Tag: The Damned

The Wolfshead

~ Richard Meldrum ~ 3 Comments

I’m an author. I specialize in ghost stories, but the ones I write aren’t very scary. My tales tend to be more of the cozy variety. Ghost pets, friendly specters and the like. I enjoy what I do, but there’s one thing missing. I’ve never achieved my biggest ambition of writing a truly terrifying tale. I wanted to write a story that will give my readers nightmares. Better still, I wanted to spin a tale that will stop them from sleeping altogether.

I realized the key was atmosphere. I needed to find somewhere away from the suburban streets where I live. Somewhere windswept and interesting. Somewhere on the moors. It had to be Dartmoor, the spookiest part of England. My job gave me four weeks of vacation every year. My wife allowed me two weeks, no more.

“If you can’t write a terrifying tale in two weeks, then you never will, especially surrounded by all that atmosphere. Me and kids need a break, that’s what the other two weeks are for.”

“Just you wait. I’ll bring back a story that will make me famous!”

I chose the remotest corner of the moor. I chose February, when there are no tourists and the weather was guaranteed to be lousy. I deliberately didn’t go through any websites to find a hotel; I didn’t want to choose a location known by anyone else. I simply drove the back roads until I found somewhere I could stay. It took a few hours, but then I turned a corner and there it was. An isolated inn, standing on the edge of a barren, wind-blasted stretch of heath. It was rundown, with faded, peeling timber and a mossy roof. The only clue it was open to the public was a sign hanging from a gibbet at the entrance. The Wolfshead. I parked and entered.

It was one of those old-fashioned places, so beloved by the British. Low ceilings, exposed beams and an array of agricultural equipment on display. An open fire warmed the room. The room was empty, except for a man standing behind the bar. I presumed this was the landlord. He sipped from a glass of amber liquid.

“I’d like a room for a few days.”

“Not a problem, we’re not exactly busy.”

He was clearly intoxicated.

I was shown to my room. It was small, with a low ceiling and a single bed. It was scruffy, but clean. There was a stained desk and chair by the window, which had a view across the moor. This was the atmosphere I craved.

My evening was spent in the awkward company of the landlord. He managed to assemble some bread and cheese for me to eat. I ate this meager meal and sipped a warm beer.

It reached midnight. The landlord, who was very drunk by this time, made a feeble attempt to tidy up a few glasses, but quickly gave up after he dropped one, the glass shattering over the stone floor. He clicked off the lights and stumbled out the main bar. I heard him wobbling up the stairs. It was obvious he’d forgotten I was there. By firelight, I finished my pint and went to bed.

In my room, I glanced out the window. There was nothing but darkness, with only the occasional light in the distance to show the location of an isolated farm. It was quite the contrast to my home in the city. I slid into bed. It was very comfortable and I was tired, so I dropped off almost immediately.

I was woken a few hours later by the smell of smoke. I leapt from the bed and switched on the bedside light. Smoke was seeping under the door. I placed my hand against the wood. It was hot. There was fire on the other side. I dared not open it, I knew the room would be engulfed. My only option was the window. I grabbed my phone, wallet and car keys. I opened the window and looked down. It was a drop of perhaps ten feet to the ground. I eased myself out, hung onto the frame and lowered myself. I let go and dropped the few remaining feet onto soft grass.

I ran to the front of the building, but I could already see that it was engulfed in flames. There was nothing I could do. I tried my phone, but there was no reception. I decided to head over the moors to the nearest lights. Since I didn’t know the roads, I decided to head straight across the heath on foot. It wasn’t the best option, but it was my only choice.

It took me about thirty minutes to reach the nearest farm. I was exhausted, scratched and covered in mud. I stumbled into the farm’s kitchen. Despite the hour there was a man sitting by the fire, drinking from a mug. I was gasping from my exertions.

“The Wolfshead! It’s burning to the ground. I can’t find the landlord!”

He remained sitting by the fire, and rubbed the stubble on his chin; not quite the reaction I expected.

“The Wolfshead, you say? Can’t be. That place burnt down years back. Just a ruin now. Landlord got drunk every night. One night he was killed.”

“It’s in flames right now! Even if you don’t believe me, can I least use your phone?”

“Don’t have one.”

Clearly, there would be no help here. I decided to head back to the inn, hoping the emergency services had been notified. I expected to see ominous red glow of the fire to help guide me, but there was nothing but darkness. I stumbled my way across the moor, wondering what on earth was happening. I found the inn after getting lost twice. I stared in amazement at the ruin I found. It was the Wolfshead, the sign was still there, but the windows were all boarded-up and it was surrounded by metal fencing, with stark No Entry signs posted. A forlorn For Sale sign had been attached to the wall near the entrance. The farmer had been correct, this place had been a ruin for years. My car sat in the car park, a very welcome sight. I jumped in, thankful for the chance to go home, to escape that bleak, haunted place. I tried not to think about what had just happened to me.

My wife was pleased to see me back so early, but disguised her emotions with a display of annoyance, complaining that I’d disturbed her ‘me’ time. I was bitterly disappointed, not just because of my traumatic experience, but because I hadn’t written my story. But every cloud has a silver lining. It was my wife who gave me the idea.

“Not that I believe you about what happened, but if it’s true, it all sounds pretty terrifying. Why don’t you just write that?”

