After Roy had convinced Christine the house was perfect, they signed the papers.
“I don’t like that mirror,” Christine said. “I feel like I’m being watched.”
“Don’t be silly, Chris,” Roy said. “It’s just a mirror, it won’t hurt you.”
Roy went to the hardware store to get a few things. Since she was alone, Christine wandered around the first floor.
“We don’t have near enough stuff to fill this house,” she said in a room with wispy white curtains. A breeze fluttered through the room, lifting the curtains, but the windows were not open.
Christine turned to leave the room and stopped. A girl stood in the doorway.
“Follow me,” the girl whispered, motioning with her finger. She turned and disappeared. A distant giggle floated down the hall.
Christine peered into the hallway. The girl was nowhere to be seen. A shiver ran up Christine’s spine. She pulled her sweater tighter.
“Come upstairs,” the girl’s voice came.
“Who are you?” Christine called. “Where did you come from?”
“Come up here,” the girl’s voice called. “I’ll show you.”
The mirror was upstairs. Christine put her hand on the rail and paused before going up. Her heart pounded. When she reached the top of the stairs, the girl stood by the mirror.
She giggled, and stepped inside, her hand gripped the frame. She poked her head out and smiled at Christine.
“It’s okay,” the girl said. “It’s fun in here!” She giggled again and disappeared.
Christine saw nothing but her own weary reflection in the mirror. A hand darted out and grabbed her arm. She struggled, but the grip was tight. Her hand went numb with cold as it passed through the surface of the mirror. Her breathing came in panicked bursts as she leaned back with all her weight. Her eyes searched the hall for anything to help her. She looked at the edge of the mirror. The faces had looks of terror on their carved features.
Christine’s foot slipped, and she tumbled into the mirror in an icy blast.
Roy came home and called to Christine, he searched for her. As he passed the mirror, he failed to see her little carved face among the others.
Cellar Soup
THE HOUSE WAS ONCE a pristine white, but age and moist air had weathered it into a slumping, peeling gray mass with dark, gloomy windows and an air of misery. It was enveloped by a thick forest of willow trees and other foliage that loved the wet environment.
The house gave Louise the chills, and as her parents pulled their car up to the front steps, jostling over potholes, a window in the foundation caught her eye.
“You’re looking awfully skinny, deary,” Grandma said with a grin. She squeezed Louise’s arms and pinched her cheek.
After depositing her bag in the guest room, Louise went outside to the window she saw. She crouched down and looked in at the cellar as a light clicked on, and footsteps thudded down the stairs.
A man with a large, knotted head entered. He disappeared into a dark corner, and when he reappeared, he hefted an irregular-shaped bag onto a slab table. He pulled a knife from a sheath on his belt and wiped it on his soiled leather apron. He opened the bag and reached inside.
“Louise!” Grandma’s voice came. Louise started and jumped to her feet. “What are you doing?” Grandma asked.
“I was, I saw, there’s a . . .” Louise stammered.
“Come inside, it’s chilly out here, and the damp air will give you a cold!” Grandma gripped her arm and squeezed it rhythmically.
Later that night, Louise crept through the house. She finally came across a hidden door. Whoever last entered neglected to latch it. Louise opened the door slowly, holding her breath against any creaky hinges.
It opened on a stone staircase. Someone down below mumbled in short groans, interspersed with loud thunks. She went down a couple steps and squatted. The lumpy man was there at the table, cleaver in hand. In smooth motions he chopped and hacked at something. He tossed aside a handful of fingers and Louise gasped. The man paused, head tilted, listening. She covered her mouth and bit her fingers, stifling a scream. Tears burned in her eyes as the man hacked and discarded more body parts. Grandpa appeared in the light, some slimy organ in hand. He took a lusty bite.
The door creaked, and Louise looked up. Grandma stood at the top of the stairs, smiling.
“We’ve been waiting for you to plump up,” Grandma smiled. “But time has grown short.”
She lifted her foot and shoved Louise down the stairs. Louise landed on her back. Gasping for air, her head swam, and her vision blurred.
“Lump, do her next,” Grandma shouted.
