Frightmares: A Fistful of Flash Fiction Horror

by Unknown

  Tim didn’t answer. The demon finally said, “Okay. Fair enough. You are going to give up your friendship with . . . who? Quote his full name. Then, give me your thumbprint, there . . .” A scroll-form appeared in thin air, and Tim touched it at a red “X.”

  “Okay, done. Your friendship with Dan is now mine, and your debts are gone!”

  The demon disappeared, along with Tim’s debts.

  In time, Dan’s coolness toward Tim changed to animosity. He wasted no time in badmouthing Tim whenever possible. Tim soon found himself gossiped out of a job. He lost friends to Dan’s fury. No matter what he tried, Tim couldn’t dissuade Dan from his vendetta.

  Tim was finally forced to move to a distant town, several states away. He had to start over socially, and never really recovered; he died early and lonely.

  Cosmic scales balanced.

  Mike Wilson has been a fan of horror and sci-fi all his life, and writing short fiction and poetry since 2001. A member of the Iowa Poetry Association, he lives in Des Moines, Iowa. He has published several collections, most recently Mirror Worlds.

  $2 BUST FROM AN ANTIQUE SALE

  ERIC J. GUIGNARD

  I sit in my office typing on my computer. I feel the stare, a sensation tapping inside the back of my head. Turning around curiously, I glance upon the wooden bust I have recently acquired.

  It is life-size, just a head, neck, and cropped shoulders, sitting on my bookshelf, gazing out through sightless eyes. It is the image of some native chief or shaman, but I cannot determine its origin. It could be an American Indian, or Polynesian Tahua, or African witch doctor, or even someone whose existence is merely rumor. The bust is intricately carved with a tall headdress composed of feathers and leaves. Each piece of the headdress has a strange symbol etched across it, as if a child was allowed randomly to draw cryptographs. The bust is truly unique, but it emits a sinister aura, something I have never before felt.

  Mildred had first commented on it. “I don’t like it. It’s quite creepy.”

  Thus, I had to have it. It was the closing of an estate sale in the back woods. I casually offered $2 for it and the dealer agreed with unexpected haste.

  I didn’t particularly care for the bust, but because Mildred found it creepy, I wanted it. Mildred collected anthropological relics and nothing was taboo for her. For something to elicit displeasure in Mildred was a prize find indeed.

  Yet now I gaze upon the face of this native bust and feel her sentiment of unease. I stare into the fixed wooden eyes as if hypnotized and imagine I can see a reflection looking back at me.

  A storm bursts suddenly outside and a crack of thunder sounds through the air. I turn away from the bust, its spell momentarily broken, intent to return to type on my computer.

  I feel the stare return, tapping inside the back of my head.

  I stand up and approach the bust. I face it directly and stare further into its eyes. Something moves where the pupils should be. A flicker of light, a fleeting spirit. I feel myself grow tired, dazed, limbs weighed down.

  Another crack of thunder, then a flash of lightning, and the electricity goes out. The world turns black.

  I hear Mildred’s voice from another room. “Where’s the flashlight?”

  The lights come back on, but the storm continues.

  I see myself staring back at me. My likeness stretches his arms wide and peers around. I cannot move, yet feel terror crawl upon my brain.

  Mildred walks into the room. “That was strange,” she announces.

  My likeness agrees. The two of them look upon me.

  In the being’s eyes, the reflection returns, a flash of mirrored light. I see myself again–the wooden bust sitting on the bookshelf.

  Mildred shakes her head and scowls. “Sometimes I think you do things just to spite me. I told you this bust is creepy. There’s something really disturbing about it.”

  My likeness nods and smiles. “You’re right, honey. I’m sorry. I’ll get rid of it right away.”

  Eric J. Guignard is an award-winning author and editor in southern California, favoring fiction in the genres of horror, speculative, and young adult. He also writes research and knowledge-based articles in genealogy research, woodworking, and ecology. His greatest joys are his wife and infant son. Please visit Eric at www.ericjguignard.com.

