Small Horrors: A Collection of Fifty Creepy Stories

by Darcy Coates

  Still, a few days is a long time for someone to survive around here.

  The strangest part, though, were the slashed tent walls. Angus lifted parts of the canvas to examine the long, jagged gashes. He couldn’t come up with any rational explanation for the damage.

  A gust of wind blew a thin flurry of slow across the landscape and batted it against Angus’s hooded face. With the wind came a low, drawn-out moan.

  Angus turned towards the noise. He’d never heard anything like it before, but it somehow seemed to fit the bleak environment. He guessed it might have come from air being forced through a hole in a rock or possibly even a cave. It might have been some sort of wolf, though it sounded like no animal he’d ever heard before. The noise set his teeth on edge.

  Angus lurched to his feet and pulled the walking stick from where he’d propped it in the snow. I’ll tell someone about the tent when I get back to base. They’ll have a challenge finding a body among these rocks, but if someone’s been reported missing, it might be a little comfort to their family to know their last location.

  Angus re-adjusted his balaclava and turned to the path that led towards the mountain’s top. The summit was no more than four hours away—three, if the weather stayed good.

  The low, long moan echoed across the icy hills again, and Angus paused. No, don’t start thinking that. Just keep walking.

  He turned back to the woods, his eyes scanning the trees. But what if? What if it’s the camper, hurt and calling for help?

  Angus shook his head and swivelled back to the path. The tent’s been abandoned for days. No one can survive out here without shelter for that long.

  Are you certain, though? Are you willing to risk leaving a man to die up here if you’re wrong?

  Angus turned back to the trees as he tried to figure out where the sound had come from. “Hello?”

  C’mon. You’re building things out of proportion. And the sun’s getting low. You’ll need to keep moving if you want to reach the top of the mountain before sundown.

  Still, Angus hesitated. The noise came to him again, floating along the frigid air, its tone hollow, hungry, and raw.

  Angus swore and began jogging towards the woods. He had difficulty moving through the snow at a normal rate; running was nearly impossible. Even so, the sound was fading, and he wanted to find its source before he lost it again.

  He squirmed around an outcrop of rocks, and when he dropped into the sheltered hollow behind it, his foot landed on something that snapped under his weight. Angus felt his mouth dry. He stumbled backwards, lost his balance, and fell.

  Coiled into the sheltered hollow of the rocks was a human body, its limbs spread out and head lolled to one side. Angus recognised a popular brand of hiking jacket, though it had been unzipped to expose the belly underneath. Or what had once been the hiker’s belly.

  The body had been eviscerated, its clothing shredded and its insides torn out. The organs were frozen solid on the ground, waiting for spring to thaw the snow and make them vulnerable to birds of prey and wild beasts. The face, perfectly preserved, held an expression of mingled shock and horror. The eyes bulged, and the mouth was open, though something seemed to have eaten its tongue.

  The wail came from the patch of woods behind Angus, and it sounded far, far closer than it had before. He turned slowly and faced the being that watched him from just behind the closest trees.

  39

  Radio

  The car horn blared, cutting through Luke’s momentary distraction. He corrected his ute and refocussed on the narrow, twisting band of road as the car passed him in the opposite direction.

  The twenty-minute drive through the mountain pass always left Luke jumpy. A high rock wall rose on his left side, where small sickly plants struggled to dig their roots into the granite. To his right was a dropoff, segregated from the road by a thin metal rail.

  Everyone, including Luke, took the mountain pass too quickly. The speed sign said sixty kilometres an hour, but he pushed the car to seventy-five. The faster I get to the other side, the better.

  Moonlight, bright thanks to the full orb, flooded the road. It was well past midnight, and exhaustion was gnawing at Luke. All he wanted was to get to his friend’s house, roll onto the couch he’d been promised, and sleep until midday the next morning.

  The car’s left wheels vibrated as they ran over the gravel lining the edge of the road. Luke swore and corrected his path again. I’m getting sloppy. We can’t have that.

