“Abby, what have you done?”
The man’s daughter sat beside him, a grin on her face.
“When I asked Mommy for a puppy she said to put a bug in your ear.”
“Honey, it’s only an expression.”
The man could hear the distant groan of his wife, her agony growing louder, closer.
“Abby, what did you do to Mommy?”
“Nothing, Daddy.” The girl’s grin remained.
“Mommy said she’d keep an eye out for one.”
Air
By
Dave McClusky
The cold encompassed him. His lungs burnt in their desire to fulfil their natural function—to breathe!
His eyes were wide, yet his vision was shaky. Obscure shapes around him attempted to hit him with objects. Each of them, ultimately missing.
He wanted to scream. He needed to open his mouth and allow the sweet, life-giving air rush into him, easing the fire in his chest.
That way lay death, but that was inevitable now.
Inside the cabinet the escape-artist opened his mouth. Cold water rushed in, filling his lungs, as the audience tried in vain to smash the glass.
You Don’t See Me
By
Christina Bergling
You don’t see me. You come home to the house you assume is empty.
You don’t see me. You walk around your house in your underwear, dancing to the music vibrating the speaker.
You don’t see me. You cook dinner for one and dribble noodles onto your lap in front of the television.
You don’t see me. You lock us in together and turn out all the lights.
You don’t see me. You pull the covers up tight and start to breathe slow and heavy.
You don’t see me. I climb in bed with you and squeeze out your life.
The Dead Train
By
Craig Saunders
A red-rusted, warped relic, the dead train clacks through tunnels - a revenant’s bone feet staggering on cold stone.
A man, a shade in the darkness, sideways of time, waits.
The ghost train rolls in. Doors slide aside and he steps aboard.
A woman, the other side of time, steps toward doors which are not there.
Wind fills the tunnel before commuters cry out at the blood. Flesh and bone speckle silent tracks beneath a carriage.
The waiting shade takes her hand and they wait for others. There are always those who rush to meet the dead train too early.
Delivery
By
Briana Robertson
Water gushed between her legs, soaking the tattered edges of her filthy nightgown. Panic’s frigid chill raced down her spine.
“Oh, God. Help me! Please!”
Her already ragged nails ripped to the quick as she clawed at the locked door.
She collapsed as the spasms took control. Harder. Faster. Blind in the Cimmerian basement, her nostrils swamped with the cloying scent of mildew, she curled in on herself, cursing her captor.
Pain peaked. Breath quickened. Her heartbeat stuttered and slowed.
The baby slid free, silent, limp, and cold.
She answered Death’s call …
Her son’s piteous cry came too late.
The Guest
By
Dave McCluskey
Outside, the wind howled, chilling me to the core. An innocuous sound, but what it heralded petrified me.
A figure peered in from outside. Its ancient eyes dismissing me; it knew what it wanted.
A whisper, somehow louder than the storm outside, announced its entrance as ice cold tendrils pierced my heart…
‘I knew you’d come,’ I croaked.
Ignoring me, its eyes sought out its goal.
The body lying on the table elevated at my guest’s instruction. My beautiful baby floated towards the thing with the eternal eyes.
Then they were gone, taking the storm, and my heart, with them!
Nights in Whitechapel
By
Theresa Jacobs.
“Ambiguous!” Phlegm rattles in his throat as he scoffs, “I’ll show them!” Jack steps back to admire his handy work.
The message is clear in his mind, as he leaves two fleshy mounds on the nightstand.
The whore's blood already coagulating on his thin, black, leather gloves. Though he feels he has much more to do, time is a foe. Grabbing up his cane, Jack slips from the lodging room and melds with the London fog.
Until, a few minutes later, he spots Mary Kelly. A solitary figure in the dead of night, and he, with a message to send.
Betrayal
By
Lee Mountford
My heart is broken.
Sarah, the love of my life, flaunts around before my eyes. She is on the phone, arranging a date for this very evening.
At our house.
She giggles and flirts, caring not for me or for our relationship.
I see now that my feelings for her are unrequited. All the times I kept her safe from the wrong kind of man was for nothing.
Well, I will not stand for this betrayal. No more hiding in the attic, watching and waiting. Now it is time to reveal myself to her.
And to cut out her heart.
Beautiful Francesca
By
Ike Hamill
I’ve adored her for sixty-eight days. Ever since I was fired, Francesca is my job. She hums to herself in the morning when she brushes her hair. The TV in the living room is always on—I guess so she doesn’t feel so alone. Deadbolts and window latches are a social contract. They’re not really stopping anyone. She is so beautiful. I long to see loving gratitude in her eyes as I carry her to safety, rescuing her from danger.
