Small Horrors: A Collection of Fifty Creepy Stories

by Darcy Coates

  The radio. It wasn’t playing cheerful eighties tunes anymore. Instead, it made a clicking, screeching sound—exactly like a record that had gotten stuck in a scratch.

  Rita kept still for a long time, hunched over the wet cloth. The sound didn’t change, and the longer she listened, the more she thought she could hear slow, rattling breathing in the background. Without turning her back to the kitchen’s entrance, she picked up the milk-soaked cloth, placed it in the sink, then quietly walked towards the reception area. “Hello?”

  The room was empty, but the radio continued to play the same scratching noise. Rita stepped towards it slowly, feeling as though eyes were watching her. She stretched a trembling hand out and smacked the radio off. The infuriating record-scratch sound seemed to echo through her head as she turned and scanned the room.

  This is ridiculous. Am I going crazy? Did someone get into the building without my knowing?

  She still had the awful creeping feeling that she was being watched as she returned to the kitchen. The half-empty milk carton waited where she’d left it on the bench, damp and slightly dented from where it had been dropped. She wiped it clean and opened the fridge’s door to replace it.

  The fridge, compact and cheap, was scantly filled. Rita’s lunch sat on the top shelf, and a few condiments and jars were lined up neatly on the third shelf. In between, nestled in the middle of the second shelf, was a dead sparrow.

  She almost dropped the milk again. The bird was twisted around, and the feathers were burnt from at least half of the body. She could see the thin, splitting skin below, caked with some sort of green, caustic-looking slime. The stench of chemicals reached her nose and made her gag as memories of the burn victim notes flashed through her head.

  The urge to be sick rose, and Rita slammed the door. She thought she heard a breathy sigh behind her but was already running for the door.

  The bird hadn’t been there when she’d taken the milk out of the fridge. She shuddered and clutched at her face. Someone was in the building.

  Her desk stood between her and the front door. A stab of shock hit her as she saw the files she’d hidden in the drawer were arranged neatly over the bench, lined up one after another. A red pen had been used to scrawl huge, angry words across the pages. MURDER. GUILTY. MURDER. GUILTY. The phrase repeated over and over, sometimes so large that the letters ran off the sides of the papers and stained the desk, sometimes so tiny that they fit between the margins.

  Rita’s head buzzed as she gawked at them. She skirted around the table, her back to the wall to give her as much space as possible. One of the pages fluttered, and she flinched, but she didn’t dare avert her eyes. Her back bumped into the glass front door. She reached behind herself to twist the handle, but it was frozen. She turned. Two opaque eyes stared into hers.

  The age-bowed woman on the other side of the glass pulled the lace shawl off her shoulders. Her hair was burnt off, and her blistered face was caked with the green slime. Her dead eyes, bleached white, stared into Rita’s.

  Rita screamed. She covered her eyes and staggered backwards, moving into waiting arms. Two ice-cold hands wrapped around her neck and squeezed, choking out her cry.

  33

  The Last Bus

  Raj ground his teeth as he leaned his forehead on the bus timetable and tried to read the routes. The twenty-six, twenty-eight, and forty stopped there, but it didn’t say which ones, if any, went to Calgary.

  He glanced at the houses lining the street. He didn’t like to think their occupants might be watching him, laughing at how obviously confused he was. The familiar tight feeling of humiliation built in his stomach, but he pushed it down.

  You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of in this neighbourhood. It’s only two steps away from being a slum; probably half the people who live here are illiterate.

  A squeal of tires disturbed Raj. He turned and saw, to his surprise, a bus had pulled up beside him. I didn’t even hear it coming.

  He tried to see a direction or a number on the bus’s face, but it had neither. The doors opened with a quiet whoosh.

  “Hey,” Raj said, and the driver, a plump, middle-aged man with a pleasantly smiling face, leaned towards him. “Where’re you heading?”

  The man laughed. “All sorts of places, kid. Where d’you want to go?”

