Frightmares: A Fistful of Flash Fiction Horror Read online

  Under the dimmed chandelier, the empty wine decanter glistened between us. She sat across from me at the dining table; her head tilted sideways, feigning sympathy behind pale green eyes. With arms stretched stiffly forward, she clasped her glass like a sword, deflecting the perilous memories I dared to reveal.

  “I don’t remember that,” she replied, robotically.

  Still I continued, unwrapping the past between us.

  Behind the stillness, her face worked ardently to mask her empty soul. “Let it out. You let it out,” she said.

  So I did.

  Suddenly, I was small again. Alone in our family livingroom. With her.

  I sat motionless on the chair, staring into the morphing colours of the TV screen. Willing myself to join them. But no matter how still or quiet I remained, her icy silence grew thick.

  Fear had rooted me to the cushions. I edged my head to one side to glimpse her form, undetected. An invisible fist tightened around my heart. Her hunger, her evil, enveloped me.

  Her arms were folded tightly, one leg crossed over the other, staring through the TV. Mentally fixated on her prey. As if only to enjoy the suffering. And in that naive fear, I implored of her, “Mom?”

  Her eyes hardened in smug hatred.

  “What?” she snapped.

  “Mom, what’s wrong?”

  She turned toward me. “Nothing,” she said.

  Lost between then and now, the unspoken truth fell from my lips, “I want my mommy.”

  I should have stopped then.

  “Don’t,” she said.

  She shook her head and repeated, “Don’t.”

  But it was too late.

  And I saw with adult eyes the beast, and nothing of the mother.

  She seethed with revulsion. Her body stretched and popped grotesquely. Then she pushed her clawed hands against the table and stretched upward.

  “I should have killed you when you were born,” she hissed, slithering her fur-clumped body along the wood. Saliva spat from a jaw-full of spiky teeth protruding from her face. “You were needy and pathetic. So trusting. So loyal. Just like your father.”

  Fear laid heavy in my soul.

  “And you. You,” she howled. “Always questions. Sick hope! Have you any idea what it’s like, living like this? Living the pretense of human life, day in, day out?”

  The deranged truth of my entire existence–of hers–was inescapable now. Anger flooded my fear, sweeping me upright to meet her wild stare. Tensing for battle, my fingertips ached to rupture talons and shred her to extinction. But I would not let myself become her.

  I turned away, and went to bed.

  A quake of slamming and bashing ensued beneath me. And then, the mother I never had, was gone.

  Carrie Anne Martin is a freelance designer and writer, born in West Yorkshire, England. She now resides in Ontario, Canada, with her husband, young daughter, and three fur-balls.

  AND THEIR NAMES WERE...

  BRIAN J. SMITH

  Girlfriends? Yeah, I have lots of them. Tiffany, Sarah, Jessica, Mary, Angela and Olga, the beautiful foreign exchange student from Russia.

  My new girlfriend’s name is Erica. She has long blonde hair, green eyes and a body to die for; thick lips and a pair of breasts the size of two beer steins. I first met her a year ago, in a little café on campus. I accidentally bumped into her table and almost spilled her mocha latte; I put my hand over the top to keep it from spilling. After my initial apology, I offered to take her to dinner but she sighed, picked up her laptop and coffee and left.

  I kept my distance, following her to the parking garage. She got her key in the door and had unlocked it when the sedative I slipped into her coffee took effect. I rushed forward to catch her before she could hit the pavement and carried her to my mini-van.

  Did everything work out? She’s here with all the other girls, her own nametag right on top of her cage. Tiffany, Sarah, Jessica, Olga, Mary and Angela, and now, Erica.

  Brian J. Smith has been featured in The Horror Zine, Darkest Before The Dawn, Crooked and The Flash Fiction Offensive and such anthologies as Living Dead Press' Book Of Cannibals 2 and E-Mails Of The Dead and And Now The Nightmare Begins...Vol. 1 The Horror Zine. He currently lives in Chauncey, Ohio and cheers on the Ohio State Buckeyes.