And so, I have!

∼ RJ Meldrum

© Copyright RJ Meldrum. All Rights Reserved.

Trash Night

~ Elaine Pascale ~ 6 Comments

Hugo watched from his bedroom window as his wife stuffed something into the garbage receptacle he had dragged to the curb hours before. It was 3:15am and she had done this on four subsequent trash nights.

The following morning he decided to ask her about her jaunt to the trash can. Having lived with her for nearly 30 years, he knew he could not speak to her before her first sip of coffee. She had a superstition about it. “Have you been having trouble sleeping? I woke to go to the bathroom and you weren’t in bed.”

She pretended to be concerned with cracking the shells on their eggs. “Hmm? What was that, honey?”

“Sleep. Are you sleeping well?”

“You know I’m going through the change. It complicates everything. It’s hard to sleep, eat, or find a comfortable temperature.”

That didn’t satisfy his curiosity about her weekly pilgrimage to the trash cans.

“Maybe we switch sides? I sleep closer to the door and you sleep next to the window…for the breeze.”

“Oh no, it’s bad luck for a couple to swap sides after so many years. We were just talking about that at book club.”

He stirred his coffee thoughtfully before responding. “I thought you talked about books at book club.”

She laughed. “We talk about all sorts of things.”

“Mostly complaints about husbands?”

“Of course not.” She appeared focused on flipping the eggs with precision. “We are supportive of each other’s marriages; we don’t want to promote negativity.”

He saw her spoon a powder onto the skillet. “That’s not salt…”

“Nope. Remember, I told you that Jody Hunter came back from the Amazon. She had an amazing trip.”

“And she brought you back seasoning?”

“Not just seasoning, this is a type of mushroom that is good for women of our age. It helps with mood and clarity.” Her eyes narrowed. “I am adding some to your eggs, too, as you seem to need a brain boost…you don’t remember us talking about this at all? About how she brought back some powders and tinctures and…spiritual icons.”

“Spiritual icons?” Hugo snorted. “She is filling you with nonsense.”

She didn’t answer but stared out the window at the utilities truck that had come to receive their collection.

***

The following week Hugo got up at 5:00 AM and went to the garbage bin as his wife snored soundly in bed. He pulled out several large bags; one had a pinhole leak that dribbled onto his slippers like a dotted line.

At the bottom of the bin was a small blue marble.

Is that what she has been hiding? Where did the marble come from and why did she need to throw it away in the dark of the night?

He took the marble and planned to question her over breakfast.

He waited for her to finish her morning affirmations; she had a strong belief that saying them influenced the outcome of her day. He noticed that she read from a notebook while reciting quietly to herself. She had been adding many new rituals to her routine.

“You know when I was a boy I collected the darndest things.” He began, watching her sip her coffee.

She nodded. “I know you had those matchbox cars. And the coins from when your dad travelled.”

“And marbles. Did I ever tell you about my marble collection?”

She raised an eyebrow. “No. That’s funny, I can’t remember you talking about a marble collection.”

He slapped his knee as if this were all a good joke. “Really? All these years and I never mentioned it?”

“Mustn’t have been a very good collection.”

“Au contraire! It was really something. I had marbles everywhere. Stashed away in jars and bottles. My favorite were the blue.” He pulled a marble from his pocket. “Like this.”

Her jaw dropped. “Where did you get that?’

“Why did you throw it away?”

“You can’t have that.” She snatched the marble from his hand and raced to the door. From the window he could see her looking down the street at the utility truck that had just taken their garbage and was driving away.

She was frantic, pacing in the street and rolling the marble between her hands.

When Hugo went to the door to tell her to come back inside, she rushed past him into the house and grabbed the car keys. Moments later, she pulled out of the driveway, with no concern for the fact that he needed to get to work and they shared a car.

Thirty minutes later, she returned.

“Don’t ever do that,” she snarled as she threw the keys to him. He had lived with her long enough to recognize when she was furious.

***

The next week, as he tried to fall asleep on trash night, he found her staring at him. “You did something very bad,” she said in a voice that was completely unfamiliar. “You need to learn a lesson.” She showed him a red marble. She then left the room. From the window, he could see her burying it in the trash.

The following morning they consumed a silent breakfast. Hugo went to work as usual, but by late afternoon, he felt sick, feverish. He took to his bed for days.

When he was finally able to leave his bed and go to the breakfast table, it was trash collection day again. He could not believe that he had lost an entire week. He scolded himself for being nearly as superstitious as his wife.

“I hope you’re happy,” he told her. “You planted that idea in my head of the red marble having meaning.”

She peered at him over her half-consumed cup of coffee. “Count your blessings. It could have been a black marble.”

“You’re crazy. I am not listening to any more of this.”

She shrugged. “Marjorie Baker put a black marble in her trash last night.”

He lifted a piece of toast, noting that the trash had already been picked up. “I give. What does black—”

His question was both cut off and answered by the sound of sirens racing to the Baker house.

∼ Elaine Pascale

© Copyright Elaine Pascale. All Rights Reserved.

Damned Words 58

~ TheDamned ~ 2 Comments

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Under My Skin
Marge Simon

Out clubbing, I meet a dreamy guy, you know the kind. My mother warned about deceptive men, but there he was –muscular, with topaz skin, thick lashes, all that goes with. The band is playing silver slipper music. Only one dance, all I ask is make it slow. 