  Raj glanced at the dilapidated houses around him. He hadn’t expected anyone who managed this sort of route to be pleasant, let alone friendly. The driver looked like the sort of person who belonged in comfortable middle-upper-class suburbs, managing a private school’s bus, perhaps.

  “Uh…” Raj glanced back at the sign’s map. He’d had the vague idea of going to Calgary, where one of his brother’s friends lived, but he could be flexible. More than anything, he wanted to get out of the neighbourhood. “You passing near Calgary at all?”

  “Sure am,” the driver said, beckoning Raj aboard. “We’re looping through a few other suburbs first, though, so it’s going to be a long trip. That okay?”

  Raj hesitated, one foot in the bus. A long trip meant a lot of money, which he didn’t have. “How much?”

  The bus driver gave him an appraising look, his blue eyes scanning Raj’s stained hoodie and torn jeans. “Kid, I hope I don’t seem out of place saying this, but you look like you’re in some sort of trouble.”

  If an alcoholic with a raging temper and peculiar ideas about what fatherhood meant counted as trouble, then Raj was in a whole lot of it. He felt his face heat as he gave a dismissive shrug.

  “Hey,” the driver said, and the warm smile grew over his face. “We all need a hand-up sometimes. The ticket’s on me.”

  Raj didn’t know what to say. He mumbled some sort of thanks as he stepped onto the bus, then the doors drew closed behind him as Raj looked for a seat.

  The bus held an eclectic collection of passengers. Near the front was a young, pretty woman with dyed-blue hair and nose piercings. Three rows behind her sat a businessman with a limp paper folded over his hands. A little farther back was a teenager a couple of years younger than Raj. Judging by his sickly pallor and the way he shot paranoid glances at his companions, Raj suspected he’d been dipping into some less-than-legal substances. A man who seemed to be homeless lounged against one of the windows, sleeping. Two middle-aged women sat at the other side of the bus, near the back, knitting. And a girl with smeared mascara stared out the window with studied silence.

  Raj took a seat behind the pretty girl near the front and leaned back so he could rest his shoulder against the window. The girl shot him a bright smile as he passed. Raj smiled back, against his better judgement.

  “All settled?” the driver called as he put the bus into gear.

  Raj felt a shock pass through him. When they’d been talking, the driver had held his hands in his lap, where Raj couldn’t see them. As he’d placed them back on the steering wheel, Raj was faced with the sight of ten long dark-yellow nails.

  It was so bizarre and out of character for the otherwise-bright and tidy driver that Raj couldn’t take his eyes away. The nails were at least three inches long, and seemed sharpened at the tip.

  “Bad day?” a husky voice asked. Raj startled and turned towards the pretty girl.

  “Wha…?”

  “You looked pretty deep in thought there,” she said. Her voice was lower than Raj would have expected, and he found he quite liked it.

  A hesitant smile started to grow across his face, but he squashed it quickly. “Well, not the best, but, uh…”

  “Hey,” a voice barked from farther back in the bus. “This isn’t the way to Hyde Street.”

  Raj turned to see the drugged-out kid had spoken. He looked agitated, squirming in his seat and stealing glances at the two knitting women who sat opposite.

  The bus driver glanced into his rear-view mirror, a sunny smile lighting up his face. “You’re right,” he said simply then addressed the rest of the bus, “Think we’ve got enough?”

  A chorus of voices answe
red.

  “Yeah.”

  “Good for me.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  The driver took a sharp turn and picked up speed, weaving the bus through some of the darker, lesser-used lanes. Raj felt unease tickle at his stomach. He glanced at the pretty woman, who had turned in her seat to face him. Her large dark eyes crinkled into a smile. She didn’t seem concerned at all.

  Raj turned to look at the rest of the bus. The knitting women and the businessman all looked unaffected. Only the druggie, the teenage girl with the smeared mascara, and the homeless man, who’d woken from his doze with a confused snort, seemed in any way disturbed.

  “What’s going on?” Raj asked, turning back to the driver. He didn’t recognise the area they were in, but it looked industrial. Warehouses lined the road, and he couldn’t see any other traffic.

  “Just wait a moment,” the driver said, “and you’ll understand.”