  He pressed his palm to the radio’s button, and the jovial voice of a talk-show presenter filled the car. Pre-recorded, Luke thought, based on how buzzed the man’s voice sounded. No one was that perky at one in the morning.

  The noise helped, though, and Luke let it wash over him as he focussed his eyes on the road. For some reason, there was a second voice in the background of the station, talking a little too quietly for Luke to make out the words.

  Did they mess up the recording, or something? Maybe they’re playing two tracks at the one time.

  It was both frustrating and distracting, and Luke changed the station. The new wavelength had party music, which they always seemed to play on Fridays. It wasn’t his kind of tune, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  There was something off about the songs, though, and it took Luke a moment to realise what it was. A man’s voice in the background was throwing off the beat.

  That’s the same voice that was on the other station. Maybe my radio’s picking up interference?

  Luke scanned through four other station, and each time, the voice came through, too faint to hear the words, but not quiet enough to ignore. Luke scowled at the radio, trying to figure out what was wrong with it, and a blaring car horn shocked him back to alertness.

  Jeeze, don’t lose focus now. There’s only ten more minutes on this road, then you’re back into the farmland. Pay attention.

  He’d left the radio on a dead space between stations. Strangely, though, the voice continued through the crackling static. Without other voices or music to distract him, Luke tried to make out the words.

  “…eighteen dead… found… from the wreckage…”

  Okay, so it’s a news station, then. Luke reached out to turn off the radio, but then the static cleared, and the voice became clear.

  “A private plane was shot out of the sky by Kyle King, who had drunkenly mistaken it for a large bird. The plane’s pilot, Tom Jenner, died instantly. In Wisconsin, USA, Vivian Childs covered her heater with a blanket before going to bed, which started a fire while she and her family was asleep. All three died from smoke inhalation. Jon and Louise Redcliffe went scuba diving during their honeymoon in Bali. Louise’s equipment malfunctioned, drowning her before she could reach the surface. In the West Isles…”

  The hairs rose across the back of Luke’s arms. It was nothing like any news station he’d heard before. The announcer’s voice was unnervingly even and lacked any sort of nuance or emotion. The man sounded almost as though he were listing facts from a card. The deaths, a constant stream of them, seemed to have no relationship to each other. They spanned from Iceland to New Zealand and had a multitude of causes.

  “In Cannes, Australia, Paul Favetta suffered a heart attack at his granddaughter’s birthday party. The guests assumed it was a joke and only called an ambulance when it was too late to save him. In Vanuatu, a…”

  Luke hit the radio’s button, silencing it. What a weird station. Maybe it’s a private project. Like some local got his hands on a radio broadcaster and is doing this as a sick joke or something.

  The radio crackled, and the monotonous voice filled Luke’s car again. “In New York, USA, three teenagers were shot in an alley by their classmate, Kendrick Heslop. Kendrick then turned the gun on himself. In Denmark, Mal Broger choked on a fishbone. She lived alone and won’t be found for five days.”

  Wait… won’t be found?

  Luke slammed his fist on the dash. Static filled the radio for a second but couldn’t smothe
r the unrelenting voice. Luke tried pressing the power button multiple times, but nothing stopped the monologue.

  “What the hell?” Luke spat.

  “In Western Vale, Australia, Antonio Reynolds lost control of his vehicle while navigating a narrow mountain pass. He hit a ute belonging to Luke Guerra. Both died instantly.”

  Luke turned his eyes back to the road and gasped.

  40

  Wax Museum

  As Jared pulled his car into one of the dozens of empty parking spots, it was hard not to stare at the garish sign hung on the building ahead. Fat Clifford’s Fantastic Wax Sculptures, painted in bright carnival colours and exaggerated letters, seemed strangely irreverent that evening. Dark clouds had gathered to cover the moon, and a freezing wind tugged at Jared’s coat as he left the car and approached the staff entrance at the back of the building.