It’s “I’ve Got You Under My Skin”, my favorite. But as he tongues my ear, he spits a devil-worm inside. It makes passage through my cochlea, down my auditory nerve, straight into my brain, then powers on to reach my retina and ends at the lens. The last thing I see is the universe exploding under my skin.

Vast
Lee Andrew Forman

With each particle of light, the ocular focus retains all—joy, pain, elation, agony. The mind recalls its past as it processes its present. But what the consciousness witnesses is beyond comprehension. It exists outside the realm of belief, on the outer reaches of the horizon of reality. Vessels burst, each from the strain of pure terror. Soft brain tissue shrivels at the sight of what cannot be unseen. Even as the last breath releases from this poor soul’s lungs and the heart ceases to function, in death, these memories are ingrained. Forever will its ghost see, in unendingly denied release, the vastness of eternal torment.

The Collector
A.F. Stewart

Is it watching me? What does it see floating in that jar?

I stroke the glass jar and smile at my imaginings. The eye sees nothing anymore. It is only a specimen now.

And such a wonderful specimen. So many beautiful memories attached to it. I stare for a moment, savouring its beauty. Blood still clings to the viscera and membranes, the veins snaking stark red across the white filmy pulp. The satisfaction I felt scooping it from its socket, wet and dripping, plopping it fresh into the preserving fluid.

It isn’t perfect though. I made mistakes. 

The pretty hazel hue of the iris faded; no longer the sparkling bright colour I envied. A shame really, her eyes were the loveliest part of her. A pity my hand slipped when extracting the other one; I wanted a matched set. Her screams during the procedure were too distracting. I’ll remember to gag the next girl.

I slide a new specimen jar next to her eye. Such exquisitely tapered fingers and a pair this time. The axe made nice, clean cuts; no ragged edges. And cauterizing the wounds with the blowtorch kept her alive. I was so proud. She won’t last much longer, but I should be able to remove her lips before she dies. She has such a charming smile, and now it will be mine forever.

Once I’m done with her, then on to the next one. Perhaps that pretty brunette barista at the coffee shop or that teenager working shifts at the farmer’s market. They both have such gorgeous eyes…

Piecemeal
Elaine Pascale

Exercise and diet hadn’t worked. She felt she had run the equivalent of marathons, consumed calories approximating that of fumes, yet the scale did not budge. Pharmaceuticals did not work, either. She experimented with prescription capsules, over-the-counter tablets, and illegally obtained powders. Swallowing, snorting, and injecting left her tired, angry, and the same weight as before. 

Stapling her stomach in half heralded a margin of success. Her physician prescribed a healthy lifestyle to accompany the radical surgery and assure lasting results. In her imagination, the directions that were printed on the side of the “lasting results” bottle warned that they must be taken along with patience, and she had run out of that years before. She wanted instant gratification. If half a stomach meant pounds lost, what would removing a few organs no longer in use produce?

She crafted symptoms that led to a full hysterectomy. She forged a family history that led to a double mastectomy. She paid out of pocket for lipo. She flew to a country whose name she could never pronounce correctly to have some unnecessary bones removed along with fingernails, toenails, and teeth. The scale was still not where she needed it to be.

The final solution: eye removal. Not only would that eliminate 56 grams, she would no longer be able to see the scale.

Closing Time
Charles Gramlich

She made eyes at him across the bar. He didn’t seem to notice. She smiled and flipped her hair when he finally glanced her way. His gaze passed over as if she were part of the pseudo-paneled and pseudo-velvet décor. Now, it was a challenge. She knew she was attractive enough. And surely that was why men came to such places, and why they stayed until closing time. He was mildly attractive himself, in a kind of college professor sort of way. She decided that he needed to make a pass at her, and then she’d turn him down cold for first ignoring her.

She slithered around the bar to be closer to him and ordered a fresh drink for last call. Tipping the good-looking bartender a little too heavily, she slurred her voice while she thanked him, leaning forward on the stool so the hem of her red dress slid well up her thigh. The mark had to be looking at her now; he had to be thinking about how he could take her home and do things to her. But when she glanced provocatively over her shoulder at him, he wasn’t even there. She turned on her stool to see where he’d gone. The bar was empty. She spun back toward the bartender. He wasn’t there either. Before she could gasp in surprise, a long-fingered hand covered her mouth from behind and a man’s voice crooned chillingly into her ear, “Now that you’ve caught my attention, I only have eyes for you.”

Something plopped into her drink. The golden-brown iris suggested it had once belonged to the bartender.

Hatchling
Nina D’Arcangela

Pressure from within stretches the gelatenous casing, the soft shell begins to rupture. A tiny heart—so fragile, so young, quickens as the inner-spawn sees light for the first time. The taut opening widens. Its lasting wait in darkness has come to an end. With it, a cry of pain; the release of violent nature, of agonizing entry into existence. It sees its new domain with fresh eyes; it’s teeming with life. A grumble rises from its empty paunch as it tears free of its sack. Dripping in yolk, its unending feast begins.

