Twisted’s Evil Little Sister

by Create50

  Memories of Samson’s mother came flooding back to him as his pig eyes traced over the farmer’s wife’s bloated stomach and lingered on two very large saggy teats that flopped down on either side of her doughy frame.

  Samson grunted, he could very much use a drink. He would help himself, just like the farmer helped himself to Samson’s loved ones.

  Samson rushed forward and greedily took the teat in his mouth. He sucked hard and fast, but the skin of the farmer’s wife was not tough and robust like his mother’s and the teat snapped and made an odd popping sound as it burst sending a gush of hot liquid down his throat.

  The farmer’s wife screamed and jolted back across the bed, her hands cupped against the saggy flap of leaking skin that was once her tit. She lunged for the door, leaving a trail of red and yellow splatter as she tried to escape. Samson slammed her into the wall and went for her ankles. With one powerful chomp, he popped her feet clean off.

  The wailing woman dropped to her knees and crashed down. She dragged herself towards the landing, her footless legs glugging blood all over the floorboards.

  Samson followed, his large tongue lapping at the blood trail, his eyes locked on her rump that wobbled as she crawled. He sniffed his way up behind her and sank his jaws into the flesh of her arse. Samson ripped off a hunk and swallowed, a thick yellow fat coated his taste buds, causing them to spasm in delight – people tasted amazing.

  He would have another bite. He sank his jaw into the back of her leg, tasty red juice pooled in his mouth and he greedily sucked it down, only for it to replenish again and again.

  Samson slurped and chomped away, sampling each part of her.

  When he’d stripped the flesh from her back and legs, he flipped her over and took the other teat in his mouth, it exploded, covering the roof of his mouth in a thick tasty goo.

  Samson’s ears pricked up. He looked up from his banquet.

  He’d been in such a feeding frenzy, he hadn’t noticed Penny, the farmer’s daughter, watching him from her bedroom doorway.

  Penny stood, frozen, holding a piglet cuddly-toy to her chest, her eyes glistening with tears.

  Samson felt hollow, sickened. Ashamed that one so young had to witness such a horror. He backed away from the pile of delicious slop that was now Penny’s mother and let out a low Oink.

  If Penny could understand pig she would have known that Samson was saying: Sorry. I’m so very sorry.

  He trotted towards her.

  Samson marched into the courtyard, his skin slick with blood, his belly bulging with meat. He approached the farmer, still trying to drag himself towards the house.

  Samson spat a blood-stained piglet toy by his head.

  A look of recognition snapped across the farmer’s face.

  ‘No!’ he screamed.

  Samson gently placed his snout next to the farmer’s ear, instead of speaking pig, Samson squealed human words,

  ‘How doesss it feeeeeeel?’

  Busy Izzie By Milethia Thomas

  Curiosity. . . It can be a terrible thing.

  Visiting Aunt Delphie’s house was always a thrilling experience. You see, she had these dolls that Izzie Bates, niece, aged eleven, had been told since the age of five: "Must never, ever be touched. Once you touch, the dolls remember."

  Scary words indeed; but Aunt Delphie's skeletal index fingers and penetrating eyes were sufficient deterrents, ensuring that Izzie never did touch the dolls before the age of eleven.

  The dolls were as ingrained in the house as its many walls; deeds stated that a new owner could not remove them.

  A bit like the ravens at The Tower, Izzie supposed.

  Aunt Delphie had no intention of leaving, however, saying, “I want my body to be interred in a wall when I die.”

  Ugh! Random.

  So contentment came with peeping through the door of the bedroom the dolls lived in. Izzie had named them Anwyn, Bertie and Claudette after trawling through a book entitled: Names that have Fallen from Popularity.

  Naming suggests a fondness for something, but she wasn't fond of them, merely intrigued by these oddities, with their troll-like, snouty faces that were framed by ringlets, who were dressed in weird old-fashioned clothes – which Mam said were Victorian.

  The more conventional-looking dolls that shared the glass cabinet with the snouty three were, Izzie noted, often turned away from them.

  Unusually, Aunt Delphie was away this Christmas, seeking "the healing nature of Jamaica". She was "exhausted by the care of the demanding little ones", and had left Mam in charge of the house.

