100 Word Horrors: An Anthology of Horror Drabbles

by Kevin J. Kennedy

  It didn’t take long.

  They all sucked.

  Which just meant picking the one that sucked the least.

  Which also sucked.

  Moving gingerly to the door, she undid the security chain with shaking hands.

  “Trump Supporters!” they chirp at her.

  God help her…

  Delusional

  By

  Suzanne Fox

  “You’re not real.”

  “But, you can see me.”

  “The doctor says that you’re a hallucination. You only exist in my mind.”

  “You know that’s not true.”

  “You’re not real! Not rea… Argh!”

  “Tell me that the blood dripping from your wrist isn’t real and that I didn’t cut you.” The demonic figure licked the red gore from its claw and retreated to the corner of the room. Neil screamed.

  The lock clacked, and the door opened. “Doctor!” yelled the white-clad nurse, rushing to apply pressure to the wound. “How do you manage to self-harm, when you’re cuffed to the bed?”

  Disregarded Advice

  By

  Ike Hamill

  BANG!

  He cowers under the blankets, holding his breath, knowing that…

  BANG! BANG!

  …two more will come.

  A few days ago, when the pounding first came, he convinced himself that it was only a vivid dream. Two nights ago, he blamed the wind and spent the next day securing the shutters on the north side of the house.

  When he was a boy, his mother warned him.

  “The third time it comes, don’t be home.”

  For two days, he could have been on the road, getting far away.

  “It will come for blood,” she said.

  He hears the doorknob click.

  Harsh Sentence

  By

  P. Mattern

  The philanderer felt a sharp blow to the back of his ankles and was immediately awake, warm blood enveloping his bare feet.

  Violet was standing several feet away from their bed, still in her nightgown, a dripping axe in her hand.

  He arose and pitched helplessly forward, much like the character in his last novel had, and instantly recognized that she had severed his Achilles tendon.

  She’d always been big on poetic justice.

  “Why?” he grunted, realizing as he spoke that it was the most useless question he could ask.

  Her only answer was a final blow to his head.

  No More

  By

  Mike Duke

  Bruised eye, swollen shut. Broken jaw, broken orbit, broken arm.

  “Fell down the stairs again, doc. Such a klutz, I know. Fourth time this year. Worst one yet, and, dammit, it was on Christmas Day. Yeah. It did ruin things for the kids. My fault. ALL my fault. As usual.”

  But tonight, he hit my son.

  New Year’s Eve. The ball’s about to drop. I stand behind my husband’s favorite chair, where, drunk, he sleeps. Cheers on TV. A new year. A new day. Double-barrel shotgun in hand, I resolve...NO MORE.

  Two triggers at once and I’m free. Free, indeed.

  What is Schizophrenia, Anyway?

  By

  Robert W. Easton

  A year ago, I started to hear things. Screaming, crying, begging, growling, and the tearing of flesh. My psychologist gave me a prescription, which kept the sounds at bay.

  I came home early from a party, as I could feel the blockers wearing off. The initial terror in the voices had faded, but I was still on the meds. There was a light on in my kitchen, and as I entered the house, the light clicked off. I heard a low growl just before the voice in my head said, “Noooo, this is how I died!” It was my voice.

  Shower Thoughts

  By

  Peter Oliver Wonder

  Shutting off the shower, Jane relaxed and inhaled a deep breath of steam. For a moment, she rested against the metal handle and allowed the water to drip from her face—she blew away the drop of water that had accumulated at the bottom of her upper lip.

  As she let the warmth embrace her, she was jolted by the thunderous sound which boomed from beside her. Sliding open the shattered glass door, she was surprised to find her three-year-old son standing there with his father's service revolver.

  "I'm sorry, mommy," he said before watching her fall to her knees.

  A Caring Community?

  By

  Suzanne Fox

  Every day Kitty stood by the roadside cursing, throwing stones at passing cars, and scrabbling for discarded dog-ends to feed her nicotine addiction. A figure of ridicule for the neighbour’s kids, who dared each other to knock on her door.

  Then, one day, Kitty wasn’t there; or the following days.

  Two boys dared each other to enter the darkness of her derelict home. Her tortured corpse awaited their discovery in the bedroom, clouded by five weeks of decay. No one had missed her. No one had heard her screams of anguish, or the laughter of her tormentors as she died.

  Lightbulb

  By

  Matthew Brockmeyer

  I’m trying to watch the Raiders game but my wife keeps nagging me to go down to the basement and change the lightbulb.

  It’s first and ten on the twenty-two yard line with a minute left, and she's standing in front of the television in a dirty nightgown, hair a mess, wagging a finger at me, harping about how dark it is down there.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I say, trying to peer around her, “I’ll get to it.”

