Ruthless: An Extreme Shock Horror Collection

by Shane McKenzie

  “No,” she said, “he would never do anything like that to me.”

  Andrew made a low growling sound, his muscles rippling as he struggled in his seat. Blood pumped from his stumps as he tensed up, doubling him over in his seat to moan in pain.

  “That is incorrect,” said the voice, sending the audience into a frenzy.

  This couldn’t be happening. Andrew could never do a thing like that. He loved her. He had always said how much he loved her and how he could do nothing to ever hurt her. But now, she saw a different side of him, a look of guilt and shame as he wept in his chair.

  “That’s bullshit!” yelled Amy, refusing to believe such nonsense.

  “I’m afraid it’s not,” said the voice. “Observe.”

  A loud click brought a flickering image onto the blank wall to Amy’s right. The image showed Andrew holding hands with a woman. They sat at a table opposite each other, a big steak on his plate.

  “You mother fuckers!” yelled Andrew, causing more uproar from the crowd.

  The image changed. Andrew leaned over the table, his lips planted on the woman’s mouth.

  Amy stared at the flickering images, her mouth hanging open. She gasped as she saw her fiancé, her one and only, straddling the woman from behind. More photos continued to flash onto the wall, each one worse than the last. Amy felt numb, her thighs no longer an issue.

  The midget stood in front of Andrew, holding a large pair of gardening shears. This time he did hesitate, looking over at the crowd, their whooping and yelling getting louder as their anticipation grew. He opened the shears, placed them between Andrew’s legs, and snapped them shut.

  Andrew’s eyes burst open, screaming as his member fell to the floor with a thump. Blood rained down from the fresh wound, a crimson waterfall splashing onto the floor.

  The mini-executioner grabbed the limp flesh, gesturing to the crowd. The audience pushed and shoved each other, their hands in the air, pleading him to throw them the souvenir.

  Amy felt no sorrow for Andrew.

  That son of a bitch, how could he do this to me?

  After everything they had been through. All the nights spent expressing their love for each other, it was all bullshit. The flesh being tossed into the crowd was supposed to be hers, was supposed to give her children.

  Andrew looked up from his blood soaked chair, his face twisted and contorted. He stared at Amy with hazy eyes.

  “I l-love you,’ he said, struggling with every syllable. “I-I’m so s-sorry.”

  “Go to Hell!”

  The voice from above broke the tension.

  “Now, we haven’t much time. This next question I will direct at Amy. You need to really think about it, and make sure you mean what you say.”

  Andrew wept, going into coughing fits as Amy awaited her question.

  “Do you love Andrew?”

  The audience grew quiet; every white, blank face staring at Amy. Even the midget had his full attention on her, blood dripping from his gloved hands.

  “Think clearly now,” said the voice, “make sure you mean it.”

  She looked over at her fiancé. He breathed in rapid gasps, blood spilling from his atrocious wounds. She did love him. No matter what he had done to her, she couldn’t help but love him.

  Contemplating their relationship, she thought about all the great times they had together, all the sleepless nights making love. She thought about their destination wedding, how they were supposed to get married on the beach in Mexico. They were supposed to start a family together.

  She looked over at the audience, holding their breath as they awaited her answer. She shook her head, causing the crowd to erupt with applause.

  “No.”

  The hurt in Andrew’s eyes at that moment was worse than any she had seen since the game started.

  “Finish it!” yelled the voice from above, sending the audience to their feet. They clapped and cheered, some jumping up and down with excitement.

  The executioner pulled out a long saw. He ran his hand down the jagged teeth, getting the crowd more and more excited.

  He swung the saw, sticking it into the side of Andrew’s neck. Andrew hardly even flinched, even as the midget began moving the metal back and forth.

  Andrew stared at Amy.

  His eyelids flickered as the saw cut through his flesh, blood dribbling from his mouth and nose. He kept his eyes locked on his fiancee, refusing to take them away.

  Amy felt a nagging feeling of regret, watching her once true love’s head hit the ground. The midget picked it up and walked toward her. He undid the straps of her chair and helped her stand up. Her legs throbbed with pain as she stood, the metal nails digging deeper into her flesh.