But she is never in danger.
Francesca is always in control.
First, I’ll have to put her in danger.
Priscilla’s Pugnacious Pampered Pups
By
Brandy Yassa
Customary ‘cuppa’ consumed, liberally spiked, Priscilla Pempley prepared for sleep.
On the TV, in the background for ambience, she woozily noticed the end of a close-captioned message; something about “an unknown source”, and warning viewers to be cautious.
Clucking her tongue dismissively, she settled in with her three pampered Pomeranian pooches.
She awoke suddenly, the air smelling odd, and feeling watched. Lifting her eye mask, she startled, finding her dogs staring at her. Chuckling, she began smiling, until, as one, they all commenced snarling.
“Wha…”, she started, then screamed, as her once faithful furry friends tore her throat out.
Mister Fancy Pants
By
Rhys Hughes
I’m walking home from the theater one evening.
“Mister Fancy Pants!” The heckler a youth sitting on a wall.He swings his legs and repeats his scornful call, “Mister Fancy Pants!” and the colour drains from my cheeks.
I no longer stride confidently, but stumble.
Shame has made me awkward.
I reach my house and remove my trousers with the alacrity of a humiliated acrobat. . There in the hallway mirror I see myself and my original underpants, made from ripe avocado skins, stitched together with golden thread and studded with opals and pearls.
“How did he know?” I mutter, distraught.
Greed Has No Heart
By
Mark Lumby
It rattled the open drawer like a tribal drum. I floated to my feet, cold and light, from where I sat. I moved to the drawer, not thinking why I couldn’t feel the heat from the open fire. I ignored this, followed the noise. The drum stopped. Inside the drawer, the organ struggled to pump absent blood. I felt obliged to turn… the cavity in my chest that once accommodated a heart, now home to stained money. Money was stuffed in my mouth, too. I heard a door close, the killer leave.
‘Greed has no heart’ was written in blood.
Beast in the Bedroom
By
Philippa Bailey
Her bed creaked, or was it the wind outside? Faye didn't like noises that invaded her home at night. This was different. A scratching, grinding sound, like nails on a chalk board. She screwed her eyes tight, and wished them away. Thud!. The window flew open. Cold night air whipped the covers from her naked body, swiftly followed by a gigantic, hairy fist that tore her from the bed. She clawed at the mattress, but it yanked her free and out of the window. Face to face with a gigantic beast, it stole her away into the inky blackness.
The Boy
By
Richard Chizmar and Billy Chizmar
The boy emerged from his hole after thirty-nine days. He had finally run out of water. The sky was the color of a nasty bruise he’d gotten last summer after falling off his skateboard. Black, purple, red - It was an angry sky. The boy didn’t know if it was day or night. Ash fell like snow flurries. It was a grey world now. They had burned everything. He started for the blasted skeleton of a nearby house when he felt their heat on the back of his neck. The boy turned to face them, but all he saw was fire.
Weeping Keys
By
Elizabeth Cash
There are eighty-eight keys on a piano:
fifty-two white and thirty-six black.
Each key played sounds a different note, as do the people who lay before me.
Each ligament that is torn and each muscle that is cut offers a new sound to fall from their quivering lips.
Some say it’s cynical, I say it’s methodical.
But what they don’t understand is, that I’m doing them a justice - a peace. Taking their life to give another.
They don’t deserve to breed. They don’t even deserve to feel the pain which I have so graciously given them.
Let them weep.
Grand Slam
By
Christina Bergling
She dragged the wooden bat slowly along the concrete. I could hear the tiny splinters firing away from the friction. Scrape, SLAM! She taunted me, moving around me. I flinched and clutched my aching ribs as she paced.
“I hope he was worth it,” she laughed.
I did not bother to speak; words had earned her batting a grand slam against my ribcage. Scrape, SLAM! Closer this time. I felt my heartbeat climb into my ears. The fear blotted out my thoughts.
She lifted the bat, casting a shadow over me. The impact shattered the world before it went black.
Shock Collar
By
Jeff Strand
"It's no big deal," said the man. "You just can't go more than 100 yards from the invisible fence. Step outside that boundary and you get zapped. Remain outside of it and the shocks continue until you step back in. Simple."
"Please don't do this," said Jerry, tugging at the tight collar around his neck. "I apologized. What more can I do?"
The man smiled. "You can stay within the boundary so you don't get third degree burns on your neck."
"Please!"
"Stop begging." The man signaled to the driver, and the truck with the equipment sped off. "Start running."
The Festival of Gluttony
By
Mike Duke
First snow.
