Frightmares: A Fistful of Flash Fiction Horror Read online

  FOREWORD

  Lightning crashes outside and you jolt up in bed, drenched with sweat and panting like you’re taking in your last breaths. Body trembling, you try to regain a sense of logic, but the darkness surrounding you is too dominant. You’ve dragged yourself from one of the worst nightmares of your life, and you can’t even remember what it had been about. Only that it had been frightening; frightening and endless. Brutal and unforgiving. A minute’s worth of reality, and an eternity’s worth of memory. Like a snapshot in a book of screams.

  You may not remember what had been in the dream, but you know whatever had been there sure remembers you, and it will never forget. From this moment on, you know you will never be the same. Forget about getting any more sleep tonight–or any other night for that matter—not when whatever is after you is still out there . . . waiting. And it will never stop until it’s claimed what it desires. All it needs–all it wants–is for you to lay back down and close your eyes. Just for a moment. Surrender your body . . . your mind. It can wait longer than you can stay awake. It has eternity on its side.

  The only choice you have is to give in. The nightmare has found you, and it will never let go. So shut those eyes. Don’t say a word. The moon is hidden in the midnight sky and that is the way things will be for the rest of time. Feel the shadows caressing your cheek? It wants you. It is your only true lover. Embrace the darkness. Embrace the fear.

  Embrace the nightmare.

  -Max Booth III

  co-author of The Ultimate Survival Guide for Humanity

  (2012 Dark Moon Books)

  DARK MOON BOOKS

  an imprint of Stony Meadow Publishing

  Largo, Florida

  Frightmares: A Fistful of Flash Fiction Horror

  Copyright © Dark Moon Books 2011

  (Individual stories are copyright by their respective authors)

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN: 978-0-9834335-5-2

  The stories included in this publication are works of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  www.darkmoonbooks.com

  E-mail: [email protected]

  ARTWORK CREDITS

  Cover Artwork: Whendy Muchlis Effendy

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This book has been a long time in creation. I am not sure how many body pieces Victor Frankenstein used to create his “monster,” but I’ll bet he used a lot less than we did in stitching this thing together.

  It was pointed out to me during the proofreading and editing process that the table of contents included more words (nearly 800 at last count) than any of the individual stories. It was an interesting observation, but it proves a point. A well-written, complete story can be told with very few words. It reminds me of the myth about Hemingway being challenged by a bunch of friends to write a compelling story in six words and he allegedly wrote “For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn.”

  So here it is in all of its nightmarish, ghoulish glory: Frightmares–A Fistful of Flash Fiction. And it wouldn’t have been possible without all of the authors who have been so very patient with the process. It would also not have been possible without the assistance of several Dark Moon staff members including (but not limited to) Jennifer Word, Frances Augusta Hogg, Lori Michelle, George Lea, Ryan Falcone, Kurt Reichenbach, Sean Davis, Michael O’Neal and Katie Immethun. And a special thanks goes out to Max Booth III who edited stories like a madman for the last three weeks of the process in order to get this monster sewn up tight and ready for a jolt of lightning to bring it to life. And, yes, that time has come, my friends. “It Lives!”

  Enjoy.