  While Mam was occupied, chasing after a stray tom cat, Izzie sprinted into the dolls’ room, gingerly opened the cabinet, and – with just the one finger, mind – poked Anwyn.

  She supposed that having told Mam that the dolls, one minute, were just staring forward and that she turned away, looked back and they were pointing at her, hadn't helped Mam’s mood; or was it that she said that Anwyn had hissed, “Pretty. Pretty. Naughty Izzie!” and in running away, Izzie tripped and banged her head?

  Whichever, Mam rubbed Izzie's head a little too vigorously while leading her out of the house, and told her that it was obviously too dangerous to visit anymore if she was going to bang her head and talk nonsense about pointing dolls.

  Forget that. As Izzie sulked in the back of the car, rubbing her ever-expanding lump, she knew, beyond any doubt, that they were more than freak-dolls. A two mile walk to Aunt Delphie's was no barrier to a girl on a mission.

  She had in mind the loyal friends to help her.

  "Paxies – right?"

  "Paxies."

  "Paxies."

  Three gloved fists plonked one on top of the other were covered by a light dusting of snow. Izzie, as niece, would be the leader of these year 6 outcasts; she with the moderate hearing loss whom other kids called 'Whistler' because her hearing aid would whistle at inopportune moments.

  Then there was Ewan, the lad who had no dad; and finally Mo, short for Mohammed, whose Christmas in this village was so unlike the others’.

  As a sensible precaution, Izzie had devised armour as protection from doll onslaught: a colander and saucepans for heads (saucepans nicked from hoarder Gran); water pistols to dampen orbs of fire; and finally, whisks, which Izzie believed would trap knives thrust at them.

  “Whisks!” protested Ewan. “Not much good for anything.”

  “No,” tittered Mo. “But at least you could whisk a ghost to death! Scramble up that ectoplasm and toss it back into the ether.”

  Mo and his jokes - and his scary knowledge of words.

  With the key grating tooth-achingly as it turned in the lock, and Izzie's foot planted on the moss encrusted step, the spine-tingling horror of what they were about to do was no longer assigned to playground scares.

  “It smells in here,” Ewan retched as they, tied together by a rope around their waists, trod tentatively on the floorboards, guided by the feeble light from Izzie's torch. “Doesn't your Aunt clean? And can’t she afford a new lightbulb?”

  “That'll be putrefaction – ” Mo began, before he tripped, yanking the others down with him.

  “Careful!” Izzie warned. “There are gaps in the floorboards - oh, and it’s not what Mo said, it’s Aunty’s smell. Old aunts smell strange, like lavender mixed with stinky lavatories.”

  “Lavatories?” Ewan questioned.

  “Toilet. Loo,” Mo translated.

  “Well, why didn’t Izzie just say that?!”

  Scrrrrratch! Scrrrratch!

  Tiny hairs on three pairs of arms stood to attention.

  “What was that?” Breathlessly, Mo moved around so that they huddled together, their hot breath combining to create soothing warmth in the cold night. “I don't feel right, at the back. Can't we just walk separately?”

  “We stick together, Mo, like the Avengers Assemble, but… there are more of them.”

  Izzie swept the hallway with torchlight. Three heads turned, concentrating on the ever-s
hifting shadows.

  There were plenty of finger-curling cobwebs; and suspended in one, similar to those seen in queer Hammer Horrors that Aunt Delphie let Izzie watch, was a withered rat.

  The hallway traversed without too much difficulty, Izzie stepped onto the creaking staircase. “Aunty always says to keep to the banister side. It’s stronger there.”

  She shone the torch around as they climbed; saw Mo glance behind and knew that he was petrified. He and Ewan had drawn hairs plucked from her head to see who would bring up the rear. Mo had tried to bribe Ewan with a back catalogue of Iron Man comics if he swapped places.

  “Hurry up, yeah?” Mo urged.

  A ‘hissSSSSSSSssss!’ streaked past them, and their melodic screams inflated the house.

  “It’s… it’s just a cat!” Izzie finally said, holding the torch in front of her face. Creeeeak! She spun around… face-to-face with Anwyn who, like a deranged Morris Dancer, flew down the stairs, dancing behind Mo.

  “Is someone behind me, Izzie?” Mo's heartbeat blazed a trail through his chest. “Why does your face look like you’ve been forced to eat lumpy custard?”