  But there’s no way I’m going down there. I haven’t been down in the basement since I buried her nagging-ass there years ago.

  A Demonic Pact

  By

  Billy San Juan

  There’s a demon in my bedroom. It follows me with its fiery eyes, daring me to escape. I tried to run already, but he roared, and I fell. My arm landed on the corner of the dresser. I can already feel the bruise forming. It knows the bruise hurts. It knows to grab me by the arm, to squeeze the bruise. To cover my mouth with his clawed talon so I can’t scream. I’ve been trapped with this demon before, but I can usually escape. Not tonight. Tonight, I think I will die. I can’t believe I married this man.

  Till Death do us Part

  By

  Derek Shupert

  Travis leaned against the door, his vision blurry from the tears that filled his eyes. He had a nasty gash on the right side of his face. Blood dripped from the open wound to the cream-colored linoleum floor. His white shirt was stained red all over.

  He slowly twisted his wedding band around his finger. The banging on the door continued to rattle his nerves. Simple grunts and growls mixed in with scratching along the door’s wooden exterior. Wiping the tears away, Travis grabbed his ax and got to his feet.

  “Till death do us part, my beloved,” he muttered.

  Someone’s in my House

  By

  Gord Rollo

  Someone’s in my house.

  They’re being quiet, but I can still hear them.

  Coming upstairs.

  I think I know who; the man in the leather jacket I caught peeking in my window earlier today, his skin a sickly shade of alabaster. He said he was an old friend, and something in his jaundiced eyes demanded I let him in. No chance of that. The police assured me he was long gone, but obviously they were wrong. He’s back now… just outside my room.

  The door swings open.

  An old friend?

  The knife in the big man’s hand tells me no.

  It

  By

  Billy Chizmar

  “Ground Control, this is Robinson, I have landed, I repeat, I have touched down.”

  Robinson’s radio exploded with cheers. He was the lone astronaut on the first privately funded mission to the moon, in a rocket that he’d helped design. As he stepped out of the lunar lander, he couldn’t help but think about how wealthy he would be by the end of the…

  He saw It then. It was moving through the abyss of space a
s if It were water. Robinson watched as the being moved upon Earth, and with an impossible maw, devoured the planet in one motion.

  Checkmate Roommate

  By

  Michael A. Arnzen

  They tormented him just for wearing his chess team t-shirt freshman year, so he dropped out and got a shitty job laying tile. Part of him was too smart for it, but he still got richer and stronger than they ever would, and it gave him time to plan.

  Now he had enough tiles to enjoy his own bathroom floor. An ivory checkerboard pattern of chipped skull. He kept their tiny bones, a phalanx of knights and pawns, within his vanity mirror. Alone, he'd practice gambits against himself for days. Despite losing mate after mate, both sides were always victorious.

  Silence

  By

  Pippa Bailey

  Jerry liked the silence. His neighbours, despite repeat requests, refused to quieten down, blaring shit music at all hours. No matter how often he complained, the police were uninterested in his plight.

  His neighbours didn’t hear him enter through the shutter door that night. Nor his footsteps on the wooden floor, creaks hidden beneath thumping drum and bass

  Blood trickled from his head, and stained his crisp, white shirt. The rusty screwdriver he had thrust into his ears brought the sweet release of silence. It would soon do the same for his neighbours, and bring the sweet release of death.

  Jolly Ol' Infiltrator

  By

  Weston Kincade

  Decorated trees and Christmas memories,

  Hours pass with glee.

  Families stream down sidewalks,

  Small eyes aglitter as they flock,

  To see him, the crook,

  The jolly elf’s shouts taking a page from my book.

  I open my luggage—my gift,

  An AR-50, my partner this nightshift.

  Sitting atop his throne, the chubby thief grins,

  “Merry Christmas” resounds—the traitor, my twin.

  Smoothing my white beard down, I sight the scope,

  Measuring wind and distance, before taking down the Christmas Pope.

  At the pull of a trigger, his hat tumbles free,

  For there can be only one as jolly as me.

  Shadows

  By

  Antonio Simon, Jr.

  Matt rubbed his hands with glee. The room was perfect, which meant at last he’d be safe, though sleep and freedom would be forever out of reach. Fluorescent floodlights in each corner ensured the shadows wouldn’t get him. No more reliance on torches or lighters—it was all daylight, all the time.

  Then he realized his mistake—more lights didn’t mean less shadows, but more of them. Standing in the middle of the room, the four shadows he cast were rooted to his feet. They clapped shut in unison like a Venus flytrap’s jaws and pulled him through the floor.

