In Creeps The Night

by Natalie Gibson

  Jack tried to laugh, but an uneasy feeling settled over him as he followed Callum to the hole in the fence.

  Before leaving, he looked up at the window once more but it was empty.

  “I must have let my imagination run away with me,” he said as he joined Callum by the roadside.

  They sauntered down the path heading back towards town, kicking a loose stone between them as they walked.

  “I really thought I saw something.”

  “I believe you,” Callum grunted as he kicked the stone back. “What did you see?”

  “An old woman and lots of kids. They ripped into the men from the town.”

  “Ripped into them? You mean like zombies?”

  “Yeah, exactly like that. They looked evil, with black eyes and grey skin.” He shuddered as he remembered the sight.

  “You’re telling me that you came running into a crowd of zombie kids to save me?”

  Jack gave his friend a lopsided smile.

  Callum laughed and slapped him on the back. “I guess you aren’t as soft as I thought.”

  The boys carried on walking, oblivious to the feral children who watched them from the house on the hill. Stepping out onto the porch, they raised their bloodstained hands as one in a macabre salute.

  “JAMES? WAKE UP and come downstairs, James.”

  The voice called from the first floor of her house, and Karen sat upright from where she’d been reading in bed. Her son, James, was asleep two doors down in his own bedroom upstairs, tuckered out from a night of trick-or-treating with some other neighborhood kids. She had just settled in when the sound of that voice floated up into the house.

  The sound of her own voice.

  Karen set the book she’d been reading on her nightstand and listened carefully to the house. Maybe she’d imagined it somehow. All the movies that had been playing all month, and all the other trappings of the holiday, she might just be spooking herself.

  “Come on, James, wake up. I have a surprise for you downstairs!”

  She bolted from the bed to her door. There was no mistaking that voice or that it was actually echoing through the house. Karen could not explain it, but it didn’t matter. Her first and only thought was her son and getting him to safety. She opened the door of her bedroom just in time to see the ten-year-old slipping out of his own room in his pajamas, rubbing his eyes.

  “Mommy?” he called downstairs. “What’s going on?”

  “Just come down and see!” the voice called in that excited tone Karen used for special treats.

  “James!” Karen said in a harsh whisper.

  His head turned and saw her in the doorway of her bedroom. Fear dawned in his eyes, and Karen waved frantically at him, beckoning him to her. “Come on,” she said in the same intense whisper. “Come here, quickly!”

  James ran to her, not questioning, and Karen breathed a little sigh of relief. As she wrapped her arms around him and scooped him into the room, she could hear someone—or something—moving downstairs. Still holding her son, Karen closed the bedroom door and locked it while she worked to control the panic that threatened to overwhelm her.

  The bottom stair creaked outside. “James?” the voice came. “Are you coming down?”

  “Shh,” Karen cautioned her son and whispered, “don’t make a sound.”

  Her mind struggled with what to do. That voice was her own. On Halloween night. There was no mistaking it. She knew all the old myths, had even read some fairly sterilized versions of them to James. How it was originally believed to be the night when worlds collided, when spirits and goblins could roam. Karen had only ever found them amusing diversions or ways to make the holiday more interesting than just the costumes she helped James pick out or handing out candy. But now she couldn’t shake her instinct that something beyond normal was happening in her own home.

  Feet were climbing the stairs now. “Where are you, James? Are you playing a game?”

  “Mommy…” James muttered. “What’s going on?”

  She could hear the fear in his voice and feel him trembling in her arms. Karen had to be solid now for him. She had to put her own fears down and keep him calm. “It’ll…It’ll be okay, sweetie. I’ve got you. We’re just going to be really quiet and wait here.”

  She moved them back to sit on the edge of her bed, stroking James’s hair and comforting him. The footfalls were coming from upstairs now, working their way down the hall.

  “James,” the voice said, “are you in Mommy’s room? Are you hiding in there?”

  Karen’s entire skin chilled and crawled with gooseflesh.

  “Mommy, I’m scared,” James whined quietly.

