by Allison Wade
Another noise overlapped; the rubbing of something metallic. Instinctively she turned on the light.
There was a phrase written on the white kitchen cabinets; it was red and blurred, uncertain, and said:
C is for Close.
Claire turned toward the couch.
Veronica’s body laid on her side, her throat was slit like a red smile and her blood was dripping into a puddle on the floor. Her blue eyes were staring lifeless.
Claire filled her lungs to scream, but an icy hand pressed over her mouth and dragged her back with incredible strength.
It threw her to the ground, and then it was on top of her.
A white face disfigured by scars, matted hair, sticky with dried blood, her cherry smile now coagulated in a dark shade, huge eyes, wide open, black like pits.
Claire let out a cry full of anguish, but something hard and sharp chocked it in her throat. She spat a spurt of blood.
She lifted her head, straining the muscles of her neck, and saw the large kitchen knife stuck in her chest.
The creature, above her, laughed insane and happy with her shrill voice, and finally whispered the last sentence.
“E is for End.”
Pixies
They were called Pixies. They were so small and cute, with their big black eyes, their tiny body and their rounded head, without hair, their mellifluous voices, their language so singsong and mysterious.
They came from another planet, light-years far away from the solar system.
Their mother ship was hovering above Washington, and they landed like angels from the sky.
They charmed and captivated everyone.
So small and sweet.
The President received them in the Oval Office, with his full crew. Everyone wanted to meet them; their culture was so advanced. Those Pixies brought unimaginable technologies, unthinkable medical developments.
But most of all, what stroke about them was their great hunger.
Incredible for such tiny beings.
Yet, when they started to chew the Secretary of State, everyone had to change his mind.
Internet Times
JoeX wrote (0:45)
Rose, it was a wonderful first date
don’t you think?
JoeX wrote (0:58)
I’m sorry you can’t answer me
JoeX wrote (1:06)
but I’ll always hold on to the knife I used to eviscerate you.
The Game
Welcome to the horror room.
The game started when you opened this page.
A totally random system will decide your personal horror level.
At the moment you are alone. You’re staring at your screen with a bored look wondering if the tale you’re reading will scare you, if it will be interesting, or if it will make you yawn.
Your fingers quiver on the mouse wheel. You’re already starting to analyze the writing style, the opening, the author voice, the point of view, and you’re thinking about what you’re going to write in your review.
Let’s keep going. A mosquito is buzzing around the room; it’s so thin and light that it looks like waving in the air. It lands on your shoulder.
No, don’t move, or it will go away. Here, it flew off. Not a problem, it will bite you later; it feels the smell of your blood, it’s hungry. It’s not the only one.
The room is dark. The night is falling, and you lit the lamp on your desk. The surface is full of books and notebooks, the ones where you take the notes for the novel you’re writing, even if most of it it’s here, on your computer, scattered files in which you talk about things that matter for you: the atmosphere of a rainy day, the adventures of a world that doesn’t exist. You know, by the way, that reality is just a thin membrane covering the world of images and dreams? It’s not my quote, but I like to remember it and I’d like you to know it. Maybe it will help you understand, in a while.
Now you are intrigued, but you’re getting tired. It’s boring, in this story nothing happens. Just a random guy that talks to me trying to entertain me in a clumsy way.
Maybe I just want to distract you for a moment.
By the way, I like your room, even if you could be tidier. For example, those clothes you threw there in the corner, you could have folded them better. Maybe they need some washing, don’t you think?
I know, you’re by yourself and you’re not much into laundry. And also it’s already dark. You’re hungry and tired, and you’re wondering where I’m going with all of this. You’d rather let it be and focus on something else, maybe take a stroll in the block, now that’s warm outside, get an ice cream. It’s just that suddenly you don’t have all that desire to go out.
Did you read the newspaper this morning? The local news section.
Did you know that girl that disappeared last week? Blonde, pretty, outgoing, she lived in your neighborhood, didn’t she? It looks like she disappeared while she was out for an ice cream. She got separated from her group of friends and nobody has seen her since.
As I was saying, are you still in the mood for going out? Maybe tomorrow. By the way, none of your friends is available tonight; they all have other things to do.
I know, I’m getting boring. You rise from your chair and stretch a little. You would like to take a break. You go to the fridge and take a cool soda. Meanwhile, check if you have closed the front door, please.
What are you saying, it’s closed? Are you sure?
Good.
You open a pack of potato chips and come back to sit in front of the screen. After all, you’re still curious. You want to see when something is going to happen.
Have you noticed that the flatware drawer was slightly open? No? Maybe you should go and check. And maybe, before closing it, take a look inside, to see if something’s missing.
I know, you don’t believe me. I was just saying. Like it never happened.
Is the window still open? Sure, with this warmth is understandable, it’s a pity that you still haven’t had a grating installed. I know it’s a quiet neighborhood, and the window faces toward the yard, that’s fenced in, but who knows.