  Raj didn’t want to understand. He wanted to get off the damn bus with its damn creepy occupants and its damn strange driver with his damn long nails.

  “What’s wrong with your hands?” the druggie’s voice rang out again, and Raj turned. The kid was glaring at the knitting women, who both gave him equally polite smiles. Raj leaned forward in his seat to see them more clearly, but both women had their knitted scarves draped over their hands.

  Raj felt, all of a sudden, that the hidden fingers were a very bad sign. He found his eyes roving the rest of the bus’s occupants, checking their hands. The druggie’s, the homeless man’s, the crying teenager’s, and his own were all visible. But the knitting ladies had theirs covered with their yarn, the businessman had the newspaper draped over his, and the pretty woman in front of Raj had hers tucked into her pockets.

  “What…” he began. Then the bus pulled to a stop.

  There were no streetlights. No houses. No cars. Raj stood and prepared to bolt for the door, but the driver pressed a button, and the doors locked with a quiet click.

  “Let’s eat,” the bus driver said simply. And suddenly, all of the hidden hands in the bus were exposed as the knitting and newspapers were put away.

  Raj felt a scream build in the back of his throat, but he already knew no one would hear him. The creatures with long yellowed nails moved with deceptive speed. Both knitting women descended on the druggie, their jaws opening wider than a human’s possibly could have as sharp, shark-like teeth extended forward. The motion was almost too fast for Raj to follow, but he caught the abortive, gurgled scream that cut off in a spray of blood. The suited man dropped his paper and leapt over the back of his seat to reach the half-asleep homeless man. The bus driver loped forward, past Raj, his eyes fixed on the terrified teenage girl. A fleck of blood hit Raj’s cheek, and he turned, horrified, to find the pretty girl’s dark eyes an inch from his face.

  “Sorry.” She was smiling, but her breath was contaminated with something sick and rotten as she extended her yellow claws towards Raj. “Today’s about to get an awful lot worse.”

  34

  House for Sale

  Smile, Pam coached herself. She was watching a young couple walk through the kitchen, noting the damage to the cabinets and the broken tiles that exposed the dirty plaster beneath. Look attentive but not obsessive. And for the love of all that’s merciful, don’t let them see how much you hate this house.

  “Do you think the owner would be open to negotiation?” Paul, the husband, asked. He had huge eyebrows that had greyed before his hair. They reminded Pam of fuzzy caterpillars.

  “I’m sure they would.” Pam tried to inject just the right level of warmth into her voice. They’ve got to think you’re on their side. They’ve got to trust you.

  Paul was clearly trying not to let his interest show, but it slipped through in the way he rocked on the balls of his feet and kept glancing at his wife. Melissa, the young bride, clearly had the final say in the purchase, but she seemed interested, too.

  This might be it, Pam thought, beckoning her companions into the living room to show off the dusty stone fireplace and scratched wooden floors. After eight years on the market, I might actually sell the Hunt Street property.

  The house was notorious in real estate circles. No one had been able to get anything more than vague curiosity since it was listed for sale. During that time, the house had deteriorated. Stains crept down the plaster walls, and water damage peeled up the bases of the cupboards. That wasn’t the main reason the house remained empty, though.

  “It would make a great project for anyone interested in home improvements,” Pam said, sneaking a glance at Paul. He seemed the sort of person who fancied himself a handyman, and his eyes lit up at the prospect.

  “It’s going to be a lot of work,” Melissa said.

  C’mon, Melissa, don’t nuke this on me. I could really do with the commission.

  “I’ve been looking for a hobby to take up on the weekends,” Paul supplied, and Pam beamed at him.

  Melissa didn’t answer. The door at the back of the living room had caught her attention. “What’s through there?”

  “The basement,” Pam said, stepping forward. “Would you like to see inside?”

  Please say no. Please say no. Please say no…

  “Sure,” Melissa said, and it took a lot of effort for Pam to keep the smile on her face. “Absolutely.”

  She’d never been into the basement. She’d never had any desire to go into the basement. But if the newlyweds wanted to see it, who was she to say no?