The man nodded and shoved the remaining body parts into a thirty-gallon, bubbling, cast iron pot. He gripped Louise by a wrist and ankle and flung her onto the table.
Before darkness overcame her senses, Louise watched Grandpa take another bite from the human heart. She screamed as the cleaver come down on her arm with a sick, wet, chop.
The Fork in the Road
THE MONSTERS TOWERED over the city, and when Jan and George had seen the first one devour an entire bus full of people, they thought it best to get out of there. The beasts were usually invisible, but they had seen a pair mating behind a building. George nearly threw up. Weak stomach. It was the female—they think—that chased them into the woods, lashing her nine tentacles. Perhaps mating made them angry.
They now stood at the fork in the road, half a mile into the woods. Light filtered in through the thick evergreens dappling the path with white spots of sunshine, though the moment warranted overcast skies, maybe an occasional crack of lightning.
Their breath came in quick bursts. George looked at Jan. A laugh laced with hysteria burst from his lips. She smiled weakly and reached for his hand. As their fingertips met, George’s body lurched. His smile disappeared, and he flew into the air.
“No!” Her voice tore from her vocal cords.
His body dangled among the trees, struggling at the unseen bindings. Jan couldn’t hear him gasping as the tentacle tightened, constricting his organs. With a whoosh of air, his lungs expelled any chance of breathing. Sweat broke out on his face, hot and prickly. His eyes bulged, threatening to pop from their sockets. In a final struggle, the capillaries in his eyes burst, and he was gone.
Jan picked up a rock and threw it as hard as she could with an angry grunt. It hit something. A hiss issued from high above her. George’s body dropped to the ground. She turned and ran down the left path. She fought to contain her fear with anger. She pumped her arms as fast as she could, her lungs screamed for mercy, her calves burned, tears leaked from her eyes. Trees thrashed behind her, trunks snapped, branches crashed. The maelstrom of the monster’s movement made her stomach tighten. She had to get out of this place. She had to find safety.
Jan looked over her shoulder. A tentacle lashed out at her out of nowhere. She ducked, and her shoe caught on a tree root, flinging her forward. She landed hard on her stomach. Gasping, she struggled upright. Helpless defeat overwhelmed her.
“I’m going to die,” she whispered. Visions of the fight she had with her lover, the promotion she received at work, the positive pregnancy test flashed through her mind. “No, no you’re not,” she said through gritted teeth. She turned around to face the monster.
The woods were quiet and still. The only thing Jan could hear was her gasping breaths. She held her breath and heard her pulse booming in her ears. Had she outrun the monster? Was she safe? She wiped her hand across her brow and bent over to catch her breath as a tentacle snaked through the underbrush inches from her foot.
The Face in the Window
“A FACE IN THE WINDOW,” Jones said, pointing to the attic window. “I swear I saw it, someone’s up there.”
“Don’t be silly.” Marsha said, pulling a suitcase from the trunk. She looked at her husband and placed a hand on her back. “Could you help?”
He glanced at her bulging belly and pulled out the rest.
Marsha’s cell rang, and she put it on speaker.
“It’s mom, I saw the pictures. You should have waited to get married until after you had the baby, you look like a beluga whale after a seafood buffet.”
“Thanks, mom.” Marsha rolled her eyes. Jones grabbed the luggage and hauled it inside.
He left it in the entry and looked around. Marsha wanted to have a hideaway honeymoon, far from technology and people. Though the closest town was thirty minutes away, her cell phone magically still worked. Jones went upstairs and looked around. Another stairway stood halfway down the hall, he stopped at the bottom.
“The attic,” he muttered. “Someone’s up there.”
He crept up. At the top stood a door unlike the rest of the interior. The other levels had rich mahogany. This door looked weathered like it had been beaten by harsh rains and wind. He reached for the doorknob and jerked back. Heat radiated from the metal, not hot enough to burn, but hot enough to give him a start.
Suddenly aware of his pounding heart, Jones swallowed hard.
“Jones!” Marsha yelled. “Where are you?”
He let out the breath he was holding and turned around.