  The midget handed her Andrew’s head, fresh warm blood pouring from it.

  Amy smiled at him, took the head, and tossed it into the crowd.

  The Bloodmites

  by Jared Donald Blair

  William sat, spine erect, within his lavish leather armchair, ensconced by an intangible yet unmistakable fear. His ears remained ever attentive as his gritty fingernails delved deeper into the stiff material on the armrests. For over an hour he simply sat, muscles tensed and buttocks clinched, listening to the walls. Intermittently, his reddened eyes affixed to various spots in the room, never blinking, never wavering. His reading quarters, usually an area of solace and reprieve, now became a mausoleum of aural affliction and mental torment. From his perch in the center of the room, alit only by a single candle on the table before him, he witnessed shadows of perpetual fluctuation dance along the walls and looming bookcases. Yet still he failed to catch even a glimpse of these perceived scurrying marauders. His head shot back as his focus ran to the ceiling, a darkened chasm due to its height and insufficient illumination. The sound mounted to that of one thousand knives scraping and prodding against the walls. He imagined the patter of innumerable, tiny, sharp legs parading throughout the inner-framework of his home. He quivered with every fanciful fabrication; this was all he could take.

  “Enough! That’s it!” William leapt from his seat within a fit of exaggerated trembles. “This must stop!” Tossing up his hands, he made for the door. Gripping the cold handle, he threw open the dense wood. Yet as it swung adjacent to the threshold, he let out a coarse yelp and fell to the floorboards.

  The gray hominid figure that stood above him cocked its head to the side as spines and barbs began protruding from its shoulders. A gaseous cloud emanated from its form, thickest around its head, forearms, and legs. William lunged back as the creature crossed through the doorway. Methodically, it outstretched a shaky arm toward him, causing its more grotesque features to melt curiously away.

  “Ms. Festin?” William propped himself up by his elbows.

  “Oh, my.” The elderly housekeeper held a chuckle behind her surprise. “Mr. Peur? Oh, I’m sorry.” Her laughter finally seeped from between her lips. “I did not mean to scare you. I was coming in to inform you, again, that your supper is ready and getting rather cold.”

  “Oh, yes, thank you. I am just a little preoccupied at the moment. But yes, food will serve me well.” William took hold of Ms. Festin’s hand.

  “Good.” She gingerly helped William to a stable stance. “Will you be eating in the dining room or would you prefer that I set the floor?” The corners of her mouth curled upward as she strode towards the kitchen.

  “Yes, yes.” William could not help but crack a smile. “You know, for a measly old woman you’re quite the jokester. You would be right-minded to highlight that in your résumé when you’re looking for a new job.”

  “Oh, Mr. Peur.” She spoke with a comical distain. “Always so feisty around mealtime.”

  “Well...” He froze, remaining on the outskirts of a witty comeback, as his ears again perked to a peculiar, yet familiar, din of scratching and scoring. The aural attack encircled him while somehow holding a formidable distance. Hoping to garner another pair of ears, he sent a glance to the right, only t
o realize that his housekeeper had already vanished into the kitchen. Unfortunately, as abruptly as the screeching invaded William’s perception it had receded.

  Fearing any resurgence, he cautiously approached the plate of food that was lying at the precipice of a long, mahogany table. He sat, tentative to propagate even the slightest creak of the wooden chair, and gazed into the slab of beef that filled the plate. Almost immediately, he dropped any inclination to bear his ears to the walls and procured the knife and fork.

  He developed such a steadfast intent on fishing out the scuttling intruders that he completely neglected nourishment, for this was, he realized, his first meal of the night. His knife paved through the perfectly charred portion of steak from between the middle tines of his fork with ease. Yet as he hoisted the skewered chunk to his wetted lips, he felt the phantom twitch of his ears once again. There he sat, the juicy morsel mere millimeters from his gapped mouth. He could taste the aroma with every inhalation, but could not move his arms. Along with his intensifying respiration, his ocular movements scoured every conceivable region of his direct vision and peripheries without success. He knew that something, or rather somethings, were inside the walls of his hallowed home. But the aggravating fact that he could not look upon corporeal proof threw his mind into twists of agony.

