Supernatural Horror Short Stories

by Flame Tree Studio

  Someone tried to break in and steal my dress.

  They must have run away. Probably that old man from the antique store, deciding he wanted to keep the gown for himself just to spite me. Bastard.

  I glance at the front door again. It’s locked with a chain, and no one could have disengaged that lock from the outside. Be reasonable, Rose. The old man was sick. He had more important things to think about than some dress. Besides, I paid in cash so he didn’t even know my name.

  These wedding jitters are really starting to mess with my brain.

  Pushing away my bedding, I shuffle to my closet and lift the dress by the shoulders to hold it aloft. A coldness passes over me, through me, chilling to the bone even in the summer heat. The draft follows me as I lay the dress out on one side of the bed, on top of the covers. Better to have the gown close so I can make sure it’s safe. I climb in on the other side, shivering from the cold, and pull the covers over me. I rest one hand on the bodice of the dress. If anyone tries to take it from me, I’ll be ready.

  * * *

  A buzzing sound coaxes me from a deep sleep. I try desperately to grasp the last vestiges of my dream. A blonde woman spins around and around before a mirror in my dress, her face glowing with happiness. The image flits through my mind and is gone.

  I reach over and touch the satin and beading of the gown. Still here, still safe.

  Buzz, buzz, buzz. I feel across the end table until I find my phone, which shows a missed call and voicemail from my best friend, Dinah. I hit play.

  “Rose, where are you? We’re already a person short with Manny quitting. Get your ass in here,” she says.

  “Crap.” I must have slept through my alarm or forgotten to set one. Morning sunlight streams through the crack in the curtains. Breakfast is the busiest time at the restaurant, and Dinah must be going crazy trying to handle it all herself. I should jump out of bed get and get down there as fast as possible. Lord knows I need the money.

  My heartbeat flutters in my chest, a quick, staccato beat. I can’t leave, not now. I survey my apartment. Someone was here last night. What if they try to break in again? I pull the dress across the bed and settle it on my lap.

  I text a quick reply to Dinah.

  Sick as a dog so can’t come in. Sorry :(

  Guilt churns through my stomach and I grimace. I’ve ever lied to her, but I have no choice. I must protect the dress.

  The cold is back. It lays on top of me like a lead weight, sinking onto my chest, through my ribs, into my heart. Goosebumps break out across my arms and the hair on the back of my neck stands up.

  I clutch the dress tighter, using it as a blanket, but the chill seems to get worse.

  * * *

  It’s taken me all day, but I’ve managed to mend every loose bead, every unraveling hem, every torn bit of lace. My fingertips are bloody and sore from the needle and I make sure to wrap them with bandages so no blood stains the delicate fabric of the dress.

  It’s perfect, just as it was so many years ago.

  My eyelids drift closed as the lilting melody of a waltz plays through my mind. The fair-haired bride is back, spinning and laughing. She’s thinking about her fiancée, about the look on his face when he sees her on their special day.

  The music and laughter fade as the image transforms. Now the woman sits on a chaise lounge wearing an old-fashioned cotton nightgown. Silent sobs wrack her body and she rocks in place. She clutches the dress to her chest, knowing she’ll never get that chance to wear it. Why did her father have to be so cruel and send her dearest Brock away?

  Don’t cry, Anna. Don’t cry.

  A pounding noise wrenches me back to reality, and I blink back the tears brimming in my eyes.

  “Rosie, it’s me.” Eli’s voice carries through the door.

  The dress. He can’t be allowed to see it. I glance at the closet, at the empty hanger on the bar. The closet isn’t safe. I need to be able to see the gown, touch it.

  A faint electrical buzzing sounds beside me and the lamp flickers off. I tap the bulb with my finger.

  Thump, thump, thump. “You’re freaking me out, baby. Open up so I can see you’re okay.” His voice is tight, tense.

  I creep across the apartment. Leaving the chain fastened, I open the door a crack and peek through.