  Stan Swanson

  Editor/Publisher, Dark Moon Books

  CONTENTS

  Head Shot John Erbar

  Stranglers in the Night Jeff Carter

  The Deal Mike Wilson

  $2 Bust From An Antique Sale Eric J. Guignard

  Circle Of Salt Adam William Spike

  Genesis Natalie Mcnabb

  Running With The Pack Stan Swanson

  Serial Killers Don’t Pay Membership Dues K. K. Philan

  The Initiation Jason D. Brawn

  Stakes P. R. O’Leary

  Nostalgia Miriam H. Harrison

  The Heart Of Hell Liam Ford

  Ladder Of Thorns John Irvine

  The Burly Men Of Maine Eric Dimbley

  Motherhood Cindy Little

  Grease Monkey Joseph Robert Desylva

  A Modern Problem Rob Smales

  See Jack Run L. A. Tobin

  80 Square Feet Jason Burum

  A Jury Of His Peers Andrew Alford

  I Live In Your Cupboard Santiago Eximeno

  The Children Of Faith Sean Templeton

  Sally’s Dream Gary R. Hoffman

  They Won’t Get Us T. J. Reed

  The Shackles James S. Dorr

  Skipping Stones A. J. Brown

  Mush Logan Branjord

  If These Walls Could Talk Jack Nealy

  The Real World Cyndie Goins Hoelscher

  A New Suit John Hunt

  The Voyeur Ran Walker

  The Summing Of Parts Vince Darcangelo

  Awake Adam Stehly

  Leaves R. F. Marazas

  Instinct Suzie Lockhart

  Every Fiber Peggy McFarland

  Welcome To The Neighborhood Lori Michelle

  The Unwrapping Carrie Anne Martin

  And Their Names Were . . . Brian J. Smith

  The Beauty Of Death Cris Keuggar

  Just Leave Milo James Fowler

  Lobotomy Pedro Iniguez

  The Mailbox Of Broken Dreams Pavelle Wesser

  Neighbour From Hell Paul Johnson-Jovanovic

  Popsicles Charles Nathan Capasso

  Number Thirty-Six Alba Arango

  Not Very Long Left T. E. Samad

  Feed Suzie Savage

  Springing Forward Steven Jenkins

  Prototype Niall Mcmahon

  Blood Of Gleuvinn Nicholas Conley

  La Rana Cynthia (Cina) Pelayo

  Apple Of My Eye Ramona Gardea

  Polly Gone Nathan Robinson

  Mother Franca Di Pietro

  The House Call C. W. LaSart

  The Call Adam J. Mueller

  Blood Ties Roger Kilbourne

  Catholic School S. Walker

  Eye Candy David Buchan

  Evading The Dark Pursuer Ron Koppelberger

  A Thoughtful Gift Kevin David Anderson

  A Fishy Tale Connie Berridge

  Twitch And Twitter Steve Voelker

  Dead Eyes See No Future Scott Davison

  Howling Richard Allden

  Lovely Girls Marshall A. Taylor

  The Creature Beneath The Narrows Bridges Judy Comer Franklin

  Always Come Back Joe Mynhardt

  Insanity Ellen Denton

  Infected Donald Haas

  Absorb Lance Davis

  I Used To Find Things Keith Deininger

  Dead Reckoning Hope Sullivan McMickle

  The Final Fight Kevin Brown

  Language Bunny Ultramod

  The Girl Next Door Lev Heller

  Death Is Just A Tick Away Kelli A. Wilki
ns

  Black Ice Bon Tindle

  The Beat Of Intention Greg Chapman

  The Buoy Scott Scherr

  Golden Amelia Frances Augusta Hogg

  Like A Puff Of Smoke P. A. Clark

  Justice For Ginger Graham Ducker

  Hydropod Slug Invasion Zoltan Varga

  House Call Jennifer Word

  Speed Dial John Schroeder

  The Other Side Jeremiah Dutch

  Thirteen Seconds George Morrow

  Living Things Stephen D. Rogers

  Last Meal Rachel Green

  Such A Shiny Pretty Blade Blane Rogers

  Road Diary Of A U.S. Army Grunt Joseph Rubas

  Night Shift Tara Fox Hall

  The Man In The Carnival Booth Eric Houge

  House On Fredrick’s Way Rebekah Galas

  Murdered Angel Valerie D. Benko

  Grizzly Possibilities D. M. Slate

  Mother Hen Phil Bledsoe

  Stitch David Horscroft

  Bloody Perfect Vincenzo Bilof

  Fertilizer John Erik Petersen

  Grasping At Straws Patricia La Barbara

  Gray Janel Gradowski

  Hollowed Walls Diane Ward

  In The Other Room J. M. Lewis

  Oral Fixation April Williams

  Marvel The Magician Gerald A. Griffiths

  Mirror View Max Booth III

  Moments From The Fringe George Wilhite

  Nothing Left But Faith Eric Pollarine

  Of What Is Hidden In The Blood Stephen Gresham

  Primal Were Timothy P. Remp