By the way, did you close the gate?
Be kind, go check.
I see you aren’t moving. I’m sorry I didn’t mean to bother you; if you’re relaxed, please stay where you are.
However, if I were you, those dark stains on the path would really upset me, and maybe I’d turn on the light just to see their color.
Now you’re sneering. You almost bought it, didn’t you? You know well that there is nothing. The gate is closed, and the yard is quiet. Also in your block nothing ever happens.
It’s just that you didn’t read the news this morning, because you’re not used buying the papers. You would rather check on the Internet, and the big portals do not care about what happens in small towns. So you don’t know that the blonde girl was found.
Almost complete. On the outside at least.
If we do not consider the vertical cut that ran from her neck to her pubis, and the fact that the internal organs were completely removed.
They really couldn’t find them, you know? The police are still wondering what the killer might have done with them.
Yes, because they talk about a killer. And another person is already missing. Things could be unrelated, even if it’s odd, anyway.
What do you think?
Have you checked your mobile phone? I think the battery is out. Maybe you should try the telephone in the kitchen. In case you suddenly feel like calling someone. Just saying. Maybe you could lift the receiver and hear if there’s the signal.
Why wouldn’t it be so, you say? You’ve paid all the bills.
Did you hear that?
What again?
That noise, like a snap, coming from the other room.
Maybe you didn’t hear it because you were crunching your chips. Not a big deal, perhaps it was an adjustment noise of the house. Sometimes it happens, at night, in the dark, while you’re under your
blanket, and suddenly you hear these snaps and you jump, with adrenalin pumping all over your body. You curse quietly and feel stupid for being scared by nothing.
Now you stopped chewing and you’re listening. Still you don’t hear a thing, just some noise coming from the street, a car passing by once in a while. You shake your head and continue reading.
Yes, I know, I’m getting tiresome, and the story of the eviscerated girl wasn’t so scary. Even if you knew her, maybe you met her a couple of times at the store of your neighborhood, and maybe what happened to her could have occurred near your premises, even behind your very house.
Admit it. That is kind of disturbing. Now you would like to go back and check if you really closed the door, and maybe you will close the window too, since by this time it’s kind of cool outside.
While you’re there, take a look at the yard, where I said before. But with the new moon you can’t see a thing, and you don’t want to bother the neighbors turning on the external light. It would be silly, like admitting you’re scared.
Anyway, check that drawer, do you mind?
Okay, you don’t have a photographic memory, and you couldn’t make an inventory of all the flatware. You honestly don’t know how many knives there were inside, so it’s difficult to say if something is really missing or it’s just an impression.
Or the suggestion I created with this wall of text.
Here you are again, in front of the screen, following my train of thought, wondering if that’s all. Thinking, all right, good try, but you haven’t scared me a bit.
What a pity, it would have been a funny game.
Let’s end it here, if you like.
Now you can turn around.
I’m right behind you.
Counting
“It’s ten fingers.”
“I can see it.”
“Five for each hand.”
“Obvious.”
“So, where’s the rest of the body?”
Violence
Hide and Seek
“Agatha, where’s your little brother?” Mom goes outside on the porch.
“We were playing hide and seek, but I can’t find him anymore,” she smiles, clumsy in her Sunday dress.
A drop of blood on her shoe.
I Spit on Your Grave
One drop for the first slap.
I passed in front of the TV while you were watching the game.
One drop for the bruise on my arm.
I burned the dinner and you were hungry and tired and held me so tight that I thought the bone would break.
One drop for the time you used your belt.
The bank account was in the red. I had to buy a new refrigerator, because the old one was broken, the reparation would have cost more than changing it. Where would have we kept cool your fucking beer?
You’d already spent everything gambling and buying your new car, because a fucking man must show he’s a real man, he can’t go around with a sissy wreck.
You looked at the bank statement, and then you looked at me. I became an ugly bitch, and you took off your belt and started to whip my legs, until I fell to the ground, screaming and crying. I wore the bruises for too many days.
One drop for every fist you gave me.
When you came home drunk and your way to say it with a flower was beating me up, because life sucks and I didn’t understand a fucking thing, stupid, privileged housewife that didn’t have to deal with the world.
I spat blood, too, so many times I lost the count.
How many drugs does it take to put to sleep a motherfucker?
First, I wanted to poison you, with rat poison; I thought about it a hundred of times. They say that poison is a weapon for women. Or cowards. I don’t want to be a coward.
I uncap the bottle of your fucking beer and pour inside the drops I counted; they fall down like all the tears you drew out from me. I serve you like a slave, while you lay sloppy in front of the TV, with your shirt stained of sauce, fat and sweaty like a pig. I still wonder how I managed to fall in love with a beast. Maybe I still believed in fairy tales and that you’ll become a prince. Or maybe the spell worked backwards, and I became the beast. A beast of burden with her back broken by your belt.