“Upstairs,” he yelled. The door swung open and Jones turned around. Gray-green hands crawled from within the too-dark depths. Ligaments showed where the skin had fallen away. They crawled closer to him. Jones stumbled backward. His breath caught in his throat. He groped for the railing as he fell. His head struck the stairs, and all went dark.
He awoke at the bottom of the stairs. His head felt like it had exploded, his neck shrieked with pain. He rubbed his sore spots and got to his feet. Looking out the window, at the long shadows, he realized a few hours had passed. The door on the third floor had closed.
“Marsha?” He called. Why hadn’t she come when he fell?
He limped down the stairs, hissing against pain in his ankle. The door at the end of the hall stood open. Marsha lay on the bed, very still. Jones limped down the hall and stopped in the doorway. The bedspread by her legs covered in blood, Marsha’s eyes stared, glazed and vacant. He watched her round belly as it pulsed, like the beat of a heart. The skin split like an overripe tomato and a dead hand poked its fingers through. Jones gagged and stumbled back against the wall. A scraping sound came from the hallway. He chanced a glance as dozens of hands crawled through the door, searching. He looked back at Marsha as the hand from her belly, covered in blood and tissue, leaped at his throat.
Brain With Tentacles
“HM,” THE DOCTOR SAID. “I’ve never seen this before.” The stereotypical blood-curdling scream issued from the television.
Louise groaned. “Another doctor horror flick,” she muttered. “Oh, wait,” she said, her voice thick with sarcasm. “This one has a man whose head turns into a giant brain with tentacles. Awesome,” She turned off the TV.
Darkness seeped around her, enveloping her in a discomforting quiet. She hugged a pillow to her chest and peered through the dark. Rain tapped at the window and forceful winds whistled against the window panes. She hated being home alone.
Lightening flashed in the distance followed by a boom of thunder.
With a squeal, Louise ran upstairs to her bedroom. “You’re twenty-seven—you should not be afraid of the dark or storms or . . .” she gasped and ran to close the closet door. “Open closet doors.” She leaned against it.
She heard a door slam and jumped, then breathed a sigh of relief. Her husband was home.
“You’ll never believe how silly I am!” She yelled. But her husband was nowhere to be seen. “Honey?”
The bathroom light was on, and the hiss of running water and splashing came from within.
“Honey? Are you okay?” She pushed the door open slowly and screamed.
Her husband stood at the sink, running water in his hands and splashing it on his face, only, he no longer had a face. In its place, waving slime-covered tentacles, sat an oversized brain. The tentacles probed the toothbrush holder, grabbed at the roll of toilet paper, and hand towels on the racks. One of them reached toward Louise as he turned.
“I don’t feel so good,” he said. He took a step forward then fell to the ground. The brain splatted against the floorboard as it hit, the tentacles twitched, and slithered, leaving behind smears of slime. Louise screamed and backed away.
“Tsk, tsk,” a voice said. Louise jumped and looked up, eyes wide. The doctor from the movie stood at the end of the hall. A scalpel gleamed in his hand. Something large and round hung from the other hand. “Poor thing,” he said. He tossed the round thing at Louise. It landed on the floor with a thud and rolled into the light from the bathroom.
Her husband’s face stared at her, an expression of fear and shock frozen on its features.
Louise screamed. Heart pounding, she jumped to her feet and turned to run to the back door. One of her husband’s tentacles grabbed her around the ankle. It pulled her toward him. She scrabbled at the floor trying to grip something, anything, to pull herself free. She chanced a glance over her shoulder as her foot entered a gnashing maw full of teeth.
She cried in pain as the teeth gnawed on her foot. A hand stroked her hair. She looked up at the doctor as he crouched next to her.
“He’s hungry, you see,” the doctor said. “He needs,” he paused and stroked her cheek. “Fresh meat.”
Mozzarella Ball
CINDY LOOKED AT THE calendar. Two more days and her month-long dairy-free diet would be over. She opened the fridge to gaze at the carton of milk, and there, on the top shelf was a ball of cheese. Not ordinary cheese. It was fresh mozzarella. Cindy licked her lips, her stomach growled. She figured the housekeeper stuck it in there, knowing Cindy loved cheese.