  Ewan gripped Izzie’s arm. “I’m scared!”

  “I’m not going to be for the chop!” Mo whisked the whisk from the belt at his waist and started whisking. High, low, side-to-side. If something was there, he’d mangle it.

  In the torchlight, Anwyn’s talons sliced at the air around Mo.

  “She’s … she’s there!” Izzie pointed.

  “Where? I can’t see!”

  “Duck, Mo! Duck!”

  Weakly, Ewan said, “Stop scaring us, Izzie!”

  Thirty seconds of air whisking, supplemented by a war cry – "Ahhhhhhhhhhh!" – ensured that Mo had whisked tension away and seen Anwyn off. He bent forward, settling his breath.

  "That – that was Anwyn." Izzie felt as if her voice was speaking to her from the other side of the room.

  "Anwyn?" questioned Ewan.

  "I told you. She's the doll I touched."

  “But there’s nothing there!”

  Izzie's forehead crinkled. More alert, the boys looked in the direction her eyes gazed.

  "Izzie. Izzie," a rasping voice said. "Naughty Izzie. Ever so busy. Nosy Izzie. You’re so silly… And pretty!” Anwyn danced manically from side-to-side, snout opening and closing revealing razor-sharp teeth.

  Breathlessly, Izzie pushed back into the boys for protection. “Don’t you hear her?”

  “Stop it, Izzie!” protested Ewan.

  "Ahhhhhh!" Mo’s ankle twisted on the stairs and he fell backwards. “Heeeeeeeeelp!”

  It was a body-bashing descent to the hallway; his legs burst through the floorboards, and he found himself holding himself up by his arms.

  Izzie and Ewan toppled next to him. Immediately, Izzie tried to locate Anwyn with the torch.

  “She's not here.” Her voice was tight.

  “Get me out, and let's go," Mo squeaked. “Forget playground honour. I’m going to have bruises on my legs the size of saucers. Where have my legs gone?”

  “The basement.”

  They tried to lift him out, but he slipped further in. Izzie shone the torch, squinting through the gap by Mo’s side.

  Her stomach lurched. Anwyn reached up to Mo’s ankles, a self-satisfied smirk on her face. “Help me, Ewan! We’ve got to pull him up now or Anwyn will take him.”

  “You’re scaring me, Izzie!” Mo whined.

  Ewan snatched the torch out of Izzie’s hand, shoved her out of the way and peered through. “Boxes. Cobwebs. There’s only Mo, Izzie! You’ve had your joke. Stop it, now!”

  Crrr-ACK! The floorboards gave way.

  Mo disappeared from view, pulling Ewan forcefully down so that he straddled the hole and Izzie fell on top of him.

  “Izzie,” a voice rasped. “We only want you.”

  Izzie shone the torch in Ewan’s face, blinding him. His eyes blinked rapidly, looking left to right. He pushed the torch back to her, and her colour-drained face was reflected.

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  “They – they want me!”

  Shuffling.

  Izzie gasped, and whirled around.

  “Stuffin’ Nora, Izzie! You’re freaking me out!”

  Mo chimed in with, “Poor Nora! But I need to stop dangling.”

  Izzie recoiled as Bertie and Claudette approached – snouts opening and closing, teeth luminescent in the darkness.

  Then there was a sudden release of weight, followed by a “Wumf!” sound below, and an “Ay-ah!”

  Ewan pulled up the rope that hung through the hole. It dangled, Moless, in his fingers. “Sorry, Mo. I thought it best to cut the rope. I brought scissors – wasn’t sure about the whisk.”

  From below, Anwyn said, “Come to us, Izzzzzzie, or your Mo and Ewan friends will make their mothers childless this night.”

  Silence. Mo’s footsteps could be heard somewhere, pounding stairs determinedly.

  “All right,” Izzie cried. “Let Ewan and Mo go.”

  “Who are you talking to, Izzie?”

  More skin-crawling shuffling, and when Izzie shone the torch, Anwyn now stood next to Bertie and Claudette, the ‘ching! ching!’ of her talons being sharpened one against the other.

  Mo ran into the hall and out of the door.

  “I’m sorry, Izzie.” Ewan cut the rope joining them together. “This just isn’t fun!” And he charged after Mo.