You swallow all the beer without even noticing if the taste is different. You burp like an animal, ignore me, and it’s a pleasant night when you forget I exist. I stay in the kitchen, polishing painstakingly the sink, while I wait for you to fall asleep. Ropes, duct tape, and everything are hidden in the trunk of my wreck of a car, that thing you’ll never even go near, that thing for sluts.
Finally, your eyes close, and you start snorting with noisy suctions.
I grab your legs and drag you down that couch that has become an extension of your butt. I hear delighted the bump that your head makes when it bangs on the floor. I drag you again, this time it’s me, the one who sweats and pants. We reach the shed. Later, I’ll think about erasing the tracks on the gravel you left crossing the garden.
I look around. It’s dark, the alley is quiet, it’s a private lane. No one will pass by here.
Putting you on the table is the hardest part. The fuck, how much do you weight, crappy man.
I broke my back, but I manage to hoist you. I tie your limbs to the table legs, but I’m not a Boy Scout or whatever it’s called in the female version. I can’t make sailor knots, but I can use a crochet hook and tie the roast, is it the same? I bind you tight until I almost stop your circulation.
I take my dear friend, the duct tape, which rolls out with a merry squeak. It can’t wait, too, like me. I stuck it on your mouth, make a turn around. I want to be sure that fucking hole will be shut for once.
How much time has passed? I sit beside you, waiting for you to wake up.
I thought so many times about how I would do it, every time that your shovel hands hit me, showing me the stars, every time your kicks opened me to new frontiers of pain. That time I almost died for internal bleeding, and you, innocent like a flower, told the doctor that I fell from the stairs. That pig like you believed it, without a moment of hesitation; otherwise, with whom would he have gone fishing on Sunday if you ended up in jail? That bitch who doesn’t know her place sure had what she deserved.
I thought so many times about how to make you disappear, because obviously I don’t want to go behind bars being raped by some sturdy lesbian. I had enough of you, love. Every time you put me at ninety degrees, and you pushed until I bumped my head to the headboard of the bed, like a fucking blow up doll.
And then I figured out the right way; I’ve been inspired watching one of that TV shows about serial killers, that bullshit, as you call them. I got a lot of black bags and this sharp and shiny ax – it was my father’s, that was a woodsman. I went to visit him last week, do you remember? When I came back late and the dinner wasn’t ready and you beat me up, banging my head on the oven door. You can be so imaginative sometimes, my love; one wouldn’t tell by looking at you that you could have something creative inside. But I know in how many creative ways you can show me hell.
Finally, you start to recover. I hear you mumble, even if you’re still numb. You realize that something is wrong. You feel the rope, you feel muffled. Your eyes open wide in fear, you try to move, sweating even more, making the table shake with your weight, and then you see me, your eyes flare up. I see the sparkle of hatred that lingers at the bottom; I can distinctly read the stream of insults that you’re addressing me, because you’ve already figured out that I was the one who did this. Whore, slut, bitch. Sing again your anger, your thirst for violence.
I approach and smile; I’m happy you woke up, my love. I show you the edge of the ax, and your expression changes drastically. You’ve gone white. Your eyes are dark pits of fear. Now you’re imploring me. Please, love, don’t do anything silly. I’m sure we can work this out. You know I love you.
You don’t love me, you own me. It’s different. But things are going to change now.
See, my
fucking love, I wanted you to be awake when I’d start. Nothing too complicated, don’t worry, at the end I’m not a sadistic or a torturer; I just want you to see and understand what I’m going to do.
No big deal, I have to make you disappear. Since you’re big, well, I’ve to cut you into pieces. I will put you in all these pretty black bags, load you on my slutty wreck, and drive to that place where you like to go fishing so much, that hidden spot that only you know. Remember? You brought me there once when we were engaged. Don’t you think it’s a beautiful place where you can spend the eternity? I will dump you there, where the river will welcome you like a loving mother, nothing to compare to that bitch that grew you and crowned you lord of the world.
What do you say? Shall we start?
I caress you. You tremble and shake.
I raise the ax, that’s so damn heavy, and I already know that tomorrow morning my muscles will hurt like hell. But it’s okay; it will be the last pain.
And then I’ll be free.
Scratching
Something is scratching on the wall.
It’s driving me crazy. Night and day, it scratches.
I can’t rest, I can’t sleep.
It’s like a dozen mice. It scratches, it squeals.
That sound, that horrible sound.
And I’m here all alone, in this empty house.
I can hear it even when I’m in my room, at night, it’s muffled but it’s always there.
However, when I come down here, in the living room, it’s where it becomes unbearable. Like nails on a chalkboard.
It penetrates my brain, makes my teeth grind. It’s sharp like a blade through my ears.
I should leave this house, but I can’t. Because of you, my sweet Caroline.