  “How dare you…” William muttered under his breath, blowing his words onto the ever-cooling piece of beef just below his nose.

  As if his vapor utterance pierced the immediate vicinity, the torturous din subsided, allowing him to finally pop the morsel into his welcoming palate. Each clamping and retraction of his jaw released a welling ecstasy within his body, as if this was his first introduction to sustenance. Content with the fading fibrousness of the hunk, he swallowed. His gut warmed, his muscles relaxed, and moreover, his mind was put to ease. Although this initial bite uncovered his apparent hunger, he sliced through the meat serenely and calculatedly, savoring each bit of tissue—each dripping of runny, diluted blood. Every now and then William would stop mid-bite, shoot equal glances to the left and to the right, listen, but inevitably return to his chewing. After, one by one, consuming the medley of vegetables and forking through the mashed potatoes, he gathered his plate and silverware from the table and made for the kitchen.

  As he stepped up to the sink, an overwhelming feeling, that of being pursued, sent his limbs into rigidity. He sensed a devilish shadow arching overhead and found it increasingly difficult to breathe. An invisible smog began to pour from the rafters, searing William’s throat with each rise and fall of his chest.

  “I know you’re there.” He spoke in a rasp, tilting his head to the side without tearing his focus from the cluttered countertop. Suddenly, as if a cleansing wind swept through the room, his skin warmed and he continued toward the sink with only an impotent paranoia. Usually Ms. Festin insisted on tending to the dishes, but William found such trivial chores to be soothing, in a sense, therapeutic.

  After quieting the faucet, he made his way to the stairwell, scattering his suspicion along the floorboards as he trod. Each wooden step creaked beneath his featherlike footfalls, setting off a symphony of dissonant voices. He had never felt so unwelcome within his own home. But he nevertheless reached the apex and sauntered past Ms. Festin’s room.

  “Goodnight, nice work today.” He offered his words and stopped with an ear to the door as he would often do. Though she never graced his ears with a reply, William always waited several seconds before moving on. He accepted her silence with gratitude.

  Content, he trailed the long oaken banister to his room. As the door crept toward the wall, a scurrying of tiny bodies seemed to track the depleting darkness. He quickly flipped the light switch and scanned his living chamber. The bed was tidy, each pillow and fold of fabric in place. The dresser was cleanly, each knickknack in the proper orientation. Altogether, the room was virtually untouched.

  With no shred of haste, William stepped through the archway and latched his fingers around the door, motivating it to the threshold without altering his focus. He again ran his aching eyes over the landscape of his room, attempting to differentiate the overwhelming silence from the door’s grinding hinges. Finally, the locking mechanism slid into place as William found himself encased in solitude. He was unhappy when he heard them, those tiny uninvited bodies, but also discontent with the overbearing quiet. Unable to swallow his dread, William slinked over to his luxurious bed, his only unerring sanctuary. He draped the heavy blanket over his trembling body and took in its warmth. Setting the edge to his chin, William tucked the cover around his neck and nestled deep into the mattress.

  ***

  He awoke, arms flailing, with a raging primal grunt. William sat atop his elbows as tiding images of scattering bodies and scampering legs waned from his psyche. Sweat dribbled from his forehead and arms. Although morning had finally come, he could not help but feel ensnared within a cloud of gloom. Everything looked dirty to him, everything except for the cone of daylight beaming in from the window. Excluding the specks of grime trickling throughout its radiance, the light was pure, a comfort he regularly took for granted. But this day, thankful of every silken fiber against his skin, William took his eyes over the glorious illumination and through the tall window from which it bore. He traced his vision throughout the untainted light-blue of the sky, tagging along with a graceful formation of blackbirds. Looking to the sidewalk below, he smiled at the sight of three skipping schoolchildren. He sat up and commended their playfulness while envying their innocence; he all at once disregarded his fears.