  “I know, honey, but it’s okay. I’ve got you; I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  The thought finally occurred to Karen. She should be getting her phone and calling the police. What this boiled down to, impersonations or no, was an intruder in her home. She should have called them the first moment she heard the voice, but she’d been so consumed with fear for James and then quieting her own fear.

  “James,” she whispered, “I need to get my phone and call the police. We’re going to be as quiet as we can, and—”

  Three knocks at the door made each of them cling more tightly. Karen’s heart raced, and James huddled against her.

  The strange voice was just outside the door. “James…are you in there? Don’t you want to see Mommy’s surprise?”

  He clung to her. “No, please don’t go!”

  Karen steadied her panicked breaths. “I won’t, sweetie, I’m right here. Nothing’s going to get you.” At that, Karen found some extra strength. No matter what was on the other side of that door, it would not get near her child. She would scratch at eyes, kick, fight, bite, whatever it took to keep her—it—away from James.

  “I…I know, Mommy,” he said, still whimpering a little.

  She stroked his hair again, holding him close and watching the door as another three knocks came to it.

  “I know, because we got James while he was out tonight.”

  Karen’s body stiffened, her eyes widening. She looked down and found James’s face looking up, smiling. His cold, black eyes stared directly into hers.

  “And we can always count on a mother’s love to get in close.”

  As the thing in her arms shed the guise of her son and twisted against her, Karen screamed.

  PHIL KRUG STUMBLED to the bathroom, still half asleep. The hard tile was cold on his bare feet, making the urge to pee stronger. Finished, he turned to go back to the bedroom, keeping his eyes half closed so as not to wake up any more than necessary. Stepping through the bathroom door, his mind said to turn right toward the bedroom, but his body turned left. A feeling of déjà vu settled over him. I don’t want to go this way, he thought. I want to go back to bed. His feet continued to carry him down the short hall to the kitchen. Phil felt goose bumps erupt along his arms as the short hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention. The feeling of having been in this same situation before grew stronger. He willed himself to stop, to turn around, but his body refused to obey.

  Phil found himself in the kitchen, his body tense with anticipation. The sudden sound of the ice machine dumping its contents in the freezer made him jump, but even that had a familiar feel to it. Movement out of the corner of his eye caused Phil to turn just in time to see a face pull away from the window. He stumbled back, tripped over something that tangled between his legs, and fell. Phil kicked himself across the floor, away from the window. Something cold touched his face. He yelped and shoved his hands farther into the darkness. His fingers contacted fur and something warm and wet touched his hand. Buster. It’s just Buster.

  “You ‘bout scared the crap out of me, boy,” he said to the dog. The ticking of the wall clock and Buster’s light panting were the only sounds.

  The house had never seemed so dark, so silent.

  Encouraged by Buster’s presence, Phil pulled himself to his feet and forced his gaze b
ack to the window. Whoever had been there was now gone. The figure had been indistinct in the darkness, but he knew he had seen someone. He crept slowly to the sink, body stiff with tension. The window was still clear. He leaned to the right so he could see toward the front of the house. Nothing. He did the same to the left, looking toward the back of the house and froze.

  The gate was open.

  The soft tick of Buster’s nails on the tile pulled Phil’s attention from the window. The dog was small for a pit bull but full of attitude. “You bark at everything that moves outside. Why the hell are you so quiet now?” He could just make out Buster sitting on the floor staring up at him as though everything was just fine.

  “Settle down now, Phillip,” he told himself. “The house is locked up tight. No one can get in. Besides, you probably just imagined the whole thing.” He didn’t convince himself. There had been someone out there, and the gate had been closed. He was certain of it.

  Buster remained seated on the kitchen floor, tail thumping the tile. Phil took a deep breath and moved quietly from the kitchen and across the small living room. He didn’t have to worry about hitting anything in the dark. His ex-wife had taken most of the furniture, and he had seen little reason to replace anything but the TV. She’d left him his old recliner as though something he treasured wasn’t good enough for her.