  CIRCLE OF SALT

  ADAM WILLIAM SPIKE

  Her teeth worked furiously at her bloodied lips, ragged breaths shook her small frame. Only her faith in the surrounding circle of salt kept her from total breakdown. It was out there, its claws scraped the wooden floor as it searched for her.

  She prayed it would leave her alone, after its game, as it had before. Every Wednesday for three years the shadow had stalked her; three years terrified, surrounded by a circle of salt.

  Sometimes she thought about giving up, welcoming the abyss with open arms, but she hadn’t the courage . . .

  The creature moved away from her, the giant husk of dread shambled towards the window . . . just another part of its game, it must be; it never left this soon. Glass scattered across the floor, wind and rain howled in its wake.

  The candle she held flickered; starved eyes were drawn by its dance. For the first time in three years, the creature saw her. The salt circle began to tremble and shift beneath the wind, distorting, breaking. This was a new tactic; one designed to deprive her of protection. She reached for the small knife beside her, crouching low, she readied herself and waited.

  Its eyes phased out of view. Panic forced its icy path through her veins. She turned slowly on the spot, eyes straining for some sign, some flicker of motion . . . Nothing; only aching stillness. She continued waiting until sunrise announced the end of its game.

  It had sent her a message that night, she’d lost; courage was no longer required; only the conviction of cowardice.

  Pressing the knife to her wrist, she drew it upwards, a pristine, dark red release followed. She wouldn’t let it win, wouldn’t let it claim her. Instead, she claimed herself. Collapsing to the floor, she felt her life seep away; killing the thoughts of the living nightmare she was leaving behind. No more suffering, no more games.

  It was finally over.

  Adam William Spike credits everything he achieves is in dedication to the two most wonderful boys he had the privilege of being a father to. Inspired by his better half and given his material from day dreaming at work, he enjoys writing and hopefully entertaining everyone with his happy kind of madness.

  GENESIS

  NATALIE MCNABB

  In the beginning, the Arachnid spun its web from the void, in the deep darkness that was upon the face of the heavens, and the winds moved upon its web.

  And the winds brought forth the first fly to the Arachnid’s web, causing the fly to become ensnared.

  And the Arachnid felt the fly’s movement upon the face of its web and was drawn to the fly.

  And the Arachnid crept along its web, descended upon the fly and called what it found there, Life.

  And with web spun of its bowels, the Arachnid divided the fly from its breath and called what it then found, Death.

  And the Arachnid’s eyes were opened, and it was as a god, knowing evil from good.

  And this first Life and Death the Arachnid called Existence.

  And the Arachnid said, Let me eat of the fly and yield fruit after my own kind, the seed of which is in myself: and it was so.

  So the Arachnid brought forth the firstlings of its cluster in its own image.

  And the Arachnid saw that its fruit might also become as gods, knowing the Life and Death of Existence, knowing evil from good.

  And the Arachnid called itself Alpha because it was the father of all living, the beginning and the first.

  And the Arachnid said, Let my fruit be carried upon the wind into the firmament of heaven to divide it one from another, that it might alight elsewhere upon the earth and be fruitful and multiply.

  And it came to pass that the Arachnid’s offspri
ng sent forth long silken strands and raised their abdomens toward the firmament, and the winds moved upon their silken strands, taking them up from the earth unto heaven as if a great mist rising.

  And the Arachnid’s fruit fell upon the whole face of the ground, and the Arachnid saw everything that had been done: and that it was very good.

  And the Arachnid blessed its firstlings and sanctified them, saying, Unto you I give every herb, every bearing seed, every tree and beast upon the face of the earth, and every thing that creepeth wherein there is Life for your continuance do I give unto you.

  And the Arachnid commanded its offspring to bring forth abundantly, to populate the earth across all seasons, across all days and years: and it was so.

  And the Arachnid’s fruit spun myriad webs in the void, in deep darkness, and the winds brought forth abundant flies from which the arachnids brought about Death, drank Life and delivered more seed unto Existence.

  And the Arachnid’s fruit did not rest, but multiplied, sending forth likenesses unto the earth to dress it and keep it, to replenish and subdue it.