Infected
RJ Meldrum

I thought I’d been smart. I’m a prepper; my basement is full of freeze-dried food, bottled water and guns. I wasn’t getting ready for anything specific. I just wanted to be ready. When the end came, it wasn’t what I expected. I wasn’t ready. I was in the damn supermarket when it happened. There had been reports of a strange new infection, but nothing local. Just in the city, so I gave it little thought.

I wasn’t aware of how it happened, all I know was a crowd of the infected burst in the front door and started to bite and tear at customers and staff alike. I dropped everything and ran, like everyone else. I passed real close to a victim being torn apart by two of…well, whatever they’d become. Just as I passed, they must have hit an artery and I had to run through a spray of blood. I felt it on my face and had to wipe my eyes to clear my vision.

I got back to my basement safely and locked down. It wasn’t until the second day I realized something was wrong. My left eyeball had a huge inflamed lump on it. It didn’t take long to work out I was infected. I can feel it work its way through my body.

They say the eyes are the window to the soul. I suspect very soon I won’t have one.

The Eye Collector
Kathleen McCluskey

Martha woke with a broken blood vessel in her eye. That night she vanished. Townspeople began to wake with bloodshot eyes. Each of them disappeared within twenty-four hours. Detective Sam Harris had seen strange cases. But this one was different. The connection was the bloodshot eyes. As Sam was pouring over the case files, Eliza knocked on his door. She spoke of a legend that had been whispered. The Eye Collector was a demon that fed on the eyeballs of its victims. It could only collect them if the victims offered them willingly. It manipulated their thoughts, driving them mad until they plucked out their eyes. Eliza had a book filled with descriptions for the rituals needed.

That night, Sam felt a presence in his room. A whisper in his ear. “Your eyes, give them to me.” He jolted upright. He ran to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. The burst blood vessel appeared in his eye. He sought out Eliza and told her of the demon’s whisper. They decided to confront the Eye Collector at his lair, a dilapidated house on the edge of town.

As they approached the house, the front door creaked open. The atmosphere was thick with stench. The walls were lined with jars each containing a single, bloodshot eye. The whispers surrounded Sam and grew louder. Eliza began the ritual, chanting the words while Sam tried to keep his sanity. The demon appeared. It was a shadowy figure with eyes that burned like embers. Sam’s hand lifted to his eyes as Eliza’s chanting had reached a crescendo. The jars shook violently. They toppled off the shelves, shattering. Silence. Two jars remained intact. In one of the eyes, the demon’s eyes flickered.

Penetrating the Ball
Harrison Kim

C. and I open our tentacles to touch down and fasten on the red spot of the Black Ball, which resides in the alternative non-liquid Universe.  We’re the front-line explorers for our teeming Swarm and will report back via pulse communication about what we find. We left our orbit shells in the swirling waters up front, then slipped under the edge of the Ball’s artificial protective covering, which forms a barrier between our liquid world and the air based world of the Ball.  Our mission: to explore the region behind the black centre itself, with a view to its nutritive value.   C’s hypothesis is that the ball is attached to the dark mass behind it, which is part of a gigantic alien superstructure.  Some type of electrical phenomenon within the dark mass is causing that ball to twitch.   That means the alien brain could be located somewhere nearby. We crawl across the red ridged surface of the Ball.  Along the way, we hang onto the prominent folded lines of the red spot with our tentacle suckers to avoid being tossed off. Then, we let go, drop down towards the Ball’s centre.  Our multiple arms are working hard, but we finally reach our destination.  To our surprise, there appears to be a gaping hole.  A delicious aroma wafts out.  It’s obvious to myself and C.  from our previous experiences with the alternative universe that this hole leads to the most nutritious and tasty meal, the living alien brain.  We send pulse signals back to the thousands from the Swarm:   “Begin the mass attack! First penetrate through the edges of the barrier, then tentacle down into the hole itself.  Come and eat your fill for the glorious sustenance and survival of our kind!”

Each piece of fiction is the copyright of its respective author and may not be reproduced without prior consent. © Copyright 2024

The Long Journey Home

~ Ian Sputnik ~ 4 Comments

Sam slowly paddled the canoe down the river, carefully negotiating the rocks that were dotted along the way. Mosquitoes nipped at his neck and face with such regularity that he didn’t even bother to swipe at them anymore. At least they were eating well. In this jungle food was virtually non-existent. He wondered how the local tribes managed to survive out here. The plant life was mainly poisonous and what was edible had little to no nutritional value. The wildlife mainly consisted of snakes and spiders, all highly venomous, any monkeys that he occasionally saw jumping from tree to tree were impossible to catch without the use of a firearm and he had long since run out of powder and shot.

It was 1748 and Sam’s second attempt to reach the San Quito outpost deep within the Amazon rain forest. His first attempt ended in failure due to bad weather. This time he had succeeded and was trying to return to where he called home, a small village populated by traders and explorers. His canoe was packed with rare plants. They were completely inedible, but in the right hands they could be turned into medicine. In the wrong hands they became the basis for a very powerful narcotic. He could make decent money selling to those with the right hands, but even more selling to those with the wrong ones. His haul was worth its weight in gold and had cost him very little. 

It was now a race against time to get back down the river, a race that he was losing. If disease didn’t get him then starvation certainly would. He was weeks away from his destination and weeks since his last good meal. He had lost what meagre rations he had whilst negotiating some rapids. His stomach was empty and rumbled continuously. He wretched over the side of the boat. Stomach acid burned his throat as it poured from his mouth into the river. He wiped his mouth and took a sip of water from his canteen. 