  Phil hesitated in front of the sliding door that led to the backyard. The curtain was still closed. He reached out a shaky hand, took a deep breath, and pulled the curtain aside just enough to see out.

  A person stood right outside the glass door. Red eyes glowed from beneath a dark hood.

  Phil’s cry was strangled as he dropped the curtain and ran across the living room and back into the kitchen. He flipped the light switch, but nothing happened. The room remained unnaturally dark. He flipped it up and down, as though the repeated action might convince the light to come on. It didn’t. Panicked, Phil ran the few steps to the short hallway and tried the light there. Again, nothing. Fumbling through the dark hall he slammed into the bedroom door. Why was the door closed? He grasped the knob and turned, but it wouldn’t move. He turned harder and shoved the door with his shoulder, but it refused to budge.

  Phil heard a muffled sound behind him. He turned, eyes wide with terror. The curtain on the sliding door billowed with the cool night breeze. Images of recent news reports of young women found murdered and mutilated in the county rushed through his mind. The press had dubbed the killer “The Lunatic.” Eight young women in eight months. Phil was neither young nor female. Did that matter to a lunatic? He tried the door to his home office. It, too, was locked tight. From his peripheral vision he caught movement, a dark shadow moving across the living room. It reminded him of the Hollywood version of Death. Death had come for him.

  Phil felt the dark presence slipping up on him. Freezing tendrils of air wrapped around him, suffocating him in their embrace. His body shook uncontrollably as he turned away from the door. The eyes, red and horrible, hovered before him. Phil opened his mouth to scream, but the icy tendrils slipped in, leaving a somewhat familiar and not altogether unpleasant taste—like a lover’s kiss after a long night on the town. His body shook harder as his mind darkened.

  Then, as though a switch had been thrown, Phil’s shaking stopped. He blinked a couple times and smiled. Buster nudged his leg. “Hey there, big guy.” Phil bent down and gave the dog a quick scratch behind the ears. “Want a treat?” Phil straightened and walked to the kitchen, flipping the light on as he passed. Squinting in the sudden brightness, he hummed a favorite Disney tune. He opened the refrigerator door, rummaged through the crisper, and pulled out a Ziploc baggie. Still humming, Phil opened the bag and withdrew a long, slender object—a young woman’s finger. He tossed the finger to Buster, who caught it in mid-air and munched it down.

  Phil peered into the almost empty baggie. “About out of ladyfingers, Buster boy.” He put the baggie back in the crisper and picked up a long knife from the cutting board. “Looks like daddy’s got some shoppin’ to do.” Buster barked his agreement, and Phil laughed as he gave the dog another head scratch. “Yep, fresh ladyfingers tomorrow, Buster. Fresh ladyfingers tomorrow.”

  A.D. TROSPER

  A.D. Trosper is the author of the bestselling, award-winning Dragon’s Call series. She has also written a children’s book and begun a new paranormal romance series called Bound. A.D. enjoys writing in a variety of genres including epic fantasy, urban fantasy, and paranormal romance. When not writing, she spends time with her family and pets.

  A.R. MEYERING

  A.R. Meyering, author of the steampunk-fantasy series The Dawn Mirror Chronicles, is a Southern California resident and certified oddball. Her dark fantasy novel, Unreal City, received the 2015 gold medal for YA horror from Literary Classics International Book Awards. She is rarely without her pugs, Zuul and Vinz Clortho.

  AILSA ABRAHAM

  Ailsa Abraham is the author of the best-seller Alchemy and the award-nominated Shaman’s Drum.

  ANDREW WESTON

  Born and raised in northern Georgia, Andrew currently resides in Minnesota with his wife and his eighteen-wheeler, nicknamed Sally.

  ANGIE TRAFFORD

  Angie spends her time daydreaming about what might be going on in some fantasy world. Visit her on Goodreads.

