Onyx Neon Shorts Presents: Horror Collection - 2015

by Wesolowski, MJ

  The sisters on each end of the pigtail chain still breathe. Between them, a dozen heads dangle, weeping blood from tattered necks. As I move forward to comfort them, the two survivors scream and begin pleading for mercy. Never having heard the sisters speak before, I find their elegiac whines disconcerting. Revolving on my heels, I bid them adieu.

  By the lodge’s entrance, I discover a familiar overcoat, carefully folded beneath an intricately patterned top hat. Donning these garments, I find them perfected tailored to my proportions.

  Moving into dawn’s prelude, I whisper my farewells to the community, voicing goodbyes for the crops, the animals, the fields, and the graves. Naming every slumbering neighbor, and all those deceased, I stride from lodge to lodge, tapping each as I pass. Finally, I give in to the irresistible tugging of an invisible cord.

  The door in the floor summons me, and to it I return.

  The Man Who Left No Footprints in The Snow

  Matt Tveter

  The sun was behind the blinds when Barb woke. She pushed the covers off, slid her legs over the side of the bed, and patted about for slippers. She put her eyeglasses on, steadied herself against the mattress, hands balled into fists, then pushed herself off into a standing position.

  It was late. Barb struggled into a pale blue terrycloth robe. She glanced at the unoccupied space on the other side of the bed, sighed deeply, and left the bedroom.

  Her knees had begun to loosen, but her hands were still stiff as she began to prepare breakfast. They shook as the coffee pot grew heavy with water, but the pain subsided quickly and she was able to maneuver a filter and a few scoops of grounds into place with little trouble. She filled another pot with water and set it on the stove to boil, then walked to her window and pulled open the blinds.

  The mid-morning brightness hit Barb full in the face. Drifts of snow sparkled under a bright and cloudless sky. It smothered parked cars and completely buried the street. Her heart sank for a moment, but her spirit grew stronger as she contemplated the beauty of the scene. It was a clear and beautiful morning, and it looked like the entire neighborhood had stayed inside to enjoy it. Not a single footprint disturbed the snow that blanketed the pathways leading from each house or the sidewalks connecting them.

  Barb turned back to the stove and noticed the pot about to boil. She opened the refrigerator, plucked an egg from a Styrofoam carton and gently dropped it into the hot water.

  She turned back to her window and watched crisp snowflakes glitter as they blew through the air. She squinted at the thermometer Ted had installed years before. Fourteen degrees below zero. No wonder everyone was still inside. The egg timer went off.

  Steam billowed in her face as she scooped the soft-boiled egg from the now roiling pot. She carefully balanced it on her spoon and transferred it to an egg cup next to a mug of coffee. Her granddaughter had enjoyed eating from the same cup last time she’d visited. Barb smiled at the memory as she tapped the shell with the back of her spoon. It cracked just as a there was a knock on the door.

  Barb paused, then turned back to her breakfast. She picked at a piece of cracked shell, exposing the glistening, half-congealed egg beneath. The knocking returned. Barb sighed. She put her spoon down, walked to the door, and peered through the peephole.

  The man stood a respectful distance from her door. He wore a bushy mustache and aviator sunglasses that reflected the ice and snow. An overcoat covered him down to the knees. It looked synthetic, light and silvery blue. Earflaps of a darker blue hat, made from similar material, were tied under his chin. He was smiling. Barb relaxed.

  She gripped the cold doorknob and opened the door. The man smiled at her. “Hello, Barbara. Glad to see you’re home safe,” he said, voice muffled by the screen door. The man held an ID card, shimmering with holograms, out towards Barb.

  “I’m here on behalf of a neighborhood organization. We’re not very well known, but please understand that your interests and those of your neighbors are of paramount importance to us.” The man’s lips pursed. “I’m here to help.”