A few days later he heard a voice calling. At first he thought he had imagined it. But then he heard it again.

“Hello, friend.”

Sam could see a man on the riverbank waving to him. He paddled over and they exchanged greetings. 

The stranger’s name was Nathaniel. He had also intended to trade at San Quito, but his canoe had been dashed against the rocks during a sudden surge in the river due to heavy rains a few weeks back. He had lost everything to the river and looked in even worse shape than Sam. His eyes and cheeks were sunken and his skin had a sickly grey hue to it. 

“I had given up hope of finding anyone,” he blubbered, tears streaming down his face.

“Calm yourself sir,” Sam replied. “If we reorganise my cargo I’m sure I have room for you.”

With the sacks of medicinal plants moved to the centre of the canoe, Nathaniel sat himself at the front with Sam seated at its rear. 

“I must admit, walking through that cursed jungle I’ve lost all track of time and no idea how far we are from civilisation. How long will it take to make it down river?” Nathaniel asked. 

“At least three weeks by my reckoning.” Sam replied. 

“My god, that long? I had hoped I’d made more progress on foot, but it was heavy going. I’m starving, I don’t suppose you have any food?”

“I do now,” Sam said, picking up the machete from the floor of the canoe.

∼ Ian Sputnik

© Copyright Ian Sputnik. All Rights Reserved.

The Silence Below

~ TheDamned ~ 4 Comments

Jerry had always been drawn to the mysterious and the unknown. So when he found himself lost in the dense forest, he couldn’t help but feel the thrill of excitement. Amidst the serene embrace of nature, Jerry found tranquility in the solace of the forest. As he trudged through the underbrush, his senses heightened for hidden dangers, he came across a concealed path. It led deeper into the woods. With a casual shrug, Jerry stepped onto the path. His sense of adventure rose louder, smothering the doubts screaming in his mind. 

Jerry followed the path and emerged into a small clearing. His laid eyes upon a village unlike any he had ever seen. The buildings were quaint yet eerie, their windows dark and devoid of life. What struck him the most was the absence of sound. No birds, no bugs, not even the rustling of leaves. It was an oppressive silence that hung like a wet blanket in the air. 

Intrigued, Jerry cautiously made his way into the village. His footsteps echoed loudly on the cobblestone street. The few villagers he encountered glanced at him with wary eyes before averting their gaze. Their faces displayed a silent concern for the outsider that had stumbled into their silent domain. Jerry observed with curiosity as the villagers communicated through intricate gestures. Their hands weaving a silent tapestry of meaning in the air. A shared language born of necessity. They exchanged knowing glances as they looked at hastily scrawled notes passed between them. They refused to speak a single word. 

As night fell, Jerry’s unease only deepened. The silence seemed to intensify, pressing down on him like a weight. As his nerves began to frazzle, he sought refuge in a small inn. A grizzled innkeeper offered him a room for the night. As he led him to his room, their eyes met in a moment of silent understanding. The unspoken tension hung heavy in the air. The absence of words between them spoke volumes, the oppressive silence wrapped around them like a spider’s web. 

Alone in his room, Jerry couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong with the village. He tossed and turned in his bed. Unable to sleep, he began to pace the floor. He paused. He thought he heard a faint scratching sound coming from beneath the floorboards. 

His curiosity piqued, he tore up the loose floorboards revealing an open, hidden trap door leading down into the darkness. Jerry leaned on the hanging door, its ancient hinges gave a grumbled whine. The stairs descending into the blackened void were weathered and worn. Jerry retrieved the flashlight from the night table. He illuminated the shadowy corridor, and he stepped down. The ancient stone steps creaked softly with each cautious footfall. His flashlight caused the shadows to dance across the dusty walls creating eerie phantoms that beckoned him to venture deeper. As he dared to go further into the underground tunnels, Jerry discovered ancient runes etched into the walls, their meanings lost to time. He gently caressed the outlines. He began to sweat as adrenaline coursed through his body. He was unnerved by the sudden rush of anxiety. However, it was more the sense of dread hanging in the air that chilled him to the bone. 

Jerry explored the tunnels. Deep within, the air grew stale as a warm silent breeze wafted over him. He stumbled upon a chamber unlike any he had seen. A vast cavern with a gaping chasm in the center. In the dim light of his flashlight, Jerry beheld a grotesque sight. It was a writhing mass of tentacles coiling and undulating in the blackness. The slimy appendages reached out hungrily towards him. Glowing eyes peered out from amidst the squirming mass, their malevolent gaze fixated on Jerry. The creature seemed to pulse with an otherworldly energy. Its form shifting and contorting in a nightmarish dance as if to defy reality itself. 

As Jerry stood on the precipice of the chasm, a chilling realization washed over him like a wave of icy dread. In that moment, he realized that the absence of sound was not just an eerie aspect of the village but a haunting reminder of the looming threat lurking beneath. He realized that it wasn’t merely a choice but a necessity born from the need to keep the creature at bay. As he faced the creature, its own silence seemed to scream louder than any sound he had ever heard. It was a deafening void that echoed with the weight of centuries, old fear and desperation.The villagers were bound by an ancient pact to keep the creature below at constant rest. For even the slightest sound would awaken it from its slumber.