“Two more days,” she muttered. “You will be mine.” She scolded herself for talking to a ball of cheese, closed the fridge and sat at the kitchen table to read the newspaper. She looked up and jumped. The refrigerator door stood ajar. The cheese stared out at her, tempting her. She laughed at the thought and closed it.
Later that day, Cindy went to the kitchen again to daydream about eating the cheese with tomato and basil. Licking her lips, she paused in the doorway. The fridge door was wide open again.
“I know I closed that door,” she said. Two more days, but she couldn’t take it. It had been too long since her last bite of cheese. She lunged forward, grabbed the ball, and bit off a mouth-filling chunk.
Mozzarella-goodness caressed her palate. Creamy, subtly salty. She closed her eyes and moaned, savoring every bite. She chewed long and hard, extracting every bit of flavor, unaware that the cheese in her hand began to melt. The cheese boiled, burning her. She dropped it and ran to the sink to run cold water over the burns.
Behind her, it bubbled on the linoleum. Expanding and stretching, it mounded up into the crude shape of a seven-foot man in a fedora. A single feather stuck from the hat.
“You bit me,” the cheese said. Cindy gasped, backed away, staring up into the eyeless face of the Cheeseman.
“I-I’m sorry,” she said gripping the edge of the counter as the cheese loomed over her. “I had two days left, I should have waited,” she stammered, as if it mattered.
A cheese slicer gleamed from the Cheeseman’s hand. Cindy’s heart pounded. She glanced from his face to his weapon-wielding hand.
Cindy reached out. “Please,” she said. “I didn’t mean any harm.” She noticed a missing piece from his face. The piece that now sat, a hard, cold lump, in her stomach. Bile rose to her throat.
In a movement too quick for a man made of cheese, he slashed at her with the cheese slicer, lopping off her outstretched hand.
Cindy screamed. The Cheeseman plucked her hand from the floor, brushed it off against his leg, leaving a smear of blood on the smooth white surface, and sat at the table. Cindy dropped to the floor, wrapping a kitchen towel around her stump. Sweat beaded on her forehead. She retched, and blood soaked the towel. Her heart pounded in her throat, her vision blurred, and finally, she blacked o
ut.
AS CINDY LAY ON THE floor bleeding to death, the Cheeseman enjoyed slices of her fingers and hand on buttery crackers.
Little Mummy Cat
JAKE SAW SOMETHING in the darkness of the interstate and slammed the brakes. He took a deep breath, grabbed a flashlight, and jumped out into the rain, sweeping the light over the road. The object looked like some sort of cloth-wrapped package. He ran toward it and gasped.
Completely wrapped in bandages, the little cat mewled.
“Poor thing,” Jake said. He tucked it inside his jacket. “You look like a miniature mummy.”
Once home, he decided to change the cat’s soaked bandages. He started unwrapping. When he was finished, he stared in disbelief.
He had expected a soft, furry kitten, but in front of him sat a hairless cat, shrunken and thin. A skeleton with a sheet of leathery flesh tossed onto it and pinned into place. The eyes were clouded. The cat mewled and purred, rubbing against his hand. The skin was stiff and dry. Jake jerked back in disgust.
I have to get rid of it, he thought. The cat stared through him. He grabbed a spare pillowcase and a brick, stuffed the cat inside, tossed in the brick and drove to the bridge. He dropped the sack over the side and rushed back home to bed, heart pounding.
The next morning, he was sick. Skin pale, eyes dull. He shuffled into the kitchen for medicine and gagged. The smell overpowered his senses: Old musty dirt. There on the kitchen table, staring, sat the cat. Its skin looked pliable and soft. Jake thought perhaps the water had done it some good, but how had it found its way back? And, God, the smell. He gagged and retched into the sink.
He stuffed the cat into another pillowcase, set it behind the back wheel of his truck, backed over it, then dug a hole and buried the whole thing. He went back to bed with a groan, trembling with weakness, and broke out in cold sweat.
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