  Cold wind bit through Barb’s robe and snowflakes peppered her as she opened the screen door. It was stopped short by the heavy snow piled up against it. Barb reached through the gap, took the man’s card and brought it close her face. She wasn’t wearing the right glasses, so could not read the hieroglyphs imprinted on the glossy silver card. It felt like it was made of polished metal, though Barb didn’t think that holograms could be imprinted on metal. Maybe it just seemed like metal because it was so cold.

  Barb went to give it back, but when their fingers touched the card was fumbled into the snow, where it somehow disappeared. Embarrassed, she knelt, plunging her hand into the deep snow after it. The man pulled on the screen door. Snow crunched and the door opened slightly wider, allowing Barb more room to root after the card. Her hand grew numb and she yanked it back, then began to massage it, spasming with a deep shiver as she did. Wind continued to blow through the door. Barb’s eyes fixated on a pine tree across the street. Its branches sagged under the snow. “Maybe you ought to just come inside,” she said, backing away from the door.

  “Normally I wouldn’t, at least not so soon. It sure is cold, though,” the man chuckled. He stepped by her into the living room and she closed the door.

  Barb felt immediately warmer. The man took off his hat and gloves and put them in his pocket. He left his sunglasses on. “I have plenty of cards, don’t worry about that one.” He smiled again. His hair was cut short and combed back in a slick but casual way. His voice dropped and his face grew serious. “I am really happy to see that you’re safe. Things are getting dangerous out there. And I don’t just mean the cold.” The man took a deep breath and folded his hands. “Have you… seen any of your neighbors recently?”

  Barb frowned. She hadn’t been getting out much. “No, I haven’t, but that’s not unusual. It is winter, after all.”

  The man nodded. “That’s because they’re not here. They’ve left.”

  Barb scoffed. “No they haven’t. Where would they go?”

  The man scoffed. “Well, somewhere safe of course. Safer than here, anyway. Do you have a phone?”

  “Of course I have a phone.”

  “Have you gotten any calls lately?”

  Barb shook her head.

  “Have you tried calling anyone?”

  She walked to her phone, picked the handset off of the cradle and brought it to her ear. There was no ringtone. “How long has it been like that?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  Barb shook her head again, and replaced the handset.

  She looked past the man and out the window. A branch of the pine tree she’d noticed earlier rested heavily on a power line. There was no one outside shoveling, no signs of life behind the blinds pulled tight at every window, and still no footprints in the snow.

  “They would tell me,” Barb whispered to herself, softly. “They would tell me,” she said to the man, louder and more confident.

  The man shook his head. “They didn’t have the chance,” he said. “You only get one chance, Barbara. And this is yours.” He smiled. “I won’t be able to return, and I’m afraid you’ll be left all alone.”

  I’m already alone, Barb thought to herself. “Where did they go?”

  “Somewhere safe. Believe me, I know this all seems pretty strange. But time is of the essence. Can I show you something, Barbara? Something right here in your house. Something that’s been here all along.”

  Barb’s shoulders sagged. She tried to remember the last time someone had visited, but all her recent memories were of waiting, and watching the snow fall.

  “Barbara? Can I show you?” The man opened his palms, and smiled again.

  She nodded.

  “Right this way.” The man walked past Barb into the kitchen. She sighed and glanced at the egg she’d cracked open minutes before. The man paused before the basement door, looking for a light switch. He looked at Barb and raised his eyebrows.
She nodded towards the switch. He grinned, flipped the switch, and headed down the stairs.

  The air was colder in the basement. Barb didn’t go down there much anymore. She was relieved to see that nothing had changed. Faux wood siding still lined the wall. The carpet was soft and white. The television was still in the corner, facing the couch. Melancholy gripped her as she looked around the room. She recalled evenings spent with Ted curled on that couch, watching the television turned up loud to drown out the purring of a space heater.

  The man was acting strangely. He’d pressed his ear against the wall, and was now creeping along slowly, running his hands over the siding as he went. Suddenly, he froze. He tapped the wall with a closed fist, listening. The man’s face grew serious. He rocked back from the wall, then snapped forward with his fist, punching a hole in the siding in the precise spot where his ear had been a moment before. Barn flinched, but said nothing. He punched at the edges of the hole to widen it, then took a flashlight from his pocket and shined it into the hole. The light flashed over a black metal pipe about eight inches in diameter, glistening with moisture. The man smiled and turned to Barb. “Found it,” he said.