  THE BEAUTY OF DEATH

  CRIS KEUGGAR

  Her screaming intensified along with the blood, flowing crimson with a sharp odor of lingering iron.

  I loved it.

  Over and over she was stabbed until her stomach was torn, leaking out horrible smells and liquids mixing in and diluting her dark red blood.

  No longer would she be able to smile, or light up a room with her beauty. Her face would soon be torn, her lips, lashes, and creamy complexion gone.

  I would personally be gouging out her eyes with a hot, needle-sharp knife. IfI was lucky she might even still be alive and shrieking as the burning steel punctured through her iris.

  Her screaming continued.

  Her stomach was wide open now, putting on a show for us as we watched her gleaming and still-pulsing organs dance along with her heart beat.

  I reached in and caressed her warm and delicate essence. I grabbed a strand of intestine, pulling it out and letting it fall to the ground with a thud.

  I knew she was dead only because her screams had subsided and her body no longer twitched or squirmed.

  My smile vanished; disappointed that she would not be able to fully enjoy the performance, let alone be able to feel her very flesh being stretched and ripped from her gorgeous skull.

  I turned in trembling anger, forcing down a scream of my own.

  Death was such a beautiful thing, it’s such a shame that the dead cannot witness their own death.

  Letting out a sigh, I simply moved on to the next girl in line. The woman’s daughter. This time I would refrain, take my time, let her linger. My smile returned as I held up the knife and her shrieking began.

  Cris Keuggar was born in a small town with no apparent and important facts that have given it an enormous reputation or bold name on a map. Thankfully, she was blessed with two wonderful and hard working parents who taught her what life is meant for and to follow her passions.

  JUST LEAVE

  MILO JAMES FOWLER

  Abigail is only five years old, but she knows the rules:

  Don’t talk to strangers. Wash your hands. Brush your teeth.

  When Mommy and Daddy shut their door, best not to open it, no matter what sounds they may be making.

  “We need our playtime too,” Mommy says.

  “Why can’t I play?”

  Abigail has all kinds of toys.

  “When you’re all grown up, you’ll understand.”

  Abigail knows about “grown up toys;” Daddy’s stereo, Mommy’s laptop.

  Why would anybody think they’re fun? She knows the rules are meant to keep her safe and healthy.

  But they’re kind of tough to follow when two men she’s never seen before are sitting on her couch.

  “Hey pretty, what’s your name?” One man is big and bald and wears a sweaty T-shirt.

  He smells like Grandpa after he’s stepped outside for a few minutes; like a dirty fireplace.

  Abigail glances at Mommy, who is standing with her arms down straight, tears shining in her eyes.

  “Please, just go,” Mommy whispers.

  The strangers laugh. One belches without excusing himself.

  Daddy stands like a statue beside Mommy. His eyes are bloody, like he’s been staring at the computer too long.

  “Go back to your room, Abby.”

  “That’s a pretty name,” says the stranger.

  Daddy steps between her and the couch and rests his hand on her shoulder, turning her toward the hallway. “Just take it and go. Please.”

  “Pretty please?” The other stranger snickers, up on his feet. He punches Daddy so hard he falls to his knees.

  “Daddy!”

  Mommy scoops A
bigail up into her arms and turns her face away. The strangers kick Daddy and step on him, smushing his face into the carpet.

  “He can’t breathe!” Abigail screams. “Mommy, why are they here?”

  “They’re buying one of Daddy’s old toys, Sweetheart.” Mommy’s wet lips shiver, brushing her ear.

  “Gotta love Craigslist!” A stranger sits on Daddy, hopping up and down. Something inside Daddy pops. The strangers laugh.

  “They’re hurting him!”

  “Don’t watch,” Mommy whispers.

  “Take what you want . . . and go,” Daddy says.

  The stranger kicks him in the face and blood splashes onto the carpet. “Don’t you worry.” He laughs. “We’ll take everything we want.”

  Abigail knows the rules. Always use your inside voice, never hit or kick or scratch Mommy.

  But Daddy needs her.

