I gazed in slack-jawed horror and awe at the magnificent skeleton perched in the middle of the ocean. Intact, it hung in the water as though it was still alive, still searching for food to sustain itself. It was shaped like a serpent, except a large dorsal fin stuck up from its back. Oddest of all were its limbs. Two long, clawed hands protruded from its body, positioned as though it were carrying a heavy rock. The most probable reason for this was the difference between densities of water - from this point down, the level of salinity in the water was going to skyrocket.
"It's incredible," I said. "This is… this is a new discovery! Quick, take a picture!"
I quickly snapped a couple of shots. The gloom made the pictures turn out even more foreboding than they already were.
Thump. I whirled around in shock to find Mark white on the floor.
"What're you doi-"
I stopped short as a shaking finger pointed toward the monitor.
Outside, emerging from the depths of a watery hell, came several of the serpent monsters.
Most of them were fully grown, but I saw a few which I assumed were newborns. They lived like whales, I observed, and moved around in a pod. They were, without a doubt, the ocean's ultimate predators - even the legendary kraken would have a tough time with these huge beasts. A whole whale carcass was still clenched in one of their jaws, and that was the baby.
"Sebastian! WE HAVE TO GO!"
I snapped out of my stupor and fired up the engines. Even as the submarine throttled, I realized these serpents were too fast: even the top speed of The Amphibian wouldn't outrace them.
But it wouldn't stop us trying. The world needed to know of these creatures. The shuttle roared to life and we began inching forward, painfully slow.
Shadows obscured our vision as long, bony fingers grabbed at our windows. This was it. Mark was sobbing in a corner, terrified out of his wits, and it was taking all I could not to freak out and scream. The Amphibian stopped moving - one of them had stuck its finger in the propellers and it had broken off.
Then all at once, they disappeared.
I checked on Mark, who had turned white and fainted.
I sat on the floor staring into the murky waters of hell as the serpents swam away. Were they just uninterested in an inedible thing? Their intelligence was sorely lacking for such evolved-
No.
I was the one whose intelligence was lacking.
Our submarine sat in the middle of an unexplored trench with a broken propeller, unable to move.
In front of us, a shadow stirred, and the serpent monsters, who had cleverly used us as a decoy, managed to escape.
The Canyon Cave
Kristopher J. Patten
For as long as I’ve been a rafting tour director on the Colorado River, I’ve heard stories about caves dotting the sheer, beautiful face of the Grand Canyon. From my fellow directors I’ve heard boastful tales of lone excursions to primitive mine shafts strewn with tools from the 1800s. From tourists, I’ve heard theories about sprawling cavern systems running beneath the entire Southwest that either were or are populated by a lost native tribe or ancient extraterrestrials. My university geology classes taught me there are nothing but wind-eroded pockets placed haphazardly in the Canyon wall like Swiss cheese bubbles.
For years I held the skeptical scientific line. After 100 or more trips down the Colorado surveying the arterial eddies and inlets, though, I began to wonder. No one could have explored every wall of the Canyon. Some inlets were damn near impossible to enter because of the strong currents which would tug a raft in the opposite direction at speeds a human simply could not overcome. Powered craft encountered problems in the rapids as their rudders and props would be shorn off by the shallow rocks. Sometimes it seemed like I would catch a glimpse of an opening but, by the time I pulled out my binoculars, it had moved out of shadow and become just another shallow impression.
However, if a climber left his raft at a calm zone above the rapids and scaled sideways across the treacherous face of the Canyon, he could round the bend in the rock and be suspended above the relatively calm waters of the inlet. Relatively calm was a key phrase, though; without a raft, a human would be carried out to the rapids and bludgeoned against the rocks. You couldn’t swim the inlet. An emergency inflatable raft, however, might do the trick.
The first vacation I had, I attempted my plan. Save for a few close slips on my toe holds, it went off perfectly. Paddling my raft around the small space, I saw a dark maw to my left. I had found a real cave! Unlike the tall tales my workmates told, mine would be backed up with photographic evidence.
But a few exterior shots weren’t enough. I had to go inside.
I tied the raft off to a boulder with a smooth circular groove, that seemed almost made to be a mooring, and hopped into the abyss. A cool breeze suggested the cave extended quite a long distance. The passage seemed almost dead straight, though it must not have been because the light beaming in from outside eventually fell away as though I had gone around a corner. There were no tools, no fire pits, no sign anyone had ever been inside the cave.
I placed a hand on the cool rock and was surprised to find it rough and dry. I'd never been in a cave without at least a little lichen on the walls. There wasn't just no sign of human visitors, there was no sign of any life in the cave.
The cave began to narrow and I hiked, hunched over, for what felt like an hour before turning back. In truth, I had no idea how long I walked. No matter how deep into the cave I went, the scenery was identical: a long cylinder molded from clay. Inexplicably, the cave felt narrower on my return trip, too. When I hit a dead end of solid stone, I assumed I had taken a wrong turn.
But there had been no branches.
And the tunnel continued to close in.