  BETH AVERY

  Beth Avery teaches writing and literature to college students. She lives in Michigan and has a lovely family that includes two teenage boys, her husband, a small dog, and a black cat who doesn’t know he’s bad luck. She has published short stories in Cutthroats and Curses and Jingle Bells.

  BRIAN R. LUEDTKE

  Brian R. Luedtke is an author with a background in fiction, theory, screen, and technical editing and writing, and is a member of the International Screenwriters’ Association. His passion for storytelling led him to create his website where he showcases his short stories, writing theories, and two-sentence story challenges.

  CHRIS FITZNER

  Chris Fitzner is a writer, artist, and sometimes photographer currently living in beautiful Nova Scotia, Canada. The tales she spins are often as varied as the books she reads but both take her away from mundane surroundings to seek out the hidden magic.

  CORY JOHN EADSON

  Cory John Eadson is a writer, radio-presenter, and tea-addict, who also happens to be a big fan of Doctor Who and all things horror. His short story appears in Once Upon A Time: A Collection of Unexpected Fairytales.

  D.L. SMITH-LEE

  D.L. Smith-Lee was born in a suburb of Chicago called Harvey, Illinois. Since the age of nine he has been an insatiable writer, reader, and video gamer. Hoping to flood the Earth in the dreamworlds of fantasy, he writes for escape from reality and the love of writing. He currently resides in Florida.

  D.M. KILGORE

  D.M. Kilgore loves being a writing gypsy and dipping her toes into the sparkling stream of whatever genre she happens to be dancing by when inspiration strikes. With a bloody pen in one hand and magic wand in the other she insists she’s found her niche, if not her groove.

  DREA DAMARA

  Drea Damara is the author of The Weeping Books Of Blinney Lane, a romantic-fantasy adventure. Damara grew up working on her family’s farm in Illinois and later served in the US Army.

  E.G. SMITH

  E.G. Smith is a graduate of the University of Washington’s creative writing program, with a lifelong passion for horror fiction and film. His published works are in many anthologies, including “Jaws of Life” (DarkFuse #1), “Darkling Roast” (Bugs: Tales that Slither, Creep and Crawl) and “Autumn Lamb” (Dead Harvest).

  ELLE K. WHITE

  A textbook introvert who likes to burn the textbook every once in a while, Elle discovered a love of storytelling at a young age. When well-meaning but unimaginative adults told her there wasn’t a living in writing books, she grudgingly got a day job. Writing is still her full time passion.

  ERIC BROWN

  Eric Brown is a fr
eelance writer and punk rock “musician.” He is a member of the Twisted Fiction writing group on Yahoo. Eric writes weird fiction and comic book scripts. His short stories have appeared in various anthologies.

  ERIC MARTELL

  Eric has previously published stories in a handful of anthologies, including Under the Tree. He lives in Illinois with his wife and three sons.

  J. WHITWORTH HAZZARD

  J. Whitworth Hazzard is a writer of ridiculous stories. His extensive training in science and critical thinking come in handy when justifying the existence of zombies, ghouls, ghosts, and winning powerball tickets. His wife and kids live in the vast and boring cornfields of Illinois, where he visits occasionally when not dreaming of post-apocalyptic wonderlands.

  J.S. BAILEY

  As a child, J.S. Bailey escaped to fantastic worlds through the magic of books and began to write as soon as she could pick up a pen. She dabbled in writing science fiction until she discovered supernatural suspense novels and decided to write her own. Today, her stories focus on unassuming characters who are thrown into terrifying situations, which may or may not involve ghosts, demons, and evil old men. She believes that good should always triumph in the end. She lives with her husband in Cincinnati, Ohio.

  JONI LYNN

  When not busy burying bodies in her backyard, Joni enjoys traveling. Her favorite places to visit are forests, old churches, cemeteries, and anything creepy. Raised on horror and Halloween, she enjoys the darker side of life.

  K.R. SMITH

  K.R. Smith is an information technology specialist and writer living in the Washington, D.C. area. While mainly interested in writing short horror stories, he occasionally delves into poetry, songwriting, and the visual arts.