  Mommy can’t hold onto her. Abigail is screaming wildly, thrashing like an animal. She hits the carpet and launches herself at the man on top of Daddy. He laughs, catching her in his arms.

  “Quiet down, Pretty!”

  Abigail has little monkey fingers—that’s what Daddy calls them—and fingernails that need trimming.

  She tears off the big man’s eyelids and digs out his eyes, squishy and wet. He beats at her with his fists and she feels things pop inside her.

  “Leave my daddy alone!”

  She drives her hands into his eye sockets as he falls over backward. She hears Daddy coughing, Mommy throwing up. The front door opens and heavy footsteps pound away.

  Up to her elbows in blood, Abigail roars, breaking all the rules.

  Milo James Fowler is a teacher by day, writer by night. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in over 30 publications, including Daily Science Fiction, Shimmer, and Criminal Element. You can find more information at http://www.milo-inmediasres.com..

  LOBOTOMY

  PEDRO INIGUEZ

  Renzo Zapata lay in a dimly lit room, strapped to a crude operating table. They’dbe coming for him soon; the Skin-Slitters, the Bone-Grinders, the Brain-Eaters . . .

  He’d been sent here to get better. Family and friends; the police, and judges all agreed; Renzo was special . . . not crazy; they never used words like that, no matter how much his actions might warrant it.

  Footsteps echoed through the cramped hallways of Bloom Memorial Hospital. They were coming; the Neurosurgeons; coming to cure him of his sickness; to scoop out the diseased meat of his mind and leave him hollow, like the rest.

  Crazy . . . that’s what they meant, behind the pretty lies. He was crazy. But what chance did he have in a world where the dead were health-bringers, where eaters of minds were responsible for mind’s restoration? Ha! Crazy . . . if so, it just put him on even terms with the rest of the world.

  But not for long. They were coming, and soon, under their ravenous care, he’d be as sane as the rest . . .

  Pedro Iniguez lives in the small town of Eagle Rock, California where he reads and writes the hours away. He’s had a love of horror fiction since childhood, when he won the Best Horror Story contest in elementary school.

  THE MAILBOX OF BROKEN DREAMS

  PAVELLE WESSER

  I knock on the door, waiting as it creaks heavily open. Nobody’s there.

  “Hello?” My voice echoes as I call into the darkness.

  “Fetch me the mail,” an ancient voice replies from deep inside. Before I can respond, the door slams shut in my face.

  At the end of the driveway, the brass number on the mailbox reads 206. This isn’t right, I think, reaching inside for the mail and withdrawing only a handful of bone fragments. I stare at them.

  Now this is truly odd.

  When I knock again, the door creaks open on rusted hinges, and a desiccated hand emerges. “Mail, please.”

  “Sure,” I step into the darkened entranceway, then turn toward a tapping sound at the window. I gasp at the sight of black moths beating their wings against the filthy windowpanes—then I throw my handful of bones onto the floor.

  “Sorry, that’s all I found in the mailbox.”

  “Because that’s all that’s left of you,” the voice informs me. As electrical charges pulse through me, the voice continues. “Why can’t you just accept that you’re dead?”

  “Because I’m not!!” I flap my wings, only to find them beating helplessly against a pane of glass. I’m trapped, I realize—just like all the others.

  Someone else knocks on the heavy wooden door. Slowly, it swings open and allows them to enter.

  “Hello?” This newcomer’s voice is an unsure, hollow echo that makes me long to beat my wings against the walls of their failing heart.

  On the front of the door, I glimpse the number 206. Now I recall that this is the exact number of bones contained in the human body. I reflect on this as the new visitors splinter into fragments.

  With the other moths, I take flight toward the sunlight. It is a fatal impulse, but then aren’t all impulses utlimately so? Together, we fly into the mailbox where the little door closes, leaving us enveloped in familiar darkness. Daylight is temporary, after all—just as life is finite. The next person who looks inside this mailbox will find wings instead of bones. Would that they could fly . . . and perhaps when their dreams turn to nightmares—as mine have—they will!