But it was too late, Jerry’s presence had disturbed the being, and now it hungered for sound. As it surged towards him, he scrambled for freedom. He realized that sound was both his enemy and his salvation. 

Jerry’s heart pounded in his chest as he stumbled backward. His mind raced with primal panic. Before he could react, the creature’s slimy tentacles shot out at lightning speed, wrapping around his limbs and pulling him closer with an inexorable force. Despite his terror, Jerry’s throat constricted in fear. It rendered him speechless as he struggled against the creature’s grasp. His scream was trapped inside of him like a caged beast yearning to be free. 

With the creature’s tentacles tightening around him like a vice, Jerry’s fear reached its breaking point. In a burst of desperation, he unleashed a deafening scream that echoed through the cavernous chamber. 

As Jerry’s scream tore through the silence, the creature recoiled, lifting Jerry higher into the air. It howled as its form contorted and twisted as if assaulted by an unseen force. With a guttural roar, it released its grip on Jerry who was tossed onto the floor. He watched, gasping for breath. As if in response to the creature’s rising, the very ground beneath them began to rumble. The walls of the cavern began to groan and crack under the strain. 

The ground under the village started to split apart, fissures snaked their way through the cobblestone streets. With an explosion of dirt and rubble, the creature burst forth from the ground with an ear splitting roar. Its massive form towering over the village like a wrathful titan. Homes crumbled in its wake, reduced to splinters and dust as the villagers ran for cover. Their silent world was shattered by the unleashed fury of the being below. Its massive tentacles lashed out indiscriminately, reducing buildings to rubble. With each step, the ground trembled beneath its monstrous form. 

Even as the village lay in ruins and the creature’s hunger sated, there was no sign of it returning to its peaceful slumber. Instead it continued its relentless march. Its glowing eyes fixed on the horizon with an insatiable thirst for destruction. As it disappeared into the depths of the forest, a sense of dread fell over Jerry and the villagers. They knew that the true horror had only just begun.

∼ Kathleen McCluskey

© Copyright Kathleen McCluskey. All Rights Reserved.

Room 57

~ Lee Andrew Forman ~ 3 Comments

Adorned with only a simple handle and the number 57, the door stood closed. I stared at it for some time, eyes darting between the numerals and brass knob. It was one among many in this seemingly endless hall, but it garnered my interest more than any other. I couldn’t say why. The reason was just as much a mystery as what was behind that door.

Sweat dripped down my brow as I contemplated opening it. I feared I might be caught, only more reason for them to keep me here… But my curiosity outweighed my worries. I reached for the handle and turned it.

I was surprised it wasn’t locked. Maybe there was nothing there to behold other than an empty room. The darkness seemed to ebb from the small sliver between the door and frame. I pushed it all the way, only to see more darkness. The light from the hallway couldn’t travel beyond that threshold. It was as if the room itself pushed it away.

I had to know what was in there, so I stepped inside. The door slammed shut behind me, leaving me sightless. “Hello?” I called out.

Heavy breathing was the only reply.

Then the sound of dripping.

A rancid stench assaulted my nose as I felt warm breath on my face. Then agony as unseen teeth tore away at my flesh.

∼ Lee Andrew Forman

© Copyright Lee Andrew Forman. All Rights Reserved.

The Ocean Beach Motel

~ Marge Simon ~ 4 Comments

I am the spirit of the Ocean Beach Motel off Route 66. My office is run by a witchy clairvoyant name of Madeline Williams. In exchange for her labor, I allow her unlimited use of several rooms for her personal business, no questions asked. We have an excellent working relationship. Between the two of us, we know the score on what goes on inside my rooms.

Room #5: Winning the Lottery had brought her more grief than joy by far. Dorothy Ann Thomas wasn’t expecting company. She rented this room for a month, told no one, not even her sister and certainly not her son, David. He was a liar and a thief and had disgraced himself beyond forgiveness in her eyes. She’d given most of the money to the local animal shelter. Somehow, David found out she’d won, and showed up at her door. She let him in, explaining how she didn’t have the money anymore. He snarled and shoved her. She fell, cracking her head against the corner of a dresser. He saw something was wrong with her neck. He didn’t stay.  

Room #11: Rodrick Pierce set the bottle of Jim Beam on the bedside table with a glass from the kitchen. “Nice little kitchen, I could stay here until I rot,” he laughed. “Nobody would notice.” His wife had left him on his birthday last year. That was bad, but not as bad as being fired that morning, two months short of retirement. He cleared out his office, got in his car and drove until nearly dark. Stopped at a liquor store, and then found my place. He’s lucky my rooms provide stout rods on the bathtubs, strong enough to hold a man dangling by his neck. Rodrick will use his belt if he can’t find any rope around here. Probably won’t even finish that bottle before he decides to get the job done.  

Room #19: She’d been a little drunk when Robert checked them in. She wasn’t “that kind of girl”, she’d told him that repeatedly, plus he had to promise over and over how it wasn’t going to be a one-night stand. “No, Sherry, I promise.  Being with you is all I want. You want me too, right?” And so on, but he had to get another drink down her before she’d let him unhook her bra.  After it was over, she fell asleep, or so he thought. He was sneaking out the door at the crack of dawn when he heard “Robert Botts, that better not be you going out that door!”  He turned, surprised, to see his silly little Sherry holding a Glock. Where it came from, he couldn’t imagine. “One night stand,” that’s what this was all along!” she cried. Robert didn’t have a chance.

