Twisted Shorts: Ten Chilling Short Stories

by Andrew Lennon

  Russell lay on his back, his one eye staring up at his old friend. A horrible gurgling sound was coming from somewhere in his throat. His half lip shaped into a half smile.

  “It’s OK,” Russell whispered. “Gregg, the zombie slayer.” He giggled.

  Gregg brought the pan down on his friends head again, and again, and again. Until there was nothing but a bloody mess on the floor.

  It was a long walk home.

  Gregg cried the whole way. When he walked through the front door he was met by his mum. “Oh…..my…..God! What is that all over you?” she screamed.

  “This? Oh…..it’s Russell.”

  The Externals

  I have been staying in this hotel for two days now. I thought I had a chance to escape them. I know now that I was mistaken. I feel them around me. As I sit on this bed and type, I can feel their eyes watching me.

  The first sign was subtle; I didn't connect it to them at the time. I kissed my wife and children goodbye and left my house at seven o’clock on Monday morning. I think, even then, I knew that it might be our final goodbye. Too afraid to close my eyes, I hardly slept the night before. I knew that if I did, they would move closer. I was awake with worry.

  You can't see them, but they like to watch us, and they like to play with things. They play with us to see how we will react. They see us more as play things than play mates. That was why my sat nav wouldn't turn on when I got in my car. They had tampered with it, played with it. It was another part of their game. They didn't want me to leave; they wanted me to stay with them.

  I turned on the navigation system of my mobile phone and used that instead. I made the journey. But they had made the journey also. They are here with me, still.

  I am working on an audit with a client this week, so I was going to drive straight to the office, and check in at the hotel later that night. When I turned on the car radio, it was fuzzy. Under the static I could hear giggling, I am sure of it. I changed the channel to hear the traffic news. Traffic was at a standstill on the motorway I needed to take. I should have seen this as another attempt to keep me from going away but I didn’t take notice, and chose another route, driving on country lanes for an extra thirty minutes to reach my client's office.

  I was so busy setting everything up that the day seemed to fly by. I left the office early so I could check into the hotel. A fifteen minute drive away, the hotel is quite pleasant, a lovely rustic affair. I’m sure it has beautiful views of lakes and woodlands. I have stayed here before, but never seen them, as it is always dark when I am here.

  After checking in I make my way to my room on the lower ground floor. I walk away from the reception desk and around a corner leading behind the kitchen entrance. There, I am faced with double doors that are security locked. I unlock them with my key card and walk down the corridor. It is dark, but lights turn on as I walk by them. I imagine there is some sort of power saving sensor at work, but the effect it gives it is similar to that of a haunted house.

  At the end of the corridor I am faced with another set of double doors. Behind them are the stairs. As I descend, I can see the lights from the corridor above turning off one by one. Next to each one, just before they blink out, are faces. Their faces. Though I’ve never seen them before, I instantly recognise them. I feel I have met them a hundred times before.

  The bottom of the stairs is shrouded in darkness. My room number, sixty-four, is just around the corner from the stairwell. The door sits in darkness; the motion sensor for this light appears to be broken. As I struggle to once again slip my key card from my pocket, I notice that the door is partially open. My first instinct is to shout out and check if anyone is in the room, but I can't in fear that something else might answer. I push the door open, reach in and turn the light on. The room is cold. So cold. I can feel it in my bones.

  I check the radiator; it is hot. Where is the heat? If it gets any colder, I’ll be able to see my breath. I shiver uncontrollably.

  I open the curtains. On the patio sits a table and chair, overlooking the view of the moonlit lake. I'm sure this view must be very pleasant in the summer but at the time of my stay it is nothing but dark and cold. I check to make sure the door is locked and close the curtains.

  My room has an en suite bath. My followers must have gotten to it before me, because when I turn on the lights, only one out of the five bulbs works. It is the one right above the door. This leaves every corner of the bathroom in darkness. They will appear. Not long enough for me to see them, just enough to remind me that they are still there and I should not forget them. I know they like to stand there when I close my eyes to wash my face, or for that split second when my eyes are covered while changing my shirt.

  They gave me their warnings. They wanted me to stay. I chose to ignore them. Now, without the protection and love of my family I am left alone with them, fated to once again become their play thing.

  After a long struggle, I eventually fall asleep. My dreams are filled with monsters, but they are not the images of the real watchers. My mind is not able to manufacture their image; they are beyond human comprehension. The horrific images my mind has created are the limit of what it can handle.

  There is a noise and I jump awake. Was there a noise? Or was it my imagination? I sit in darkness. I am sure that I left the television on; this is a habit I have grown to provide me with comfort. I feel they won't move so close to me when they do not have the darkness to hide in. It appears that once again they have decided to play games. They have turned off the television at some point during my sleep. The room is a blanket of darkness. When I reach around for the bed side lamp, I can't even see my hand in front of my face. The cold in the room is closing over me. A blanket of ice is being tucked over the back of my neck.

