzing around your bonnet this morning?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You look really preoccupied with something. And I know cereal nutritional information can’t hold your attention that thoroughly.”

  Dan laughed and replaced the cereal box on the table. “Sorry, I’ve just got a song in my head. I’m trying to figure out where it’s come from.”

  “Sing some for me. I might recognise it.”

  Dan had never been at all musically inclined. He couldn’t remember words, hold a tune, or recognise major keys from minor. The song in his head was so intricate and unique that he was certain he wouldn’t be able to express it, but as he hummed the notes, he felt great surprise and pleasure as it perfectly matched what was in his head.

  “Don’t sing any more,” Jenny said after a moment. Her expression had changed to one of wary distaste. “It’s an awful song.”

  Dan cut the tune short, feeling a surge of frustration. It felt somehow disrespectful and wrong to not complete the tune, like only singing half of the national anthem.

  “Why? Do you know what it is?”

  “No,” Jenny said, sitting opposite him and pouring herself a bowl of cereal. Her face was still scrunched up, as though she’d smelt something bad. “It’s just… really depressing. Like a funeral dirge, but worse.”

  “I think I remember it from when I was a kid. Like from a children’s TV show or something.”

  Jenny laughed at that, though the sound wasn’t as warm as Dan normally found it. “Wow, it would have to be a pretty rotten kids’ show to include something like that. C’mon, let’s not talk about it anymore. What’ve you got planned for today?”

  “I promised Mum I’d visit her to change a busted lightbulb.” Dan drained the last dregs from his bowl to avoid speaking again. The song was still cycling through his mind, and he felt certain that if he could just focus on it for long enough, he would remember where he knew it from.

  After Jenny had finished her breakfast, Dan kissed her goodbye and headed for the car. He only lived five minutes away from his mother, which he was grateful for; she was getting older, and little things—like replacing lightbulbs and mowing the lawn—were becoming increasingly difficult for her. As he drove, he turned on the radio. He recognised the song that came on as a country ballad that he’d always enjoyed before, but on that day, it seemed impossibly shallow, and too preppy to tolerate. He turned off the radio and let the tune in his head wash over him again. That’s a real song, he found himself thinking as the notes looped endlessly through his mind. It’s got depth and heart and meaning.

  By the time he’d reached his mother’s house, he was humming the song again and enjoying the way he could reproduce the chords perfectly.

  Dan’s mother greeted him with a hug and a warm kiss. He wasn’t sure if he was still growing or if she was shrinking, but she seemed to be getting smaller with each visit. She led him into the kitchen, where the bulb above the sink had blown the night before.

  “This’ll be fixed in a jiffy,” Dan said, drawing a chair under the light while his mother put the kettle on. Even though the task would only take him a moment, Dan knew he wasn’t likely to leave the house for a solid hour or two. His mother always loved company, and he could spend an entire afternoon talking to her about trivial matters and gossiping while they ate biscuits and drank tea.

  As he
unscrewed the lightbulb, Dan began humming the tune again. The kettle finished boiling, but his mother didn’t pour the water into the cups. He finished screwing the light in then hopped down from his chair to test the switch. The light came on without a problem, and Dan turned to his mother with a huge smile. “How about that?”

  He realised something was wrong as soon as he caught a glimpse of his mother’s face. Blood had drained from her skin, and her eyes were wide and tear-filled. Dan rushed to her and tried to help her into a seat.

  “Are you okay? What happened? Do you feel dizzy?”

  “You’re singing that song again,” was all she said. She let Dan ease her into the kitchen chair, and he hurried to make her a cup of tea. She seemed to be gathering her thoughts, and when Dan drew a chair up next to her, she took a deep, and seemingly resolved, breath. “Do you know what you were humming?”

  “No. I woke up with it in my head this morning. I kind of remember it from when I was a kid, but I can’t recall what it is.”

  “It’s an old Scandinavian mourning song.” His mother traced patterns on the table’s wood with her index finger and seemed to be picking her words carefully. “It’s not really ever sung anymore, even in Scandinavia. I didn’t recognise it; your great aunt did… she grew up in Scandinavia, you remember? She heard you the second time you began humming it, and told me what it was.”

  “Second time?”

  “Yes, you’ve only sung it twice. Once when you were five and again when you were eight.” His mother raised her eyes, which flickered uncertainly over his face. “The first time was the morning your grandfather passed away. The second was the day before your father died.”