  Eli frowns. “Dinah said you called in sick.”

  I cringe at the worry in his voice. “I caught some kind of bug.” The lie leaves a sour taste on my tongue.

  “You should have called me.” He lifts the plastic grocery bag in his hand. “Anyway, I brought soup and cold medicine.”

  I smile. Maybe I can put the gown away and let him in for a few minutes.

  A buzz sounds behind me, and I glance over my shoulder. The lamp flickers on, seeming to get brighter, then goes off with a pop. The dress skirt hangs off the bed and ripples slightly, as if brushed by a breeze.

  I peer up at Eli. “I don’t want to get you sick.”

  “I’ll be fine.” He pushes against the door. “Come on, let me in.”

  “No.” I clench the door jam, sending a sting of pain through my battered fingers. “I just need to get some rest.”

  He backs up a step. “Oh…okay. I guess I’ll just leave this for you.” He puts the bag down. “Call me tomorrow?”

  I flinch at the uncertainty in his voice. “I will. Promise.”

  “Love you, Rosie.” He stands there staring at me, his shoulders slumped.

  My throat tightens. “Love you, too.” I close the door and lean against it. Part of me wants to fling open the door and rush after him, do anything to wipe that look of hurt from his face, but I can’t leave. Not now. Once I’m sure the dress is safe, protected, I’ll make it up to him.

  * * *

  I don’t normally wear much makeup, but this is a special occasion. Eyeliner, shadow, mascara, and lipstick. I even take extra time to curl my auburn mane before piling it on my head. Finally, I’m ready. As I slip on the gown and lace up the back, tension melts from my muscles.

  The sensation of being watched sends a quiver along my spine and I scan the room, my eyes darting into every corner, peering into every shadow. I’m all alone.

  I should take off the dress, I know, but the thought of removing the gown makes my heart pound so hard it echoes through my bones. I’ll just wear it for a little while longer. I sway and turn in the center of the room, dancing to the music lilting through my mind.

  The shard of sunlight streaming through the curtains dims then disappears, replaced by the light of the streetlamp as day turns to night. I’ve been dancing so long my feet ache and throb.

  I should rest a minute. The dress will be fine as long as I’m careful. I lie back on my bed, on top of the covers.

  I drift in and out of sleep, for how long, I’m not sure.

  The shard of sunlight is back.

  My phone buzzes on the nightstand.

  Someone pounds on the door, shouting my name.

  I barely register the disturbance.

  The coldness is with me again. I turn my head and see the bride lying beside me on the bed. She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Pale, alabaster skin. Blue eyes that sparkle like sapphires. Lips red as ripe strawberries. Golden hair fanned across the pillow.

  “Anna,” I whisper. I want to reach out, but I’m afraid my touch will send her away.

  She places her hand on my cheek. Her caress is ice, biting my skin, and the frost spreads through my body.

  I want to pry her hand away, but I can’t move.

  I can’t move.

  Fear sends my heart galloping in my chest. I breathe faster and faster. Every inch of my skin is numb with cold.

  She smiles and her skin cracks like old porcelain. Black sludge wells in the cracks, oozing out in thick drops. Her golden hair turns grey and begins
to fall from her scalp in clumps as her eyes melt in a stream of yellowy puss that runs down her face. The red of her lips turns flaky and brown, like drying blood, and her teeth rot and crumble.

  I try to scream but only manage a faint moan. Every inch of my body, inside and out, is frozen. My pulse slows as the blood in my veins turns to slush. Each breath a struggle, I gasp for air as arctic flames engulf my skin. A silent scream fills my throat.

  My vision begins to blur at the edges. Hold on. Stay awake.

  A faint pounding reaches my ears. The door. I can’t even open my mouth to cry out.

  I love you, Eli.

  A single teardrop freezes in the corner of my eye.