  A tall, pinch-nosed woman was waiting for him inside. She exhaled audibly as he entered, then grabbed his sleeve and pulled him farther into the building. “You’re the new guard, aren’t you? Thank goodness. My daughter’s birthday dinner is tonight, and I’m already late for it.”

  “Oh, sorry—I thought I was on time—”

  “You are. Here, keys to the building. I’ll show you the security booth. You’ve done night guard work before, right?”

  Jared hesitated only a fraction of a second. “Oh, yeah.” In truth, it was his first time. He’d been surprised by how fast the process was; he’d applied that morning, had a phone interview in the afternoon, and been told to show up at ten o’clock that night. He wasn’t about to complain, though. His rent was three weeks overdue, and he would have shovelled trash if anyone had been hiring for it.

  “Here.” The woman—Simone, according to her nametag—ushered him into a small booth. Eight screens with black-and-white feed were set above a simple desk. “Did Clifford explain the job to you?”

  “Um—” The interview had been so fast that Jared had barely gotten the address. “Watch the building?”

  “That’s it in a nutshell.” She pointed to the screens. “These wax sculptures are incredibly expensive; keep an eye on them to make sure no one breaks in to steal or damage them. Watch the screens, and once an hour, walk through the building. Those are Clifford’s express instructions. The screens capture most of the rooms, but the hourly walk-through is very important to double-check everything is fine.”

  “And, um”—Jared adjusted his tie, which suddenly felt too tight—“what happens if it’s not?”

  Simone blinked at him. “Then you fix it.”

  “Uh…”

  “Look, I’ve got to go. I’m so late. You’ll be fine. Just do the walkthrough every hour and watch the screens. It’s a stupidly simple job.”

  Jared continued to fiddle with his tie as he listened to her footsteps fade and the metal staff entrance door slam.

  Just like the interview, his introduction to the job had happened so quickly that he felt as if he were trying to correct his balance on a constantly rocking boat. He stood in the booth for a few moments, half expecting someone would come back and give him a proper job description, then sighed and rubbed his hands through his hair.

  “It’s cool. It’s a stupidly easy job, like she said. You’ll be fine.”

  A torch stood on the desk by the screens, and Jared picked it up. He searched through the drawers in case he’d also been given a weapon, but there was no such luck. All that remained was a stick of gum, probably left there by the last guard.

  Without anything else to do, Jared turned on the torch and left the booth for his first walk-through. It didn’t take long for him to become hopelessly lost.

  Should’ve turned the lights on, he thought bitterly as he found himself at a dead end. However, Simone hadn’t shown him where the switches were, and his narrow beam of light showed him only tiny slices of the space with each step.

  The wax museum was larger than he’d expected. At least a dozen rooms held countless wax figures, eerily lifelike and horribly plastic. He passed celebrities, historical figures, and even book characters. Every time he turned his torch, a new face was staring at him, fake eyes, hair, and smiles catching in the beam.

  Cold sweat trickled down Jared’s back. During the interview, he’d been told the previous night guard had quit without notice, and he was starting to understand why. If he hadn’t been desperate for the money, he would have walked out right then.

  As he continued farther into the house of shadowed, awkwardly posed models, he somehow found himself in a room of deformed figures. Their heads lolled at awkward angles, some were missing limbs, and others were partially melted. They had been arranged along the walls, all facing the door, their twisted visages enough to make Jared feel faintly sick.

  Suspecting the room wasn’t part of the public tour, he backed out of the room. The glassy eyes and lopsided smiles followed him until he closed the door.

  It was an immeasurable relief when he caught sight of light coming from below the booth’s door. He hurried to it and locked himself inside. The tie still felt too tight, so he loosened it some more then pressed a hand over his heart.

  The guard’s booth was small, but at least it was brightly lit. Jared slumped into the chair behind the desk and ran his hands over his face. He guessed the wax museum must be charming and interesting by day, when the lights were on and the signs were easy to read. At night, though, it had turned into something out of his worst nightmares. Jared was glad to be away from it.