  Question Mark Robert Wilde

  Residue Of Decay Rania Hanna

  Road Hazard Charlie Bookout

  Shadows In The Night Courtney Rene

  The Leopard Optimist Benjamin McElroy

  Special Rebecca Carter

  Spirit James Beaton

  Sunglasses Paul D. Scavitto

  The Hands Corey Maida

  The Kiss Sonia B. Sygaco

  The Laugh That Makes You Cry For Mommy Jerry Wright

  The Raven And The Snowman Sharif Khan

  The Secret Of Mrs. Is Grier Jewell

  The Subject Charles Thurston-Snoha

  Unexpected Visitor John T. Foley

  Finis Stan Swanson

  HEADSHOT

  JON ERBAR

  The pistol quavered in Richard’s slick palms as he edged slowly backward until his ass bumped into the brick wall.

  Dead end.

  Dead right, he thought sourly. He grimaced, wondering again how he’d possibly allowed himself to be chased into a blind alley.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid!

  Now, everything rode upon this final shot. There was zero room for error.

  A headshot.

  Nothing else would suffice. Even if he managed to wing the goddamned thing, he’d never get past it and make it back out onto the street.

  Hell, he didn’t think he’d be able to take another step without collapsing, let alone manage to keep running.

  He was scared shitless. Sweat stung his eyes, blurring his vision. His exhausted legs trembled, threatening to cave from fatigue. But he couldn’t afford to lose focus—not now. Not when concentration and that final bullet were all that stood between him and . . .

  The infected barreled into sight, and Richard found himself staring down a giant. Decked in combat boots, urban camouflage, and utility webbing, the thing was clearly a member of the U.S. military.

  Strike that, Richard thought. Former U.S. military.

  Gore caked its maw, chest and shoulders, while drool sprayed past its bared teeth like streamers. Its left leg was a jumble of savaged flesh and fractured bone. Its right arm had been severed at the elbow. The bloody stump hemorrhaged freely, a macabre Jackson Pollock spraying the asphalt in its wake.

  There was no hesitation, no stutter in the thing’s gait . . . and why would there be? The son of a bitch knew Richard had bumbled down this passageway. It charged forward, devouring the distance at a lope.

  Richard fought to steady the gun. He forced his breathing to slow down, narrowing his eyes at its approach. Mere yards separated him from death, but he had to be patient. He had to delay pulling the trigger until the last possible second.

  The infected’s hunched posture made a headshot problematic. Its awkward stride made such a shot even more difficult. The fact the fucking thing was sprinting made the task all but impossible.

  However, Richard had anticipated all of this.

  He inhaled deeply.

  Closed his eyes.

  Thought of mother.

  Bit down on the cold steel of the barrel and pulled the trigger.

  The gun jammed.

  Jon Erbar lives in Oklahoma City. He is currently a senior at the University of Oklahoma, working toward a bachelor’s degree in professional writing. When not writing horror stories he enjoys reading, going to the movies, and playing with his dachshund, Pubba.

  STRANGLERS IN THE NIGHT

  JEFF CARTER

  I hate hospitals. I’ve been waiting amongst a herd of coughing, vomiting, bleeding people at County General for two hours. The stab wounds, burned flesh and bullet holes . . . it’s the mess that really gets to me.

  A pair of cops roll in and out, chatting with E.M.Ts, flirting with nurses. If they find out who I am, a heart attack will be the least of my problems. I keep my head down and wait.

  Finally, a nurse waves me into a small room. A junkie writhes in the other bed, babbling nonsense, twisting in his restraints. The nurse loops a blood pressure cuff around my arm, glancing curiously at the thick braids of veins and muscle in my forearms. She sets up a heart monitor then slides out of the room.