  Anna wraps her arms around me and pulls me close. I try to thrash, to break free, but my body is no longer mine to control. I want to scream and beg, but my lungs are locked in ice. The rotten odor of death surrounds me.

  * * *

  The Daily Mirror

  Local Bride Freezes to Death in Home

  Police are searching for answers in the death of 21-year-old Rose Halloway, whose body was found in her apartment early yesterday morning. Police discovered the body after her fiancée reported hearing a struggle inside. Clothed in her wedding dress, Halloway was unconscious and not breathing when found. Attempts to revive her failed. The apparent cause of death is hypothermia, which has officials baffled. Investigators are calling the death of Halloway suspicious. Anyone with information should contact the police department.

  The Floating Girls: A Documentary

  Damien Angelica Walters

  The floating girls are all but forgotten now. It’s easier to pretend they didn’t exist, to pretend it didn’t happen. But there are parents who still keep bedrooms captured in time, complete with clothes folded in bureau drawers and diaries tucked beneath pillows, everything in its place, waiting, and there are friends who still gaze at the sky, wondering how far the girls floated and if they ever fell.

  Some of us haven’t forgotten. Some of us never will.

  * * *

  Twelve years ago, three hours after the sun set on the second of August, nearly 300,000 girls between the ages of eleven and seventeen vanished. Eyewitness reports state that the girls floated away, yet even now, many of those eyewitnesses have recanted their stories or simply refuse to talk about it at all.

  The girls lived in cities, in the suburbs, in the country. They lived in first world and third world countries. They were only children; they were one of many siblings; they were of all ethnicities and religious backgrounds. They were everyone and anyone, and after that night in August, they were no more.

  I’ve found plenty of evidence decrying the phenomenon, but there are lists, lists of the girls who disappeared. Those who claim it’s all bullshit provide other lists, girls who vanished and were found years later: the runaways; the girls involved in ugly custody battles, who were spirited away by either custodial or non-custodial parents; the girls whose decomposing bodies were recovered from forests, old drainpipes, beneath concrete patios.

  But none of those girls were floating girls, only gone girls; the reports always conveniently leave that out.

  I wonder about the evidence I haven’t found, that doesn’t exist; it seems like there should be so much more. And how many girls who vanished were never reported? And why just girls? Why just these girls?

  As far as I can tell, very few scientists or statisticians studied the phenomenon itself. No one counseled the families; no one dug through the chaos to find the facts. Like certain religious or political scandals, everyone wanted to brush it under the rug.

  Maybe it made a strange sort of sense at the time. I don’t know.

  * * *

  Jessie and I grew up next door in a tiny corner of suburbia. You know the sort: backyard cookouts, running through the sprinklers, drinking water from the hose, playing tag. Perfectly charming. The sort of childhood that screams ideal. The sort of childhood that could take place anywhere, in any town, not just our little corner of Baltimore, Maryland.

  Our backyards were separated by a row of hedges with spaces in between perfectly sized for someone to walk through. We would flit from yard to yard – mine had the swing set and the sprinkler; hers the sandbox and hammock – and house to house, nearly inseparable, spinning circles and holding hands while we chanted Jessie and Tracy, best friends forever.

  My strongest memory is how she and I spent countless hours catching fireflies. We’d keep them inside glass jars with holes poked in the lids so they wouldn’t die, and we’d invent stories that the fireflies were princesses trapped in the bodies and the lights were their way of calling for help because they couldn’t speak. And every night, we’d let them go, watching until they blinked out of sight, pretending they were off to find their mothers, their princes, the witches who’d cursed them.

  I think you only truly make those sort of friendships in childhood; when you get older, you know better than to let people in. You know they’ll only disappoint you in the end.

  * * *

  Video interview with Karen Michaels of Monmouth, Oregon, March 17, 2010:

  [A woman is sitting in a cramped, dingy kitchen, a lit cigarette clutched tightly between two fingers, an overflowing ashtray by her side. She grimaces at the camera and looks down at her cigarette. Her face is worn and heavily lined, her shoulders hunched forward.]