My Daughter’s Necklaces
Marc Kinsville
Would you mind if I talk to you about Leane? You see, I got her this jewelry-making kit for her birthday last year. She took to it right away. She’d spend all day stringing these multicolored beads on them and giving them to me.
I loved wearing them and Leane loved making them. She experimented with her creations by finding other objects to make her necklaces with, like tree leaves, flower petals, and acorns.
Being the ever-supportive parent, I encouraged her, and wore her creations with pride.
One day, she came to me excitedly with her latest creation. It was another necklace but this one had tiny insect wings on it. She told me she had found a dead fly and peeled the wings off of it.
As usual, I encouraged her and complimented her creativity. Next thing I knew, she was coming to me with necklaces made out of caterpillars, shadflies, and other bugs. I had no interest in placing those around my neck, but I did so because – well – I love Leane.
You have children. You understand, don’t you?
It got to the point, however, where her necklace creations were becoming somewhat… disconcerting.
I pulled her aside for a heart-to-heart.
“Leane, I love these necklaces, but you have to respect other living creatures. Killing bugs just to make necklaces is wrong, do you understand?”
Leane had a quizzical look on her face at first, but she is a smart girl. She understood.
Or at least… I thought she understood.
I came home from work the next day to find Leane anxiously waiting for me.
Yes, she had made another necklace of insects, but with one small difference: the insects were still alive!
I think Leane mistook my horrified shock as pleasant surprise. She asked me to bend down. She wanted to place it on me. It’s a good thing I don’t have a phobia of insects, but it was a challenge to act pleasant while feeling this wriggling, squirming mass of bugs on my chest.
I had to put a stop to this! I talked to Leane, but she’s a bit stubborn.
Finally, I told her I didn’t care what she used to make these necklaces, as long as it wasn’t bugs!
Poor choice of words.
A couple of days later she surprised me with another necklace…
…with an eyeball attached.
Thankfully, the eyeball was from an animal. I don’t know where she got it, but I was worried.
Which is why I came to see you. I thought, ‘surely child psychology has advanced to the point where it could help children like Leane with their… creative tendencies.’ But of course not! You psychiatrists must always jump to conclusions and say Leane must be “disturbed” and needs “treatment.” First of all, my Leane is not “disturbed,” and secondly, I love my daughter and would sacrifice my own life before letting you lock her away in an institution as if she is some dangerous animal! Yes, I know what you psychiatrists mean by “treatment."
Do you understand now why I brought you here then… and why I can’t let you leave?
I’m just trying to protect my family. It may be too late for me, but my daughter has her whole life ahead of her, you know? Now hold still. My daughter tells me she loves your fingernails…
There's No Such Thing
J.A. Marshall
Many of my clients frighten me, but none as much as Stanley. He thinks he sees demons. Sometimes they stand outside his window, staring in. Other times, he'll wake up to find one leaning over his bed.
He lives in constant, unrelenting terror.
"He spoke to me again," Stanley told me last week.
"There are no demons," I said. "We've discussed…"
"He said he's had enough of your fucking skepticism."
"That language is inappropriate…"
"He remembers you from the basement. In the house where you grew up. He misses you."
"We're done for today." I stood up and opened my office door. "Our sessions are not supposed to be about me, Stanley. You know that. Next time I'll report you to your parole officer."
"Go to the basement," Stanley whispered. "He'll make you believe."
I locked the door behind him.
It was nonsense, of course, a cheap fortune-teller's trick. If a statement is vague enough, it applies to anyone. Lots of people grow up with creepy basements or closets or attics. But still, my hands shook as I put away Stanley's file.
As a child, I was convinced a monster lived in our basement. Going down there was torture, but coming back up those stairs was even worse. I swear I felt its hot breath on the backs of my legs as I fled up the steps, taking two at a time, holding in a scream. There was a cross-shaped crack in the wall near the top of the stairs, and I knew if I touched the cross before the monster touched me, I'd make it to the safety of the kitchen. And I never, ever looked back.
After work, I drove to my parents' house. Standing in the kitchen at the top of the stairs, I contemplated the darkness below. Then I went down.
Everything was the same. Creaky steps. Musty smell of dirt and old potatoes. Ubiquitous dust.
It was just a basement, I realized, nothing evil about it, no monsters, no demons. I took out my phone and video recorded everything, hoping to finally convince Stanley his demons were imaginary.
Going back up the stairs still unnerved me, I admit it. Even holding my phone flashlight, it took every ounce of my adult rationality to stay calm. Breathing deeply and climbing slowly, I deliberately took one step at a time. At the top, I forced myself to look back.
There was nothing there.
I smiled. I'd conquered a childhood fear and disproved Stanley's demon. Not a bad day's work.
At our next appointment, I showed Stanley the video. He watched it twice.
"See?" I said. "No proof of demonic activity. Nothing scary. What does your so-called demon have to say about that?"
"He says he doesn't have to prove anything to you."
A triumphant smile began to grow across my face, but it died when I noticed Stanley was staring past me, at something behind me. He nodded, almost imperceptibly.