  A sudden slapping sounded from the opposing wall, immediately startling his posture and redirecting his focus. Unfortunately, his attempt to seek out a source of the clamor yielded no result. Passing his eyes from corner to corner, panel to panel, he found nothing out of the ordinary. His belongings, the dresser, the nightstand, all remained as he left them. Combing needle-like fingertips over his stressed scalp, William tightly clamped his eyelids, returning his would-be focus again to the window.

  “No...no...what...no...it’s just your mind...” He whispered incessantly, driving his palms into the crown of his head with each word. Forcing his arms aside, William again opened his eyes. He saw the window and beyond with equal clarity as before. Yet, something was new. Housed within the center of the glass was a miniscule, oblong mound of black. William’s brow sank as he leaned over his knees toward the peculiar bulb; he made no movement and neither did it.

  Vivid effigies took his mind, he ventured over the memories from last night up to now, saw the way his flesh cringed—the way his hairs lifted—whenever he heard the sound. Distinguishing then from now proved growingly difficult. He wallowed in a subtle panic but did not once rip his gaze from the blackened body. He loathed the manner in which it simply hung there, this untrustworthy organism, as if it harbored no remorse for treading within a man’s home.

  “You have no right.” William spoke from between barely breached lips. Quickly, his hand slung to the bedside table and found the nearest object. The moment his fingers closed he thrust the mass from a whip of his elbow and crick of his wrist. The projectile struck the pane with a louder snap than William had anticipated. Instinctively, his shoulders hunched and his eyelids fluttered. Looking upon the glass, he was surprised that it had not shattered. Yet, a web of cracking did begin to trickle down to the sill, from where that thing had sat. William then noticed a smear of crimson and violet at its peak. The thick blotting reached about a foot’s length with splatters climbing to each edge. He surely thought it impossible that this mess came from that tiny, black body.

  His eyes then crept to the floor just below the window. There lie a tapered block of red tissue. The thing was accented with vibrant, yellowed vegetation. As much as he abhorred the very thought, he knew this to be a bodily organ of some kind. He hastily removed himself from the bed and stood over the mass, it staring up from a widening pool of its blood. Turning his hand, he looked upon the same red blotched over its
palm. He edged alongside the sanguine puddle and hurried from his room.

  “Ms. Festin!” He yelped, his voice mangled by his chattering jowl. “Ms. Festin…I need your help!”

  “What is it, Mr. Peur?” The housekeeper’s words trailed up the staircase, her voice completely calm compared to William’s.

  “There’s a mess...” He cleared his throat. “A mess in my room...on the floor...”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Peur.” Ms. Festin’s voice interjected from downstairs, cutting off the shaken William. “I’ll take care of it.” An odd silence followed. “Just come down and eat, I’ve prepared your breakfast.”

  The tinge of gleefulness on her voice gave serenity to William’s limbs. Stretching his shoulders and back, he motivated his feet forward, knowing that food would certainly calm his head. As he marched on, his breathing slowed to a tranquil pace. He slinked down the stairs without a creak or moan underfoot. Attributing this as Ms. Festin’s handiwork, his expression relaxed into a restrained grin.

  Upon entering the kitchen, William found each tile to sparkle. The countertop was uncluttered and polished to a reflective shine. Every inch free of dust or filth; Ms. Festin has outdone herself again. William approached the table in an astonished daze and sat before an inviting bowl of cheerios and milk, his favorite. Collecting the spoon from the tabletop, he teetered back in his chair.

  “Thank you, Ms. Festin, the kitchen looks great.” He spoke while admiring the glint of his utensil.

  “No need to thank me.” Ms. Festin’s voice rolled down the stairs.

  “I was just...” William cut his breath short, dumbfounded. He pondered on how exactly his housekeeper found her way upstairs without passing by. Yet, he immediately dropped his puzzlement as the spoon’s sheen again caught his eye. Dipping the steel gingerly into the milk, he released every twist of tension from his shoulders. But as he brought the utensil to his chin, he stopped with eyes wide. Stuck throughout the moistened heap of cereal were three bloodied teeth. Releasing his grip on the spoon, William leered down to the bowl. There, atop the circles of cereal, sat several more vermillion stained teeth.