  I hear a rustle from the other side of the room and something drops in the bathroom. I can feel breathing in my ear. I panic to find the lamp and fall out of bed. When I look up, I see an image peering over the side of the bed. I cannot describe this sight; I can only say that in a pitch black room this is the only thing visible. Finally I find the switch and turn on the lamp. The room is empty, but the cold my visitors have brought with them remains. I put a jumper on and sit in bed with the lights on, waiting for morning.

  It is a long night. They won't let me see them, but they will let me hear them. Not loud terrifying bangs and screams as the movies would have you believe. Just subtle noises; a crack here, a crack there. Perhaps the bag that had been placed on the table earlier rustles. If you are unaware of their presence then you will write these things off as normal; floor boards creak, the rustle had just been the television settling over time. This is another part of their game. They don't want to be loud; they want to make you think that you are imagining these things. It is when you begin to doubt them that they choose to close in. I fear that if my brain, in an effort at self-preservation, starts to doubt their existence, then my stay in this world will be over. They will have acquired a new play mate.

  At some point I must have dozed off again. Man, these things are really messing with my head. I don't know what their game is, but they seem hell bent on driving me crazy. I'm exhausted, too afraid to sleep. When I have slept it has been almost like going into a trance. I wake up and only then realise I had been asleep. It's like these things have been playing with my mind. Could that be possible? I know they like to play with the things around me; they move things and make noises to scare me. If they are actually playing with my mind itself, then perhaps they have manufactured all these visions and sounds. There is nothing really happening around me, they are only making me think that there is.

  I feel a change in the air, a tension building around me. Have I somehow annoyed them? Perhaps. I feel I was getting quite close to the truth. They are controlling my mind. They are gravely annoyed that I have discovered their secret. I feel the extent of their control on my mind is not as strong as they would like. They can only use it to suggest things. Then, I have to act on them. Perhaps I am
the driving force and they simply change my direction in order to play a part in their great game. What plan do they have for me? Can I stop this somehow? Is it already too late?

  The clues have been here all along. Our minds have allowed the vessel to believe it has gained a degree of control. That it has cracked our great plan. This however is impossible. It does not have the ability to create thoughts, it has only the ability to act in the way we see fit. We like to play our games. Last week's game vessel was a pilot. That was more exciting; we had control of not just the vessel, but all of the people in his plane. We like to take turns controlling.

  Some are not as good as others and control of the vessel and plane was lost.

  Oh well, they are all simply vessels. No great loss. We just acquire more when we are finished.

  I think perhaps it is time to find something a bit more exciting. Playing an auditor has become tiresome and boring. The fear runs too deep to control.

  Yes, it is time to leave. Open the door that leads to the lake.

  Family Man

  Chapter 1

  Inside, a man sat on his favorite chair in his living room, tears running down his cheeks, wondering, What happened? Why?

  In his head, he knew exactly what happened, those memories were still fresh, as fresh as the blood spilled in his family home.

  Outside, in the leaves, lay Tina, only nine-years-old. She had a hole in the side of her head from the impact of her killer’s claw hammer. She had been wearing a pretty blue dress with white flowers on it, years ago it would have probably been called her Sunday best. She lay motionless on the ground, eyes wide, gazing at the darkened autumn sky, looking like a porcelain doll that had been forgotten and abandoned, a doll that had been broken.

  Inside, Robert lay on the couch, his arms still wrapped around his mother. Both of them motionless, both splattered in red. The man sitting on the chair stared at them in disbelief.

  What happened?

  He could see the memories still flashing through his head but they were too difficult to believe. Could this have really happened to his family? He looked at the red bloodied face of his departed wife. He stared, willing her to say something to him. She didn’t.

  What happened?

  The man knew exactly what had happened. He'd come home from work, walked up to his wife who was watching TV with Robert and he put the claw hammer straight through her skull. When Robert tried to protect his mother, he received the same treatment. He then walked to the garden where Tina was playing with the leaves, picking them up and throwing the in the air, as she twirled and danced in her magical whirlwind. He put the hammer to the side of her head and dropped her in the pile of leaves.

  He didn’t need to ask again, he knew what happened, he had killed his family.

  Why?

  That was a different story; he didn’t know why. He was happy this morning when he left for work. He kissed his wife and his children goodbye, he left with a smile on his face and remained happy all day. He smiled while eating the sandwiches his wife had made him for his lunch. He smiled while thinking about taking the children swimming tonight after dinner, he laughed at the thought of wrestling with them and dunking them in the water then lifting them above his head while they wrestled him down. He was happy when he made the journey home, he smiled when he thought about what he was going to have for dinner, and he smiled at the thought of getting a welcome home kiss when he walked through the door.