  “It hasn’t been opened in a while,” Pam said, searching through her keyring. The keys were all old, bronze and partially rusted, though they had plastic tags to list which rooms they unlocked. “It might be a bit mildewy down there.”

  Melissa’s hand fluttered to her belly, which had the barest hint of a bump.

  Ahh, so it’s going to be a family home, then. I’m not sure it’s a place I’d want my kids growing up in, but if they want to take it off the market, I won’t complain.

  Pam had gone through her keyring without finding the basement tag, so she started sorting through it again, more carefully. “Sorry. I can’t seem to find it—”

  “That’s fine.” Melissa turned away from the door, to Pam’s great relief. “Can we see upstairs, instead?”

  “Absolutely.” Smile, smile, smile.

  They knew the house’s history, Pam reminded herself as she climbed the stairs. The law said her real estate company couldn’t sell the house without disclosing any facts that could dissuade a buyer. And, boy, the Hunt Street property has enough facts to write an encyclopaedia.

  The steps creaked under Pam’s sneakers, and tiny sprinkles of dust fell from the ceiling. She tried not to touch the railing or the wall. The house had always felt dirty to her. She knew the crime scene cleaning team had been thorough, but even so, the building felt tainted in a way that no amount of bleach could cure.

  Don’t let them see it affecting you. Let them think it’s a nice fixer-upper with a quirky history. If you can make this sale, you’ll never have to think about the house again.

  In the top floor, Pam led the couple through the bedrooms as quickly as she could without looking as though she were rushing them. “Here’s the master bedroom.” That’s where Mr. and Mrs. Bellet were murdered in their sleep by an unknown assailant. He used an axe, did you know? Apparently, the blood sprayed all up that wall there and dripped off the ceiling. The crime scene cleaners had to strip the room entirely and tear up most of the floorboards to purge it.

  “Through here is the children’s bedroom.” Pam gave Melissa an extra-bright smile and a knowing wink. Little Frankie Bellet’s blood ran through the mattress and stained the floor. Please don’t Google search for the pictures. I did, and I’d give anything to forget them.

  “And the spare room.” It was a pretty, airy area. The killer’s message, scrawled in blood across the opposite wall had been scrubbed and painted over. Sometimes, when Pam glanced at the wall out of the corner of her e
ye, she imagined she could still see the words there. “This house is mine.”

  Four years of hunting, four years of failed or inconclusive DNA testing, and four years of the police chasing increasingly flimsy tipoffs had all been in vain. The killer had never been found. That chilled Pam the most. The crimes had been terrible, yes, but the potential that they could be echoed in another home, with another family… still, it didn’t seem to bother the newlyweds. They were more interested in the dirt-cheap price and how large and well-situated the building was. The atmosphere, which made Pam’s skin crawl every time she crossed the threshold, didn’t seem to touch them.

  Pam pretended to gaze out of the window at the aged elm tree in the backyard while the couple talked in hushed tones behind her. Paul loved the house. His eyes were bright, and he was gesticulating erratically, apparently talking about the modifications they could make to turn it into their dream home.

  What was more, he seemed to be winning Melissa over. The mother-to-be gave a small nod, and Pam sensed it was her cue to step forward.

  “We’d like to make an offer to your owner,” Melissa said.

  Pam tried to keep her smile from becoming too wild. Did I seriously do it? After eight years, am I finally getting the Hunt Street house off my list?

  “Absolutely,” Pam said, ushering them out of the room and towards the stairs. She was desperate to get outside and away of the toxic aura saturating the building. “How about we go over the details in my office? I’ll make you a lovely cup of tea while we work out your offer.”

  As they headed towards their cars—Paul and Melissa into a van that had clearly been bought with the intention of expanding their family, and Pam into her Mini that let her park in even the most choked city streets—Pam stole a final look at the Hunt Street property. Its gloomy façade stared back. No, it’s more than gloomy. It’s menacing. Even the windows, from the high attic arches to the little square that belongs to the basement, look grim.