  I watch my heartbeat flailing around on the monitor while the junkie struggles. He’s emaciated, yellow, arms cratered with track marks. Just the thought of sticking a needle into one of my beautifully sculpted arms makes the heart monitor yelp.

  The doctor strides into the room and plucks up my chart.

  He peers over the clipboard, focuses on my muscular arms. Extending a hand, he looks into my eyes, shakes my hand with bone crushing pressure.

  “So, you must be the St. Louis Strangler.” My heart rate spikes. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m the Atlanta Strangler.”

  “Never heard of no Atlanta Strangler,”

  The Doctor chuckles. “Of course not. People die in hospitals all the time. It’s very tidy. I transferred here last week.”

  “But . . . but there can’t be two Stranglers in one city . . . it’s against the code!”

  The doctor raises his hands in deference. “Hey, you don’t have to tell me the code. Nobody wants a repeat of that Hillside Strangler business.”

  The junkie starts screaming. “Nurse! Help! They crazy! They gonna get me!”

  “I got it,” says the doctor. He snatches the blue privacy curtain, slicing the room in half. I hear the familiar sounds of spit gurgling and cartilage crunching on the other side.

  The doctor continues: “Headquarters says one of us has to relocate. Unless you’d be willing to commute.”

  “No way,” I wheeze. “The nearest place worth strangling is two hours away. I know this city. Where to find people, where to dump them.”

  The doctor grabs the junkie’s chart and glances at his watch. “Time of death: 1:47 a.m. Look, you’re a great strangler, everyone says so. But you’ve got a heart condition. What if you had a heart attack during a strangle and the victim got away? They get the cops, the cops get you; you roll over on the organization. It’s too risky.”

  “I love my job, and I ain’t quitting. You know Stranglers don’t retire.”

  “Yes . . .” says the doctor.

  He switches off my heart monitor and flexes his powerful hands. “That’s why I’m here.”

  Jeff C. Carter lives in Venice, CA with two cats, a dog and a human. He is a writer of science fiction, horror and graphic novels. He is currently developing a steampunk RPG called “Mecha West�
�� for Heroic Journey Publishing. To find more of his stories head to http://jeffccarter.wordpress.com/.

  THE DEAL

  MIKE WILSON

  Tim sat at his desk and shook his head in disbelief.

  Drastic action was needed. The pile of bills on his desk demanded that.

  “What do I do now?” he said.

  “There is a solution, Tim,” a voice replied.

  Tim looked around wildly, thinking he must really be losing it.

  “I’m down here, dummy.”

  Tim looked down.

  “What are you?”

  “I’m real, for starters.”

  “Okay, I see that. Are you a genie?”

  The creature chuckled. “I’m what you call a demon.”

  Tim absorbed this, and rubbed his eyes. The creature was still there.

  “So, about your little financial problem . . .”

  “I can handle it myself,” Tim said.

  “Yeah, like you have so far?”

  “Okay, so what do you propose?”

  “My price is not your soul, or any such malarkey. I’m not very expensive—and, I can wipe your debt clean.”

  “So what do I have to give, then?”

  “All you have to give up is something precious, like say, a friend, or a prized possession. It has to be something whose existence has gotten you through rough times just by thinking about it. It could be a cherished book, or a lover.”

  “Why something like this?”

  “Something precious enough to a human to help them to endure hardship has very real energy in its own right. The more value a human imparts to the object or person, the more ‘energy’ that object gains in other dimensions. It’s hard to explain. But trust me—these things have value.”

  Tim thought a moment, and then said, “All right. I want to give up a friendship. Does this mean you would consume the person?”

  “Haven’t you been listening? It means I consume the friendship, which has become an entity in its own right.”

  “Okay,” said Tim. “I want to give up my friendship with Dan, a person with whom I have spent many happy times with over the last ten years or so. That won’t cost me anything.”

  The demon took on the appearance of a face, and leered at Tim. “Hope this isn’t a friend with whom you are on the outs or anything.”