  She did not reply.

  The man took a step back from the wall, then lashed out with a powerful kick that splintered the siding beneath the hole. He continued to kick at the siding until the capped end of the black metal pipe was exposed. She could see about four feet of the pipe now, extending straight downwards.

  The man brushed aside some of the debris from the siding, stepped forward and began to caress the pipe. His breathing deepened. “I found it, Barbara. We’re all set now. Nothing to worry about, we’ll be done shortly.” He turned to look at her and smiled. His face was friendly, but Barb was afraid.

  She noticed that his sunglasses still seemed to reflect the snow and ice covering the world outside.

  The man turned back to the pipe, gripped the cap in his hands, and attempted to loosen it. His strain was obvious, but he never wavered. After a few moments the cap began to groan; then, all at once, the hold gave way and it began to turn.

  Barb’s breath began to quicken as the man loosened the cap. When he finally pulled it off, a glut of brown water splashed out and onto the carpet. A stench filled the air. “I should have warned you.” The man looked embarrassed. “That sometimes happens, but it doesn’t mean anything’s wrong. It’s nothing to worry about.”

  “My carpet,” Barb croaked, belatedly. “What about that?”

  “We’ll clean it, don’t worry. You don’t need to worry about that at all.” The man got on one knee in front of the pipe and reached up into it. His arm had gone in up to his elbow when he grabbed hold of something. He pulled down, grunting, until it began to emerge slowly from the pipe. Barb’s stomach grew queasy at the sight.

  It plopped out of the pipe and unfurled in a mess of plasma and slime. The man felt about, located one end and held it out towards Barb. It looked dead. That is to say, it looked as though it had once been living. It was about five feet long and three feet wide, the color and texture of raw chicken skin, and coated with a gelatinous goo. Like thick, slimy chicken skin fashioned into a sac. Strange tendrils hung from the opening of the sac. Barb could not tell if they were moving of their own volition or because the man’s hands were trembling.

  “One of the best I’ve ever seen.” The man’s voice quivered with emotion. “You’re very lucky, Barbara. Very lucky. This is going to treat you well.”

  “What is it?” Barb was numb with fear.

  “It’s your ship. Your protector. Your ferry. This is what’s going to get you where you’re going.”

  “Where am I going?”

  “Somewhere safe. You’re going to the same place as everyone else. They’re waiting for you there.”

  “Everyone?” Barb stared into the man’s face, attempting to peer behind his sunglasses.

  He stepped forward and lowered his voice. “Everyone you love, Barbara. Everyone you care about.”

  Barb stared into the man’s sunglasses. It looked as though they reflected rivulets of mercury, swirling in strange patterns. “Okay,” she said.

  The man stepped back away from Barb. He laid the sac carefully on the floor, away from the brown sludge that had spilled from the pipe. “Now this fits very tightly. Something beyond ‘tight,’ to be honest with you. So, I recommend that you remove as much clothing as you are comfortable with.”

  Barb fingered the tie of her terry cloth robe, then pulled it tight and stepped out of her slippers.

  “Well, I suppose that’s better than nothing. Please lie down on the floor.”

  She did. The man took the opening of the sac and brushed the slimy tendrils along Barb’s toes. They slithered about them, grabbed hold, and pulled the sack forward about an inch. Barb felt her toes being compressed as they disappeared into the sac. The tendrils crept up her foot, tightened, then pulled the sac forward another inch.

  The man backed away from Barb and stood against the wall. “It’s going wonderfully, Barbara. Just be patient.” The sensation of the sac creeping up her body was not pleasant, but it was not painful. Barb wondered where she was going. A jolt of fear went through her body when the sac crept up over her hands, pinning them to her sides. The man seemed to relax at that moment. “You really are doing well, Barbara. Take a look.”

