Father warns me before guests come. If I moan or cry out, I’ll be punished with an empty bucket. Only after I’ve begged enough will it come back full. And if I’ve been particularly misbehaved, it's unrinsed.
Occasionally, the guests ask about me.
“Oh, our son?” Mother tells them. “Tragically, he died. Hit by a train.”
“Yes, hit by a train,” Father adds.
Some nights I wish I had been. Even now, I think about how wonderful it would be to be dead. I could sharpen a chicken bone with my teeth and shove it into my heart. But I can’t bring myself to do it. Not yet.
Because my parents are hiding something.
“Oh, no,” I once heard Mother tell a guest. “We never had a daughter.”
“Never a daughter,” Father parroted. “Just a son, who was hit by a train.”
But I hear weeping in the vents some nights. A quiet, squeaking whimper. Not from my parents. Not from the TV. From somewhere deeper in the house.
How hideous I am to have been hit by a train.
How monstrous she must be to have never existed.
I sharpen the drumsticks with my teeth, and I use them to saw at my chains, and then I throw the splintered bones in with the waste. It took two years to cut the link binding my left hand. Another year for each leg. I’m almost through my final chain.
And then I’ll free my sister from the cellar.
The Lost Boy
Nicholas Ong
"Behind this door lies everything you've ever lost," said the hooded lady. "But I have to warn you: things are lost for a reason. Not every unfortunate incident is the result of bad luck."
"I don't care. I want to see him. As you promised. The correct age."
The lady bowed. "As you wish."
As the door opened, trepidation filled my veins with an icy poison. Eight years ago, I had lost my baby in a miscarriage, and as a result fallen into depression which had grown stronger ever since. It's weird talking about this so easily now - it's almost as though those days were from a stranger's memory.
The scene from behind the door tore at me.
No, it wasn't an eight-year-old fetus, or anything as terrible.
A dismal room set in a foggy world. Dark grey lines were painted over the walls, and the only furniture was the shape of a tidy little crib and a bedside table. I made my way over, each footstep unsteady.
As I approached, the fog cleared up enough for me to make out a masculine form. Could it… could it be?
"Steve?" I called. "Steve - is that you?"
The name my husband and I had wanted to christen for our child was Steve, after the late crocodile hunter Steve Irwin. We used to love animals until everything seemed to stop mattering.
But it wasn't him. The figure blossomed into life, and I knew, despite having no idea what Steve would look like, that this wasn't him.
Because it was my husband.
He looked at me, tears running down his face. I don't understand. Did I lose him on this day, too? But he was alive and well.
"Katrina…" He called out my name with such tenderness and pain my heart began to ache.
Then he faded into the background, and everything swirled. A toy crocodile in the crib opened its mouth, and I was swallowed into an inky blackness. I didn't know what was going on. Why were these things lost? What was it that I needed back?
I'm not afraid, but still I ponder, in the canyons beyond the world. Light peeks out at cracks in space, and from time to time I can hear voices calling my name. I was certain the hooded lady had not lied to me. I had to find out for myself what I had lost to reach it, but all I knew now was I was Katrina, and I had a little boy I lost.
I was Katrina. I had lost a little boy…
I was…
Katrina.
And what I had lost… was my son. Steve. As long as I cling to that…
That's right. I'll find out the truth eventually.
Because I was Katrina.
I lost a boy.
I was…
Katrina…
Katrina?
Katrina!
KATRINA!
"WAKE UP! Why did you- OH MY GOD! KATRINA, ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? SLEEPING PILLS? IT'S BEEN EIGHT YEARS, YOU CAN'T JUST LEAVE ME ALONE LIKE THAT! WAKE UP, PLEASE! HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?"
Accidents Will Happen
Dieben
The chill of the January morning still lingered in the speeding car. The heater had yet to warm up and the vents were churning out tepid air. Bev could see puffs of her own breath with tiny crystals of ice, like suspended pixels, wafting toward the frosty windshield, threatening her view and her safety.
She dared to glance over at Mary in the passenger seat with her light blue unicorn shirt and cute brown pigtails. In all ways, a typical six-year-old. Typical height; average weight. True, you’re not supposed to have your six-year-old in the passenger seat, and this was a particularly bad morning to do so, but…
Bev cut off her train of thought quickly, because she knew the next train car had “bad mother” spray painted all over the side. She filed it under ‘hurry’ and shooed the thought away. Let the subconscious chew on it for a while.