  Pavelle Wesser’s fiction has appeared in many ezines, including Antipodean SF, SNM Horror and Eclecticism. She is included in anthologies such as the Flashshot 2010 Contributor Edition by G.W. Thomas and 66 Twisted Tales in 66 Words by Kimberly Raiser and is forthcoming in other anthologies by Wicked East Press.

  NEIGHBOUR FROM HELL

  PAUL JOHNSON-JOVANOVIC

  Friday

  I was looking forward to a quiet night at home. After a hard day at work–hell, it’d been a hard week at work–all I wanted to do was to put my feet up and relax.

  So I made a shopping list and went to the supermarket for my bits and bobs.

  •Packet of salted peanuts

  •Pack of sweets

  •Horror DVD

  •4-pack of beer

  I got back and kicked off my shoes, putting in the DVD before settling into the settee with a weary smile on my face. I opened a can of lager and savoured my first swig of cold liquid gold.

  That’s when the noise started. Coming from next door: the steady thump-thump-thump of music. It wasn’t too bad at first, and I was able to drown it out by turning up the TV’s volume. But fifteen minutes later, it began to get progressively louder . . . and louder . . . and louder . . .

  “For fuck’s sake!” I blurted out, exasperated. “What a racket!”

  The new neighbours had moved in the previous day. I’d hoped that they would be as quiet as Mr. and Mrs Jones, the previous residents.

  No chance of that. After a few hours I felt like I was living next to a night club. I went round to have a word, but no one answered the door—probably they couldn’t hear me knocking above the blaring music.

  The music went on throughout the night.

  I got no sleep.

  Saturday

  I had to go to the shop again. My girlfriend, Marie, was coming over for dinner and I wanted to impress her. So I made another list and off I went.

  •Candles

  •Wine (El Plonko)

  •Strawberries

  •Stroganoff mix

  •Aspirin

  •Box of economy chocolates

  It was quiet when she arrived, and I was optimistic that all would work out well. But just as we sat down to dinner, the music started again: thump-thump-thump . . .

  After five minutes or so, I stood up. “I’ll see if I can get them to turn it down.”

  No matter how loud I pounded, no one answered the door.

  When I returned, Marie was putting her coat on. “I can’t sit here and listen to that noise, Dave–it’s giving me a headache!”

  We went to the pub instead. Not exactly the romantic evening I’d hoped for. />
  The music was still blaring when I got back home at 1 a.m.

  I got no sleep again. I was seriously pissed off. I could have pulled my hair out.

  Sunday

  Now that Friday and Saturday were out of the way, I figured things might quiet down. I was wrong. Throughout the day, the music kept playing. It was time to pay a visit to the hardware store. I made myself another list.

  •Axe

  •Shovel

  •Black bags (heavy duty)

  •Cleaning solution

  I took care of business, and now it’s quiet next door. I hope the next people who move in aren’t so noisy.

  Paul Johnson-Jovanovic has been writing for a few years now and had stories published in various mags: 7th Diminsion, Spinetinglers, Morpheus Tales, Dark Tales, to name a few. He should have his first novel finished very soon.

  POPSICLES

  CHARLES NATHAN CAPASSO

  My wife and sister were in the house, cooking something green; possibly with tofu; undoubtedly healthy. It made no difference to me: Congenital anosmia, which, in layman’s terms, means I can’t smell anything, and by extension, have almost no sense of taste. Sometimes it’s more a blessing than a curse.

  But I’d noticed the wrinkle in my nephew’s nose as he peered into the kitchen. I snuck two popsicles out of the freezer in sympathy. We sat on the patio in smiling conspiracy, ruining our supper.

  “So, what’s new champ?” I asked.

  “Not much,” he said, swinging legs that didn’t reach the wooden planks of the patio. “I made a rocket last week.”

  “Really?” I smiled.

  “Yeah, it was cool. Mom showed me how to mix stuff so it would shoot really high.” He waved his red popsicle around in imitation rocket flight.

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “Uh-huh.”