  Barb rose as best she could and looked down. The lower half of her body had been compressed into the precise shape of the metal pipe they’d found behind her wall. She gasped. “You’re putting me in the pipe?”

  The man chuckled. “It’s more than just a pipe. It’s a passageway, a gateway, a door that will open to reveal everyone you love.”

  Barb thought of those she loved. It no longer felt as though the pipe-sac was creeping up her body; instead, it felt as though the tendrils were gripping and pulling her down into it. She almost panicked as the tendrils tickled her neck. Her eyes flew about the room and landed on the man. “How will I breathe?” she asked, blinking.

  “Take a deep breath,” he replied, smiling. “You’re almost there.”

  The Lake House

  Joseph Rubas

  There was something about the house by the lake, something indefinite, something unnamable. Standing in the front yard that first day, cold wind washing over him, Jim Conner struggled to put a finger on it, but couldn’t. It was shabby, a two story Cape Cod wedged between a barren hillside and the craggy shore. The paint was peeling, the roof needed work, and the windows were dark and dirty.

  Nevertheless, he wanted it.

  “You don’t wanna see the inside?” the old man asked. He was leaning against the front end of his pick-up truck, a red trucker hat with a white mesh back pulled low on his forehead.

  “I don’t think I have to,” Jim said.

  The old man shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  Now, sitting in the Jeep and studying the gloomy façade through the rain-sluiced windshield, Jim sighed and settled on energy. There was an energy here; it seemed to radiate from the house in waves. It’s the moon and I am the tide, he thought, and snickered. Where did that come from?

  Regardless, it was an accurate description. He felt drawn to the house, felt it in his bones and in his blood. He couldn’t explain it, but...that’s how it was.

  Shaking his head, Jim got out of the Jeep and hurried through the cold rain. Under the covered porch, the wind chimes tinkling from a hook in the ceiling, Jim took the keys from his jacket pocket and opened the front door. Ahead, a staircase led up to the second floor. To his right, a small, rustic living room opened up, its crowning centerpiece a stone hearth. The couch, he saw, was tan and threadbare; the rocking chair by the window was stationary and coated in dust. A record player sat near it, and beyond that was a bookshelf crammed with titles.

  The air was damp and musky. The old man said no one had been out here for nearly ten years. He had, he said, but only for short periods of time, to clean, make repairs, and “all that.”

&nb
sp; Past the living room, a tiny kitchen flanked the western wall. Light streamed in through the window over the sink, murky and dirty like day old dishwater.

  Home, sweet home, Jim thought, shutting the door behind him.

  Home… at least for the next six months, at least until the book was done and the memories of Connie weren’t so strong. Out here, in the wilds of Vermont, he was safe; but back in Boston, where every restaurant and street corner reminded him of his Connie...

  Jim cut the thought off and shrugged out of his jacket. The place had central heating, the old man said, but where was the thermostat?

  Searching, Jim found it in the kitchen, just to the left of the threshold, by the cellar door. He set it to seventy-two, and it kicked on, groaning and shuddering like a dying dragon. A strange and unpleasant odor filled the house.

  It hasn’t been on in a while.

  Through the window, a small patch of lumpy ground gave way to the forest. To the left, he could just see the muddy shoreline disappearing into the woods.

  The kitchen, like the rest of the house, was terribly dated: black and white checked tiles; seventies or eights model fridge; table with metal legs; floral wallpaper. The back door, its little window covered with a near translucent curtain, led out to the lake. There was a pier, but no boat. That was okay, though. It was mid-November; too late for watersports.

  Jim looked right. Somewhere over the hill was a cemetery. A private, three person affair. The old man’s parents and his sister.

  My daddy built this place with his bare hands in 1956, the old man said, lived here until the day he died. Said he never wanted to leave.

  It was a nice place. Maybe he’d never want to leave, either.

  The rain had let up a little bit, so Jim dashed back out to the Jeep and grabbed a couple of his bags. He sat them by the front door and went out for the others. By the time the rain had picked back up again, all of his luggage was inside and he could start busying himself putting things together.