I just have to get Mary to school, she told herself. I’ll be very careful. What are the chances anyway?
She was cruising at 45mph down Torrence when it appeared out of the misty air, like an image materializing from the fog of a video game. A semi-trailer truck had pulled out in the middle of the street, unable to complete its turn and clumsily attempting to back up. She slammed on the brakes, but a thin glaze of ice from the humid air had formed on the cold road and made stopping impossible. The 2021 Honda Fit slid out of control.
Bev and Mary screamed in unison. Their fate was already sealed, but in the second or two remaining, time seemed to slow, allowing Bev to fully experience the torture of knowing her foolish haste had doomed her beautiful little girl. Her scream sharpened…
Death, regret… horror on so many levels.
But there was still time for one more thought.
Jared.
At least she’d had him. Such a kind man. Such a wonderful father. Fate extended a finger of pity and presented, as her final thought, the flash of a post-coital memory: her and Jared lying together in bed, his naked body holding hers, keeping her warm. Touching, caressing, and whispering loving things to each other.
Oh, Jared…
I…
love…………
Cold steel and broken shards pulverized tears and loving memories, arms, faces, brains, and chests.
***
Tom Boyles, manager of safety ops, peeked into a dimly lit room and found who he was searching for, a man in a lab coat hunched over and absentmindedly biting his thumbnail as he stared at a computer screen.
"Jared?"
The techie hesitantly turned away from his monitor to face his visitor. "Hey, Tom. What's up?"
"I just received some news," Tom said with a grimace. "I hate to have to tell you this, but…"
“Yes… What is it, Tom?”
"Well… you were right," Tom admitted. "Implementing the data from your traffic simulations has resulted in an additional twelve percent decrease in traffic fatalities for the Fit."
"I told you it would work!" Jared cheered.
"I know I fought you on this. It's just… the realism of these simulations is so… well… unreal…"
"And it works!"
"Yes! What you've done is incredible!" Tom exclaimed. "I mean, you're saving real lives! The lives of children. You're a hero, Jared. A true-"
"Hey, Tom," Jared cut in. "The thing about us heroes is, we don't like being called heroes. It makes us feel awkward."
They both chuckled.
Tom made his way down the hall, and back toward his office. Jared watched until he was out of sight, then turned back slowly to the monitor before him. The synthetic glow of the flickering screen illuminated the cracks in his still-smiling face.
De
privation
Marty Hoefkes
.
See that? Every ∙ is a breath. Inhale, hold, exhale. Three seconds.
Let’s practice:
.
Did you do it? Excellent. If not, go back and try again, this time pretending you’re someone who’s not an asshole.
Ready?
.
It’s a gift from your girlfriend: 60 minutes in a sensory deprivation tank.
“It will open your mind,” she raves.
“I bet,” you say.
You don’t buy into this shit, but she’s fascinated with spirituality. Reluctantly, you agree.
It’s in a strip mall. Each room has a shower, a towel rack, and a small door against the far wall. The tank.
“It’s an inspiring experience,” the owner says.
“Sure it is,” you reply.
Your girlfriend kisses you goodbye and smiles, truly smiles, before leaving you alone.
You disrobe. You shower. You try not to slip and kill yourself on the slick slate floor. And then, naked, you step into the tank and pull the door shut.
The inside glows softly. It’s a tiny space. Half a jail cell, maybe. You lie down in the lukewarm water, legs spread slightly, hands up by your head.
Sure enough, you float.
.
The light dims.
.
And dims.
.
Eyes open or closed, it no longer matters.
.
You think about how stupid this is.
.
Why did you agree to an hour of this?
.
.
.
Your mind can’t feel space. Are you wandering to the side?
.
Yup. Your elbow bumps the wall.
.
You push off lightly.
.
This is ridiculous.
.
This is embarrassing.
.
Your toe bumps the wall.
.
You push off.
.
.
.
You can hear your heartbeat.
.
Thump-THUMP.
.
Thump-THUMP.
.
Thump-THUMP.
.
Your hand bumps the wall.
.
Before you can push off, the wall moves away.
Quick breaths now.
. . . . .
“Who’s there!?”
. . . .
. . .
. .
.
You feel stupid.
.