The Hibernation is upon us again and The Festival of Gluttony; to gorge ourselves, then sleep...together in the hidden caves.
I help Mother with the preparations.
The men load muskets and sharpen blades for The Hunt; hitch the covered wagon to Clydesdales. Thick beams of wood, with deep sides designed for heavy loads; easily fifty human corpses. More if the number of children is high.
Which is always nice. They are the most tender.
The cold keeps the meat from turning on their way home. When they arrive, my duties begin.
I’m the best skinner.
Momma says so.
Selfie
By
Rick Gualtieri
It was nothing, so silly, just playing around with my new phone in the bathroom. Took a selfie of myself and posted it online. Not a big deal, until it was. Friends pointed it out, thinking I faked it, but I didn’t. I’m as surprised as they are – surprised, but frightened, too.
Behind me, in the mirror, stands my reflection, but it’s not right. It’s facing the camera and staring at me, a mix of hatred and loathing in its eyes. How long has it pretended to be me? And, now that I know, how long before it stops pretending?
Jonathan
By
Amy Cross
The last time I saw him was on the Old Kent Road. He was dressed in his finest Sunday clothes, as if he was on his way to the club. He looked magnificent, although no-one else seemed to notice him. He didn't see me – perhaps he couldn't see me – but I watched as he slipped quietly through the crowd. I wondered how much he remembered of that fateful day six months earlier. Certainly he seemed to be smiling, but he was limping badly and he seemed not to have picked any of the glass out of his face.
A Flash Beginning
By
Jessica Gomez
The new world’s a nightmare come to life, stripping luxuries and normalities; confiscating all hopes and dreams of a future with family and friends. Tears stream down my soot-covered face, leaving salty trails in their wake.
Screams fill the air, like the smoke billowing off the city around us. A quiet growl sounds from the bundle in my arms, bringing me back to my reality. My heart shatters, devastated, as a sob escapes.
There’s only one option remaining.
I cuddle her close, placing my baby’s mouth next to my neck, and wait for the bite.
Where she goes, I go.
Spellbound
By
John Dover
I wave my hands and the air crackles to life. I concocted the brew, I spoke the words. The sting from the cut on my hand’ll wane. The sour tang of sick, fighting its way out will pass with the wave of adrenaline. These minor discomforts are worth the enslavement of the beast.
They’ll all pay. It’ll flay them alive and bring me their hearts as gifts.
I’m sure it won’t matter that the words on the page bleed together. I incanted a viable enough facsimile. I’m sure it’s licking my neck out of honor and not sampling its meal.
I Was a Teenage Eulogist
By
Jason M. Light
I was a teenage eulogist.
When I was fifteen, I found an old typewriter and eulogized the little old lady next door. She died the next day. I wrote more, for goldfish and dogs and cats. I wrote them for friends, neighbors, and strangers. They all died the next day.
I still write them, I don’t know why - I can’t help it. I don’t do it on purpose; I’m no murderer.
I’ve been working all day and night. The midnight hour is nigh. It might be a black hole or gamma rays. War is imminent.
I was a teenage eulogist.
From the Mouths of Drunks and Babes
By
Alex Laybourne
“Aliens,” they cried, running panicked through the streets.
Nobody believed them. They were drunk, one heavy set man with a beard was wearing a pair of bunny ears, for crying out loud.
“Aliens, aliens are coming.” One of their group stopped right by us, grabbing me by the shirt, the stench of tequila strong on his breath.
I pushed him away and he promptly threw up over his shoes before running after his screaming friends.
We laughed at them, drunken fools. Looking back, I guess the laugh is on us now. Those of us that are still alive at least.
Stage Fright
By
James McCulloch
The putrid stench burned his nostrils as he dragged the body across the floor. He had heard the smell of the dead was overpowering, but nothing could have prepared him for this.
The stage lights came on, hitting him like a punch to the face. He had been warned not to look at the audience, their excited chattering adding to the assault on his senses. He walked away as the chattering made way
for the crunching of bone—filling their gullets with the poor soul he’d left behind.
He just wanted to be away before the poor bastard woke up.
Cupid and Death
By
Rhys Hughes
Cupid and Death exchanged arrows.
Death prefers the scythe to the bow, but Cupid isn’t brawny enough to swing an implement of such awkward mass.
They parted and went their separate ways, but by chance they fired at the same individual at the same instant.
One arrow in his chest, one in his back.
As the arrows hit, the man fell in love with Death. But love was killed inside him. The arrows met in his middle and death fell in love with love, but love was killed by death, its lover.
100 Word Horrors: An Anthology of Horror Drabbles Page 5