  “Thank you for agreeing to talk to me, Mrs. Michaels. I know this is difficult.”

  [Mrs. Michaels takes a drag from her cigarette. Exhales the smoke loudly.]

  “Call me Karen, okay?”

  “Okay, Karen. I know it’s been a long time, but can you tell me what happened that night, August second –”

  [She waves the hand holding the cigarette.]

  “I know what night you’re talking about.”

  [Another inhale from her cigarette. Another exhale.]

  “Nina had problems with sleepwalking when she was a kid. Used to drive me crazy. For a couple years, I had to lock her bedroom door from the outside to keep her in the house. You got kids?”

  “No –”

  “That’s right. You already told me you didn’t. Who knows, maybe you’re lucky. Anyway, that night, the night Nina floated, it had been years since she walked in her sleep. I heard her go down the steps, and I followed her. She went out the front door and stood on the lawn, staring down at her feet, like this.”

  [Mrs. Michaels stubs out her cigarette and stands with her arms straight and her head down, her hands held out a few inches from her body.]

  “I thought she was sleepwalking again, that’s all, so I stayed on the front porch. I was getting ready to go get her, grab her arm, and take her back in because I had to get up early in the morning. But then she went up, just up, like a balloon. I, I –”

  [Video cuts off. Returns. Mrs. Michaels is wiping her eyes.]

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Yeah, sure, I’m fine. I, so she went up, and I thought…I don’t know what I thought. I ran and tried to grab her, but she was already up too far. I touched the side of her foot, but I guess, I guess I was just too late.”

  [She grabs another cigarette and lights it. Her voice is barely audible when she speaks again.]

  “I let her go. I didn’t know what else to do, so I let her go.”

  [Her head snaps up. She looks straight into the camera.]

  “Everyone told me not to talk about it. It’s like she never existed at all. But she did. She did. No one cared that she was gone. No one. Do you really think this thing, your project, will help?”

  “I’d like to think it will, yes.”

  [She makes a sound low in her throat.]

  “Will you tell me what Nina was like?”

  “She was like every other kid. Listened to her music too loud, left her dirty clothes on the floor, griped about h
er chores, but she didn’t run around wild or anything like that. She didn’t drink or do drugs.”

  “And what was your relationship with Nina like?”

  “Normal. I mean, we had fights, but nothing really serious. She was always in her room, reading or listening to music.”

  “What about with her siblings, her father?”

  “Everyone was fine. Everything was fine.”

  [There’s a long pause, and she looks away with tears in her eyes. Video ends.]

  * * *

  Jessie’s father died the year we turned eight. I remember black clothing, tears, confusion, and the smell of flowers. At some point, she and I snuck out into her backyard and played in the sandbox. I don’t remember what we talked about or if we talked about anything at all, but I remember how we slipped out of our dress shoes and wriggled our toes through the warm top layer of sand to the cool beneath. I remember the scent of honeysuckle thick in the air.

  * * *

  Recording of a telephone interview, July 28, 2012:

  “You’re not going to use my name, right? I don’t want you to use my name.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  “Good. Okay.”

  “Tell me what you think happened on the night of August second.”

  “All I can tell you is what I saw. The kid was hanging in the air in her backyard, looking like some kind of angel, only not the kind you can see through. I mean, she wasn’t wearing anything like an angel would. I think she had on some kind of dress, but nothing like you see in pictures of angels or anything like that. Then she went straight up. Craziest damn thing I ever saw. I kept thinking it was the beer. I only had a couple, maybe three, but…”

  “Did you do anything?”

  “What could I do? Hell, by the time I figured out my eyes wasn’t playing tricks, she was high up. I mean really high up.”

  “And you told the authorities what you saw?”

  “Yeah, I told them. Lot of good that did me. They said I was crazy. Or drunk. People can’t float. But I know what I saw, and that girl just floated up and away.”