Of course nobody’s there.
.
You’re alone.
.
.
.
Each ∙ is now a minute.
. . . . .
You relax.
. . . . .
The silence is peaceful.
. . . . .
You admit it. Maybe she was right.
. . . . .
. . . . .
. . . . .
Has it been an hour yet?
. . . . .
. . . . .
. . . . .
Okay. Enough. You reach for the door.
And touch nothing.
You sit up, but the bottom’s gone. Instead, you bob in warm water to your shoulders.
“Hello!?!”
There’s no echo.
You swim toward where the door was.
. . . . .
You’re still swimming.
. . . . .
. . . . .
. . . . .
Why aren’t you tiring?
. . . . .
. . . . .
. . . . .
. . . . .
. . . . .
. . . . .
Each ∙ is now a day.
. . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . .
“How?” you wonder.
. . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . .
“Why?” you wonder.
. . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . .
You find God.
. . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . .
You lose God.
. . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . .
You decide to kill yourself.
But your head won’t go under.
And your hands can’t find your neck.
. . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . .
You don’t know what a ∙ is anymore.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
You’ve forgotten her face.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
You’ve forgotten her name.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
You’ve forgotten your name.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The ∙ no longer has meaning.
Everything is nothing.
You are nothing.
A sudden, brilliant, blinding glow pierces the darkness. You block it with a hand to your head and blink and blink and blink until your vision adjusts.
A small room. Half a jail cell.
“My God!” you rasp.
You push at the door and spill out onto the cold slate.
You cry. You kiss the floor. You lie on your back, finding ecstasy in gravity’s tug.
“Everything okay in there?”
It’s her voice.
You remember her face. You remember her name.
Naked, you open the door and hug the air from her lungs.
She laughs and it’s like a symphony. “Well? How was it?”
You want to weep. You want to scream. You want to collapse on the floor and never get up.
“It was,” you begin…
“Something.”
The Higher You Fly
Jordan Accinelli
“You should jump.”
“What?”
�
��Jump. You should do it.”
We were on the bridge. The sun had only just begun sinking beneath the horizon. Jarod was nonchalantly leaning against the railing, tossing an apple from hand to hand, occasionally taking a bite. It was stupid; it’s not like he could actually eat anything. I guess he just liked the way it looked.
“I’m not doing it, Jarod,” I replied, irritated.
What kind of a guardian angel is named Jarod? Most people get ones with cool names, like Michelangelo or Gabriel or something Hebrew. But no, I got Jarod. Maybe his shitty name’s the reason why he’s got such a shitty personality.
“Why not?” he probed, “It’s not like your life has much worth, buddy. At least if someone’s filming, you could finally get internet famous, but let’s face it – you’d probably fuck that up too.”
His voice resounded about my head. You see, that’s the way it worked, no one else could hear him. Hell, I technically wasn’t even supposed to be able to see him either, but I was born this way. Neither of us could help it – no matter how much we hated each other.
“Making you happy is the last thing I want to do,” I retorted.
Up until recently, I’d always been confused about why my supposed guardian was trying to convince me to kill myself. It seemed rather counterintuitive - but after some nagging, he finally gave in and told me. In essence, angels were watching humans and realizing with all the war and the fighting and stupid shit we did to each other – well, they just didn’t see the point in helping us anymore.
“If you jump it will be the last thing you do.”
Thing is though, the Big Man upstairs hated quitters. It was around 2001 when He punished them with a pair of Godly bone scissors. In all honesty, He’d been doing it forever, but it was around then the number of fallen angels skyrocketed. The statistics say, one in four angels were getting their wings cut. One in four!
“That’s exactly why I shouldn’t,” I snapped before slumping my shoulders, defeated.
The major issue with all this stems from the process by which a guardian is assigned. Blood pact and all that – once they have a human, they’re stuck; not even He can change it. Therefore, if He cuts down a guardian, well, let’s just say the aforementioned non-angel has a field day terrorizing their poor little human subjugate.
That’s why I – we – were here. Originally I came to save as many as I could, trying to spread what I knew. But all I got from the people on the other side of the railings were “fuck off” and “you’re bat-shit crazy.” I’ve watched a total of 1008 people jump. I can still remember their names. Moreover, I remember how many I saved.
Horror d'Oeuvres - Bite-Sized Tales of Terror Page 9