  Winter’s Embrace

  By

  Duncan P. Bradshaw

  From the corner of my eye, I see her. Behind a skeletal tree, she lurks at the edge of this snow-blanketed forest. Given my tragedy, she must wonder why I’ve remained. Perhaps she thinks I am still stricken by grief? I skirt around the mounds of the unmarked graves of my family. No insidious chanting from her this day. No poison has she readied for me. Her coven of one will soon be nought but ash. I heft my axe and continue to chop firewood. My revenge is near, and I shall watch her burn atop my wooden pyre.

  Cut Down to Size

  By

  David Owain Hughes

  Patrick rolled the cutter from his garage and eyed his overgrown lawn.

  “We’ll sort it, baby,” he said, stroking his lawnmower.

  Plugging his Flymo in, Patrick began.

  Over the noise, Patrick thought he heard screaming, much like the last time he’d been mowing. Dismissing it, he carried on until he was done and holding a beer.

  Whilst admiring his handiwork, the blades of grass started rumbling and moving together like chainsaw teeth. Patrick screamed as his feet burst into clouds of liquid, and he slowly sank into the ground as though he was being fed into a waste disposal unit.

  Children of the Carnival

  By

  Kevin J. Kennedy

  I watched them run between the stalls, playing hide and seek. They didn’t seem to be bothering with the various rides or confectionary stands. When one of them approached me, and asked if I wanted to play, I looked to my parents. My mother said no, but my father said, “Let the boy be, Janice.”

  When I found my parents later, they didn’t recognise me. I explained that I was their son and I lived with them. They looked at me confused before making their retreat.

  The other children and I all play together now, while waiting for another player.

  The Grave

  By

  Amy Cross

  You're not fooling me. I know that, despite that great big crack in your face, you're not quite dead yet. You're waiting for me to leave, so you can crawl out of this pit. Pathetic. That was always one of your favorite words, wasn't it? Anyway, you should probably close your mouth, unless you want dirt in there. No? Okay, fine. At least I know you're never gonna talk to me like that again. Just know that when I've filled in this grave, I'm going home to figure stuff out. And then? Well, there's one like you in every town.

  Will-o'-the-Wisp

  By

  Nicholas Diak

  Deep within the bog, lies a submerged steamboat from a century long since passed. On the clearest of nights, when the cream-coloured moon beams its light through the swamp’s canopy, the Will-o'-the-wisp wakens from these old ruins. The wisp dances in the moonlight, her ghostly flames twirl about her, fluttering like the gown she wore during the final dance with her charming beau. On that night, an errant lantern fell, quickly consuming the ship in fire, sinking her and all aboard.

  Satisfied with the perfect night, she takes to the marshlands to search for a new partner to dance with.

  Stone

  By

  Becky Narron

  The black stone sat in the edge of the water. As my fingers touched it a shock ran up my arm. I pulled my hand away quickly, my face just mere inches from the water.

  All of a sudden a thin string shot out and hit me in the face wrapping itself around the back of my head. Then another shot up hitting me between the eyes. I could feel it wiggling it's way inside my flesh.

  Several hours later I awoke. I walked in the house and looked in the mirror. My eyes were black. Just like the stone.

  Meal for One

  By

  Howard Carlyle

  Charles looked at the raw meat on his plate and slavered like a ravenous dog. He picked it up and tore huge chunks from it with his teeth, eating mouthful after mouthful like it was his last ever meal.

  The blood on the flesh was still warm and this just added to the flavor... He couldn't get enough of it. He wiped away the blood from his mouth, looked at the body laid in the corner of the room and thanked her for such a lovely meal.

  “You're a pleasure on the eye, and even more so on the tastebuds!”

  Don’t Look Back

  By

  James Matthew Buyers

  Hush you fool, he’s right outside!

  He killed both John and Jane!

  Rushing in was how they died.

  So what? Are you insane?

  Silence? What is wrong with you?

  That panting sure must suck!

  Here’s what I think we should do:

  We bolt for that old truck.

  Grunting? Really? Come on, man!

  Is this the time to play?

  Hunting us, that is HIS plan!

  His ax wants blood today!

  Seriously? Now you groan?

  My God , are you alright?”

  Turning, I see wood and bone;

  He swings with all his might.

  Ax, skull, crash, flood;

  Death, fear, fate, blood …

  I’m next!

  Street-Hearts<
br />
  By

  Chris Kelso

  Love is here upon my streets: bursting newly infected cells like flimsy water balloons, spewing disease wherever she goes. The girl… she killed this place good and hard. My city. Now, these dead dogs of hope lie stacked in alleyways, and men shake hands as rough as walrus-hide behind the shining shawl of corporate skyscrapers, erected at her behest. Blood whisper softly over asphalt; condom sheaths emerge—ruptured, oozing yellow—from dusty shadows, as if her new parasite has moulted in my filth, shed its hide, and worked its way into the city waterworks. I grow to love her terrorism.