  And the Arachnid’s fruit also became as gods, having dominion over Life and Death in Existence, over every place where they did set their feet and over every living thing that inhabited the earth: and it is still so.

  Natalie McNabb lives and writes in Washington State, where her dog and cat frolic beneath the trees of her Eden after squirrel tails, exhumed moles and up-flung mice. Her writing has been shortlisted for The Micro Award, Glass Woman Prize and Fish Short Story Competition. Please visit her at www.nataliemcnabb.com.

  RUNNING WITH THE PACK

  STAN SWANSON

  Hannah groaned.

  Fingers tingling, she tentatively touched the side of her neck. Sticky wetness . . . Hannah turned her hand and, with sleep-weary eyes, struggled to focus on the crimson blobs of blood. She grinned. “You did it?” The words were a blend of wonder and excitement.

  “What choice did I have?” Lonnie muttered. “You’ve been riding my ass for months. I was getting tired of hearing it.”

  She leaned forward, wincing at the sting of the wound. “Jeez! That hurts!”

  Lonnie laughed. “What did you think? I didn’t exactly give you a tender love bite.”

  Despite the pain, she threw her arms around Lonnie and planted a slobbery kiss on his lips. Warmth trickled through her body, desire mingling with anticipation.

  Lonnie stood, his taut muscles flexing as he stretched. Hannah was unsure what thrilled her more, the lingering thought of sex or the eagerness of what was to come.

  “And I’ll change soon?” she asked.

  “That’s why we did it tonight, babe. Remember? There’s a full moon.” He wiped a dab of blood from his cheek.

  Hannah could not contain her excitement. “What do I need to do?”

  Lonnie shrugged. “Nothing the first time. The change will come as midnight approaches. Just try to relax.”

  Moments later, Hannah felt her muscles tighten and twinge from head to toe.

  “You’d better get out of those clothes,” Lonnie suggested.

  She smiled wickedly. “Do we have time?”

  Lonnie laughed. “Later, hon. The problem is–. ”

  Hannah flinched as spasms of pain jolted every nerve ending in her body.

  “Too late—” Lonnie whispered.

  Hannah’s blouse ripped at the seams as the muscles in her arms bulged and stretched. She screamed with the intense pain. “You didn’t tell me it would hurt this much,” she gasped between shrieks. The seams of her jeans tore next and tears streamed down her cheeks.

  Between explosions of excruciating pain came orgasmic blasts of pleasure. Sweet torture, then sudden release. The change was complete. With clothes torn to shreds at her paws, she turned to Lonnie and howled.

  She wanted to run and Lonnie knew he couldn’t stop her. The urge to dash through dark woods and howl at the moon was ancient and powerful. Lonnie understood completely and quickly shed his clothes. A moment later, the silvery wolves howled in unison and bounded through the front door.

  * * *

  “Are you sure you haven’t been drinking, sir?” the officer asked again.

  “No,” the man gasped. “They . . . they just came out of nowhere–”

  “So, you’re telling me you didn’t notice two people, naked as jaybirds, run in front of your car?”

  “No!” the man insisted as he leaned against the fender of his limited edition Silver Bullet Mercedes for support. “And I told you already. They weren’t people. They were . . . dogs . . . or wolves . . . ”

  The cop looked at him with doubt, his gaze turning to the mangled bodies of a young man and woman lying in the glare of flashing red lights.

  Stan Swanson is the author of Forever Zombie, a collection of zombie tales, as well as two books on songwriting and two fantasy novels for the younger set. He is also the Senior Editor/Publisher of Dark Moon Digest and the CEO/Publisher of Dark Moon Books.

  SERIAL KILLERS DON’T PAY MEMBERSHIP DUES

  K. K. PHILAN

  Anthony slammed the door to his apartment and threw his plain, black briefcase on his plain, black futon. Still seething from his annual review, he flung several unopened letters toward the coffee table.

  “A twenty-cent per hour raise after everything I tolerate?” the accountant bellowed. “I’m crammed in a cubicle all day, and still can’t afford cable television after five years with the same lousy company.”

  He looked around his studio apartment, as if seeing it for the first time.