  Well… mostly away from it. The eight screens showed several of the horrific scenes in black-and-white night vision. For some reason, one of the cameras was pointed towards the storage room holding the deformed sculptures. Their eyes shone white through the camera, the way an animal’s flash in the light.

  The chills wouldn’t abate. Jared got to his feet, felt behind the screens, and pulled the plug he found there. The images disappeared in a faint whine, and the empty black was a relief in comparison.

  I’ll look for another job, Jared promised himself as he lolled back in the chair. As soon as I get one, I can ditch this place. Maybe I just won’t turn up one day, like that last chap. I don’t know why this place even needs a security guard at night, anyway… and the hourly walkthroughs feel pointless. What can my presence achieve that a cheap motion sensor won’t do more efficiently and for a fraction of the price?

  Time seemed to crawl by. Jared had brought a novel, but he didn’t feel like reading. Instead, he leaned back in the chair, folded his arms, and closed his eyes in an attempt to relax.

  He started awake some time later. It took him a moment to remember where he was, then he checked his watch. It was nearly four in the morning. His shift would only last for two more hours.

  His first emotion was guilt at failing to do what had been described as a “stupidly simple” job. His second was gratitude that he’d woken before his negligence could be discovered. He sat up in the chair and groaned as a pinched nerve in his neck made itself felt.

  Scccrrrthhh… scccrrrthhh…

  Jared snapped his attention towards the booth’s door. Something was scratching at its outside. His heart skipped a beat as he half-rose out of the seat.

  Scccrrrthhh… scccrrrthhh…

  He mouthed a swearword as panic hit. Jared scrambled for the back of the monitor system and replugged it. All eight screens blinked for a second then resumed their feed. He scanned them, but none of them showed the hallway outside the security booth.

  Scccrrrthhh… scccrrrthhh…

  “Crap!”

  His nerves were hot. There was no phone inside the booth, and he’d left his mobile at home. There was no way to contact the outside world without leaving. Jared lifted his torch, base turned outwards to use as a bludgeon, and prepared to turn the handle. He held a small hope that it might be a prank, a welcome-to-the-job hazing, but he was fully prepared to slam the door closed if it was anything else.

  Scccrrrthhh…

  He swung the door open
, and the scraping fell silent. Outside the room stood a tall sculpture of a woman in a historical dress, her eyes directed towards Jared’s face, her smile unnaturally wide. She was motionless, but her fingers were still extended, their strangely realistic nails held in the exact place they would need to be to scratch at the booth’s door.

  Jared ran. His torch’s beam jittered over walls, floors, and countless leering wax figures. They’d moved, he was sure. They no longer stood on their pedestals, but blocked the walkways. Jared ducked and wove about them, his heart ready to explode, and was certain he could hear shuffling footsteps behind him.

  The building was a maze, and he could have cried his relief when he recognised the hallway to the staff entrance. He burst through the metal door, dashed down the four steps to the carpark, and threw himself into the only remaining vehicle—his car.

  As he turned towards the area’s exit, he saw a man blocking the road. Jared slowed the car as he neared, and he realised the shape in the harsh beams of his headlights wasn’t flesh and blood, as he’d first thought, but a wax figure. The man was tall and wide-set, wearing a blue coat; hands planted on hips, beady eyes staring unwaveringly at the car. A big nametag on his lapel read Fat Clifford.

  Jared had let the car come to a halt. A quiet click was all the warning he had that the passenger door had been opened; he looked to his side, where one of the deformed melted mannequins was halfway into his car, a contorted hand stretched towards Jared’s tie.

  Without hesitation, he hit the accelerator. The car jerked forward, throwing the reaching wax figure out, and screeched towards Fat Clifford. The statue’s wild smile didn’t falter as the car hit it, knocked it down, and bounced over it.

  Jared sucked in thin, terrified breaths. He kept both feet pressed to the accelerator as he urged the car to take him as far from Fat Clifford’s Fantastic Wax Sculptures as possible.