Indeed, there are more like this on any given day. As motels go, I do a pretty interesting business. Another example, if you like naughty, the extraordinary things that go on in my hot tub never disappoint either. Stop in, sometime!

∼ Marge Simon

© Copyright Marge Simon. All Rights Reserved.

Hot Feet

~ Richard Meldrum ~ 2 Comments

It was hot; one of those vile, humid city days when the heat was oppressive and inescapable. Despite the early hour, the temperature was already ridiculously high. The heat wave had been going on for a week and even the overnight temperatures were ridiculously high. He stood at the bus-stop, waiting for the morning bus to arrive. It was late. He was already sweating, he could feel damp patches forming under his arms and sweat trickling down his back and face. The city streets were busy, the traffic roaring and honking through rush hour. Across the street the noise of drills, saws and hammering came from a construction site. The city noise disturbed and distracted him. There was a kid next to him, wearing headphones plugged into a cell phone. The kid must have had the volume turned right up, because he could hear the music over the sound of the city…the thump, thump, thump of a drumbeat, with some indistinct vocals screaming out. His head started to ache, the pain pulsing in time to the music. His feet, encased in cheap leather shoes, absorbed the heat from the sidewalk. He felt angry, on edge. Stupid kid, stupid music; a pointless noise. The temperature increased, his head felt as if it was about to split open, his feet burned. He could feel his fingers balling into fists. He was aware he was about to hit the kid, knock him down and smash his phone to stop the noise. He took a huge, deep breath of warm, fetid air and willed himself to stop.

It wasn’t the kid; it was the heat. The damned heat.

Without thinking he reached down, removed his shoes and pulled off his socks. He stepped off the sidewalk onto a small grassy area next to the bus stop. It was part of the entrance to an office building. A sprinkler sprayed water onto this modest green space. He stood on the freshly watered grass, feeling the cool blades between his toes and the moist soil on his soles. His headache suddenly diminished, the pain dissipating in an instant. He felt cooler and he could feel himself calming down. He looked up to see the kid grinning at him. He smiled back. He knew he looked foolish, but he didn’t care. Being laughed at was better than him hurting a kid half his age.

The bus arrived and he climbed aboard barefoot, clutching his shoes and socks. He whistled as he paid his fare. The air conditioned interior of the bus was a blessing, but it was only the icing on the cake. His day was already looking up.

∼ RJ Meldrum

© Copyright RJ Meldrum. All Rights Reserved.

Pockets

~ Elaine Pascale ~ 2 Comments

“That’s adorable and it fits you like a dream,” Anna exclaimed with enough enthusiasm to equal her reaction to the last twelve dresses Tammy had tried on.

Tammy was not as easy to convince. “I just wish I weren’t a size 16.”

“What does the size on the label have to do with how it looks?”

Tammy rolled her eyes. “Easy for your child-less body to say. I’d still be a size 8 if I had stopped at two.”

“And miss out on the incomparable Miss Bliss? What would the world be without her!” Anna was often in the position of cheerleading for Tammy.  “Some cause happiness, others impede it,” Anna’s mother used to say. Tammy was of the impeding nature. She would seek misery and wallow in it for as long as she could. Anna always prayed for a change in Tammy, or an end to their friendship that wouldn’t require Anna to do the dumping, whichever came first.

Tammy frowned at her reflection. “Bliss gave me an apron of fat…”

Anna had grown tired of her friend’s dour mood. She had offered to take Tammy shopping and buy her a new dress for her birthday. Anna had even hired a sitter. She hadn’t expected her generosity to be repaid with complaints.

She decided to move away from Tammy and walk about the store before she said something she would regret. She stopped at the rack that was the furthest from the dressing room and pushed through the hangers to alleviate her frustration. When she felt her composure return, she grabbed a handful of dresses in size 16 and returned to the dressing room.

“Maybe one of these?” Anna held her breath, hoping that Tammy would find something suitable so they could leave.

Tammy rifled through the garments, barely glancing at any of them. She was scowling and muttering and Anna feared they would be stuck in the store all afternoon.

Anna’s fears dissipated when Tammy gasped. “Where did you find this? I’ve been through every rack in here.”

“I know,” Anna muttered as Tammy hurried behind the curtain to try on the dress. When Tammy emerged, she had a large grin on her face.

“This one, right Anna? It’s perfect.” She ran her hands over her hips and squealed, “Pockets! It even has pockets!”

“That’s convenient.” Anna agreed. Pockets were indeed the Holy Grail of women’s fashion. Anna was currently rocking a fanny pack due to wearing jeans that had decorative stitching in place of pouches for stashing a debit card and cell phone.

“It’s so slimming.” Tammy continued to admire herself and Anna didn’t have the heart to tell her that the color was hideous and that it looked like a shapeless sack on her body. She was so relieved to finally be done with the shopping excursion that she believed there was no harm in allowing Tammy to see something different in the mirror.