  White walls. Cheap furnishings. Boring.

  Then, Anthony noticed that one of the envelopes in front of him was from The Accountant’s Guild.

  He seized the letter. “More dues? I need a new career. Something more—exciting.”

  He rifled through the other envelopes: a Publisher’s Clearinghouse mailer, an alimony demand from his ex-wife, and a bill notifying him of rental payment increases. Anthony strangled the bill.

  “That jerk still hasn’t fixed my leaky toilet and I’m supposed to pay him more? I ought tomurder that son-of-a–”

  His spine stiffened.

  “I could repay everyone that screwed me. Starting with my greed-ball landlord.” He rubbed his hands together, obsessing.

  “I’d definitely be more interesting. No stupid neckties, no cubicles, no dues. It’s perfect.”

  Anthony grabbed paper and pen from his briefcase, pausing only to glance at the ex-wife’s letter.

  “You’re second on my list. Then, my cheapskate boss. Maybe Ed McMahon, as a bonus.” He began neatly writing names down the page.

  Satisfied with his list, he wrenched the tie from his neck and secured it around his head. Anthony raked through his nondescript hair and ran over to a small mirror perched on his T.V. to appraise his appearance.

  “Yes! Now I need a scary name.” Anthony frowned, looking around for inspiration. His ravenous gaze fell on a Beatle’s CD.

  “Taxman,” he sang and struck a John Travolta pose. Anthony laughed maniacally and snatched horror DVDs from his multimedia rack, prepared to take notes.

  ***

  Hours later, amongst several soda cans, Anthony rapped his pen against hurried scribbles.

  “No, that’s not right. A gash from a thirty-three degree down-angle thrust should spurt more blood than that,” he muttered, gesturing toward the melee on his television. He slid the tie off his forehead.

  “How am I supposed to account for clothing expenses if this stuff is inaccurate?”

  Anthony scanned his notes: creepy hideout, basement preferred; torture tools; car—large trunk; clothing/disguises; disposable gloves; cleaning/sanitation supplies; Taxman “business” cards. Next to each category, Anthony scrawled budgetary estimates. He compared the totaled number to his checkbook.

  “Even without Taxman cards, I still can’t afford everything. And if I don’t advertise, how will anybody know these are serial murders?”


  He groaned. “It all comes down to money. Even my sanity is dictated by my wallet.”

  Anthony smoothed his hair, looking miserably at the movie.

  “Lucky bastard,” he mumbled, stabbing the remote’s off button. He readied a bland tie, set his alarm clock, and drifted into a disconcerting world filled with jeering numbers.

  K.K. Philan is a sci-fi/fantasy/thriller novelist living in Mesa, Arizona. Her short stories and poetry have appeared in journals such as Short Fast and Deadly, Kerouac's Dog Magazine, and the Ann Arbor Review. Her first novel, Soul Mortem Prophecy, will be released later this year on Kindle and at storihistorian.com.

  THE INITIATION

  JASON D. BRAWN

  Glen was the most popular kid in my school, and I wanted to be his friend. He was an outstanding all-around athlete who wore the best clothes, got the girls—like a rock star—and was an all “A” student. A promising 15-year-old student who could do no wrong, and I wanted to be his close friend. But to be his close friend, you had to be in his gang–made up of the coolest kids in the school. As for myself, I had no friends and students often laughed at my hand-me downs and long fro. I was the complete opposite of Glen.

  Soon, I found the courage to ask Glen about being recruited, for which I had to be initiated. All I had to do was swim across a lake and I would be his new best friend. Despite my fear of the water and inability to swim, I felt bullied to take this dare.

  With agreement, I waded through the lake, shivering and sinking deep and deeper while the murky waters touched my neck. I was still within earshot of the boys screaming at me to go on. I did so, but then slipped, losing my balance and fighting to retreat.

  The boys laughed and I caught glimpses of them hurling rocks and bottles at me, thinking it was fun to watch me struggle. I didn't see anything funny. Eventually the waters entered my mouth, suffocating me and forcing me to the deepest end, where I would never be found.