  “Ewan!” Izzie dropped to the floor, covering her head with her hands, and waited for the bite…

  “Izzie!” Mam’s voice filtered through to her. "Izzie!”

  Weakly, Izzie raised herself up off the floor, fingers tracing the painful lump on her forehead. “I tripped and banged my head, Mam. It was the dolls.”

  She turned, looking straight into Anwyn, Bertie and Claudette's victorious faces. Anwyn’s gravelly voice said, “Izzie, Izzie… Another pretty.” Through the open door, Izzie could see Mam rushing around.

  "Izzie! Stop messing about and come here!”

  "Mam! I'm here!" Izzie moved forward and immediately hit… glass. She now saw her own startled reflection, just as an unnerving warmth coursed through her; her body hardening. Panicking, she raised a hand, intending to tap the glass…

  As Mam peeped into the room, wrinkling her nose at the sight of Anwyn, Bertie and Claudette, nothing had changed.

  If, however, she'd taken a few more steps and looked closely, she would have seen a new doll – brown skinned, with tiny hearing aids.

  Just like her daughter.

  And so, bothersome though it was, Aunt Delphie had to return from Jamaica early when she heard that Izzie was missing. As she peered into the cabinet, seeing what Mam had failed to see, she tutted at Anwyn, Bertie and Claudette, before touching the tiny forever-frozen tear on Izzie doll’s face; and said, with a shrug: “Curiosity… It’s a terrible thing.”

  Chocolate to Die For

  By Jonah Jones

  The narrow street was unfamiliar, yet imbued with some resonance she couldn’t identify. She was about to turn and retrace her steps when she saw him.

  He was standing, legs apart, one arm flung high, the other holding a microphone. As she approached the gorgeous creature set in a shop window, she saw that it was a life-sized replica of Elvis Presley, manufactured entirely from chocolate.

  The detail was extraordinary. But for the colour of his flesh it could have been Elvis, in his later years, admittedly, but the undisputed King nevertheless.

  Was this some part of paradise, the two great loves of her life conjoined and placed right in front of her?

  Had God finally admitted that He’d been giving her a mean deal and was presenting her with the balance of justice, or had she simply died and gone to Heaven?

  Elvis, the only man she’d ever loved who hadn’t broken her heart; and chocolate, the only true consolation in all those broken-hearted times.

  As she stared at the wonderful statue, she became a
ware of a pair of eyes watching her intently from the relative darkness of the shop behind the exhibit. She smiled nervously and began to turn away from that penetrating stare.

  “Magnificent, isn’t he?” the man said from the shop doorway.

  “Yes, he is. It’s a pity that it’s the fat, old Elvis though,” she replied.

  “Sadly that wasn’t an option,” he said with a smile, “but you get more chocolate this way.”

  She laughed, and he pressed home his advantage. “I see you are a connoisseur. Would you like to see some of the other pieces we have?”

  As the street seemed to be part of some distant memory, so did this man.

  “I am Xavier, possibly your guide to a perfect place.” He had an accent she couldn’t identify, Spanish perhaps. His face was rounded, the nose hooked, the brown eyes slightly oriental.

  He stepped to one side and held out his arm in a welcoming gesture towards the shop door. “Come, see, you do not have to buy.”

  Wondering whether she was being foolish, but too intrigued to walk away, she stepped into the shop. “My name’s Catherine,” she told him.

  “Welcome, Catherine.”

  He smiled and bowed as she walked into the main room to find herself surrounded by statues, all made from chocolate. The wonderful smell was almost enough to drive her out of her mind.

  “They’re beautiful,” she whispered, as she approached each in turn to study the similarly extraordinary detail in each face, moulded so perfectly that the personality seemed to have been captured in the process.

  “Each of these people loved chocolate,” he told her.

  “Including Elvis?”

  “More than most. Some will tell you that chocolate killed him, but I say that it afforded him a release. It has many extraordinary powers.”

  Catherine nodded and continued to study the various faces around her.

  “I am a chocolatier,” said Xavier grandly, “and if I may be permitted to dispense with inappropriate modesty, possibly the finest chocolatier in the whole world.”

  She laughed out loud at that.

  Xavier smiled back and his dark eyes widened. “I see you require proof, Miss Catherine.” He turned towards a dark blue velvet curtain hanging on the back wall. “This is not so unreasonable, for you hardly know me.”