***

The next time they met, Tammy was wearing the dress. They ran some errands at the mall and decided to grab lunch in the food court. Tammy stood in the middle of the horseshoe of food stands, hands stuffed in her pockets and said, “I don’t know what I want.” Anna was accustomed to this ritual, it usually consisted of a discussion of calories over flavor and a list of the prior month of meals Tammy had eaten. This was followed by wallowing in misery that they could no longer eat whatever they wanted. This time, Tammy added, “I wish someone would just tell me what to eat.”

The moment she finished speaking, a man from the kabob stand approached with a tray containing two plates full of food. “Excuse me, ladies,” he said, “we need to swap out our grill; this is what was left. We have to discard the food that no one has ordered, but I was wondering if you would like it…on the house.”

Anna’s jaw dropped as Tammy thanked the man and took the tray. “You just wished for food.”

Tammy nodded. “It’s been happening a lot. I put my hands in my pockets and then I get what I wish for.”

“Have you tried asking for money?” Anna joked.

Tammy’s expression changed. “I did. But I got something else, instead.” She nodded toward an empty table. “Let’s eat before it gets cold.”

When it was time to leave, they could not find their vehicle. Tammy had driven so Anna had relinquished responsibility of remembering where they had parked.

“Don’t worry,” Tammy assured Anna and then put her hands in her pockets. “I wish I didn’t have to be bothered.”

Anna was about to remark on the vagueness of the wish when a man pulled up. “You called an Uber?” he asked.

“—No,” Anna began but Tammy was already climbing into the vehicle.

Instead of being her usual, miserable self, Tammy proceeded to flirt with the driver the entire trip. Anna was fed up and ready to leave once they arrived at Tammy’s house, but Tammy insisted she come in.

“Your behavior was crazy,” Anna scolded as she stepped over the threshold.

“What? That was harmless.”

Anna was about to remind Tammy that she was married when she saw the inside of Tammy’s house. There was a new large screen TV and a full-wall fish tank with exotic fish. The furniture was also new and clearly expensive.

“Where did this come from?” It was no secret that Tammy usually struggled to pay her bills.

“John.”

“He got a raise?”

“He died.”

For the second time that day, Anna’s jaw dropped. “What do you mean, he died?”

“I told you I wished for money, but then…”

Anna could not believe what she was hearing. “You made a wish and he died. And you did nothing? You told no one? You didn’t even have a funeral?”

Tammy shrugged. “I didn’t have to. I just put my hands in my pockets—”

Anna had heard enough. She went down the hall to the kids’ rooms, expecting to see luxury there as well. Instead, the rooms were cleaned out as if no one had ever lived there.

“Tammy…where are the kids?”

Tammy blushed. “It’s not really my fault. I made a wish…”

“To get rid of them?” Anna felt sick.

Tammy shook her head. “To be free of this burden.” She gestured to her body, circling her abdomen.

“You have to be careful! Your wishes are horrible. Stop wishing, and get your hands out of those pockets!”

Tammy’s face grew red with anger. She yelled, “For once I wish I could just be left alone! I wish you would go away so I could be as miserable as I want to be.”

Anna did not get the chance to look before she hit the floor, but she guessed that Tammy’s hands had been in her pockets.

∼ Elaine Pascale

© Copyright Elaine Pascale. All Rights Reserved.

The Last Child

~ TheDamned ~ 4 Comments

She was always the last child to leave the school. 

At first, she would beg to stay and help the teachers, but something about her didn’t sit right. Her dirty, tangled hair and taped up glasses made her ugly. She had a desperate quality about her, like a starving puppy. She always stood a little too close for comfort and talked a little more than was necessary. The teachers found excuses to send her home.

In later years, she began to misbehave. She would start fights on the playground, vandalize the bathrooms and smart off in class. Whatever she did, she always got caught. The teachers gossiped about how stupid and troublesome she was as they sipped tea in their lounge.

It’s like she wants to stay for detention, they’d say. Then they would move on to her dirty clothes and her broken tooth. She used to be such a good student, someone would reminisce. What happened to her?

They were right, of course. She did used to be a good student, and she did want to stay for detention. She arrived before the custodian unlocked the doors in the morning, every morning. She stayed until he shooed her home. She never missed a day in 4 and a half grades—and then she missed the rest of them.

She would have been pleased to know that she became every teacher’s favorite student after the fact. They named the gymnasium for her and celebrated her birthday every year with a pep rally. She used to be such a good student, someone would reminisce. How could that have happened to her?

But something about her still didn’t sit right. With no place else to go, she of course came back to wander the only safe place she knew. She would stand a little too close for comfort, creating cold spots and shivers. She tried to help after class, but again, no one appreciated her efforts. The teachers found excuses to go home. 

Eventually, the school closed. No one wanted to teach there. No one wanted to be students there. Rumors grew faster than children and turned just as vicious. Tales were spread about a murderous custodian, a sadistic principal, a teacher who practiced the dark arts… seeking answers, they buried the truth.

The truth is she stays there still, alone. There is no custodian, principal or teacher—evil or otherwise—to keep her company. She trails down the empty halls, humming to herself and making minute dust devils spin on the cracked tile. She doesn’t notice the emptiness because for her it has always been that way. She stays at school, not because anything holds her there, but because she has no where else she wants to be. 

She was always the last child to leave the school. 

∼ Angela Yuriko Smith

© Copyright Angela Yuriko Smith. All Rights Reserved.