"And he says that you'd better not forget to touch that cross ever again. Next time he won't be so forgiving."
Here's the Church, Here's the Steeple
Michael Parrish
The digitized voice of a young woman filled the main room of the run-down shotgun shack Anita called home. She sat Indian style in the middle of the floor, an old laptop resting across her knees, an old home video playing on the screen.
The young woman in the video made the shapes with her fingers and recited the words:
“Here’s the church, here’s the steeple, open it up and see all the people.”
The tow-headed boy who had her full attention cackled and clapped his hands. “Again Mama, again!”
A single tear rolled down Anita’s cheek, and her hand impulsively reached to finger the gold cross hanging around her neck. It was then she realized she was no longer alone in the room.
A hulking figure of a man darkened the doorway leading into the kitchen. Anita, startled, snapped the laptop shut and bounced to her feet, showing wry athleticism for a woman in her early forties. The man stepped forward, dirty brogan shoes tracking mud in from the outside.
“Andy, what have I told you about taking your boots off before you come into the house,” she scolded, “and I just mopped the kitchen this morning, too!”
The blond man hung his head. “Sorry, Mama. I forgot.”
“It’s okay, honey,” Anita sighed, embracing her son, “just don’t do it again. Are you ready for dinner?”
“Yes, Mama.”
Anita stepped around her son and into the kitchen. A steaming pot of stew simmered on the stove. “Those rabbits you caught yesterday are gonna be delicious, Andy.”
“Mama, when are we gonna go back to the church?”
Anita dropped the ladle and turned to her son, torn between the need to nurture her son and the knowledge of what he had done. She longed for her son to have some sort of human contact outside of their daily interactions, but since the event at the church, there was no one left to interact with. As such, despite his strength, size, and clear intelligence, Andy never developed social skills beyond those of a grade school boy.
“Honey, you know that we can’t go back to the church. Not now, not ever.”
Andy plopped down into a dining table chair, his lips protruding, arms crossed over his chest. After contemplating for several seconds, he looked back to his mother.
“Mama, what happened to all the people?”
Anita approached her son and brushed his blond hair back from his forehead. She fingered the cross around her neck and sighed, rubbing her thumb across the red, slightly raised mark that had been clear on her son’s head since birth. Despite repeated claims to the contrary to herself and to anyone else who would listen, she could no longer deny the obvious shape of the three intertwined sixes. She leaned down and hugged him, tears rolling down her cheeks.
“You did, baby,” she whispered, “you did.”
A Long Night Drive
Tony Johnson
Headlights parted the dark as she reversed down the driveway, spitting bloody fragments of teeth through split lips.
“That… shitfire fuckwad!” She screamed. It was the best she could think of at the time.
She dropped the old Chevy into gear and sped away from the low and unkempt ranch house, gravel tinking against the living room window. A left and another took her to the freeway, desolate and indifferent trucks speeding along in the night.
Down Route 15, west to the exit by her mom’s, exit 19. Ten miles to escape, and even if only temporary it was all she needed for a time. She and her mom hadn’t been on speaking terms for a while, but for this… she has to take me in.
Thoughts churned as she drove, one finally rising to consciousness and forming, like clotting blood.
I have to leave him. Next time, he’ll kill me.
The abuse had recently escalated to the point where she knew it to be true. Started as mental – she was worthless, a harlot, a tramp.
Then physical; at first, nothing leaving a mark – he had mastery of the bar of soap in
a sock trick.
Then, hell’s bells – it was like he didn’t give a single fuck anymore – black eyes, broken fingers, dragging her by the hair. She’d show up to work and she didn’t know which was worse: the throbbing pain from the wounds or the disinterested stares of her coworkers.
Road under her wheels, exit 18 up ahead, the verdant, metallic green of the freeway sign her sole focus.
And then… the sign changed.
Exit 18 became exit 4 – five miles before her own exit.
She blinked, wiped sweat and blood from her eyes, and tried to refocus. But it read exit 4, clear and precise in the headlights. Even had the bullet hole right above the street name like a stunted umlaut.
Did I go the wrong way on 15? Man, he really scrambled my head good this time. Exit… 4? The fuck?
She drove on, passing her own exit, mind numb, not processing. She passed her gas station, her bank, certain she’d already done so, and pressed on, ticking off nine more miles in under seven minutes.
It happened again.
18 became 4, bullet hole and all.
She tried it seventeen times more, dawn starting to show orange in the east. She’d approach her mom’s exit, feel the pull of safety and something more basic – something if not love, at least the polar opposite of what had happened in her house, and the sign would waver, shimmer, and… reset.
And she’d be back at exit 4, five miles from her home. The sign with the same bullet hole.
The first dozen times, she’d tried to figure it out, tried to outsmart it. Gradually, with repetition, she became numb to it, going through the motions.
18… 4… bullet hole.
Slowly, and with motions guiding from outside herself, leaden hands on the steering wheel, she took her exit and turned right, turned right again…
And pulled into her own driveway.
Welcome to the Club
Michael Parrish
Horror d'Oeuvres - Bite-Sized Tales of Terror Page 11