  After he parked on the drive, his smile disappeared. His face had changed; had he looked in the mirror, he would not have recognised the man looking back at him. The man in the mirror was a murderer. Before he entered the house, he walked into the garage, his stride full of purpose, and collected his claw hammer. The following memories lead to more tears. But why? He remembered taking the lives of his family, but he didn’t want to. He loved his family, he would never want anything to happen to them, right?

  He was still in the same chair when the police eventually arrived. He cried when they took him away. When asked what happened he told them. He didn’t leave out any details, he gave a complete confession. When asked why, the only answer he could give was simple. “I don’t know. I love my family; I didn’t ever want anything to happen to them. I love my family, I killed them, I killed them all, but I don’t know why.”

  Chapter 2

  Two boys were playing football in the street. Paul was thirteen, he had short blonde hair and a face covered in adolescent acne. He was tall for his age, pushing on six-foot and he was skinny, earning him the nicknames Beanpole and Lanky Larry from his school mates. The other boy, Gavin, was a lot shorter than Paul, but still of average height for his age, with jet black hair and skin so pale and white that he always looked ill. Gavin was exactly one month older than Paul, he was due to turn fourteen in the next few weeks. Paul kicked the ball high into the air, and Gavin returned it to him with a header.

  “Hey, did you hear about that family?” Paul asked.

  “What family?” Gavin grunted while heading the ball.

  “The family on the other side of town that got all cut up. The father butchered them!” Paul said.

  “Yeah, right,” Gavin replied. “As if.”

  “No, I swear! The police turned up and the guy just sat in the living room with a hammer in his hand, there was blood all over the place! I heard he even chopped one of the kid's heads off!”

  “You’re full of shit,” Gavin said, and kicked the ball again.

  Paul caught it and put it on the floor.

  “What the hell you doin’?” Gavin shouted at him.

  “Listen, I’m not lying.” Paul said. “My parents were talking about it this morning, they read it in the paper or saw it on the news, or something.”

  “OK, OK you’re not lying,” Gavin humoured him. “Just gimme the ball back.”

  “No, not until you say you believe me!” Paul said.

  “Alright man, I believe you,” Gavin shouted at him. “Stop being such a girl!”

  Paul punted the ball back at him hard, Gavin caught it on his chest and volleyed it back at Paul’s face.

  “Oohhh, feisty one, aren’t we!” Gavin taunted him.

  Paul ducked out of the way before the ball caught him in the face.

  “What the hell you do that for?” Paul shouted at him.

  “What? I just kicked the ball to you! We are playing footy, remember!”

  Paul ran over to pick the ball up. As he carried it back, he returned to the conversation.

  “Seriously though, man, this dude went crazy and smashed his family’s brains out. Obviously he didn’t chop their heads off, I made that up. He used a hammer anyway. But seriously, he killed his whole family! Could you imagine that?”

  “No!” Gavin replied. Paul couldn’t be certain whether it was anger or fear he heard in his voice.

  “I don’t want to imagine that!” Gavin shouted. “Sick shit happens all the time, man, it don’t mean I wanna picture it in my head, does it? Fuckin’ sick, man, why you keep going on about it?”

  “Gav, the kid was our age! He was thirteen and he was killed by his own dad! His little sister too; I dunno how young she was but it was younger than ten!”

  “Yeah, so? I ain’t gonna say it’s not horrible cause it is, I just don’t see what it’s got to do with us or why you keep going on about it.”

  “It just freaks me out that’s all, I mean their dad. Could you imagine your Dad ever doing anything like that?”

  By now, both boys had started to walk home. Gavin was looking down at his feet, shaking his head.

  “Maybe you can’t imagine your dad doing it. But my Dad? Hell, yeah.” Gavin said.

  When they reached the end of the road they both turned their separate ways; Paul left to his house, Gavin right toward his.

  “See you tomorrow, yeah?” Paul asked.

  “Yeah, cool, I guess.” Gavin mumbled in response; he seemed to have drifted off into his own thoughts.

  Chapter 3


  Paul and his family were sitting at the dinner table. Paul was trying to eat, but his sister, Lily, carried on pulling faces at him. She was younger than him, only six, but she knew how to push his buttons and she seemed to get away with everything. Her face was scrunched up and her tongue sticking out. Paul returned the gesture.

  “Paul, stop it!” His father shouted.

  “But she started it,” Paul tried to argue back.

  “Enough! I don’t care who did what, we will not have that at the table.”

  “Ugh.” Paul moaned. “She gets away with everything.”

  His father gave him a look that made Paul stop his moaning instantly. It wasn’t a threatening look, it was one of those looks parents inherit when their children are born. A look that says 'you do that one more time and see what happens, I dare you.' It’s a look guaranteed to stop any child in his tracks.

  “So how was your day, dear?” Paul’s dad asked, looking at his wife.

  “It was OK, I guess” his mother replied. “I was talking to Tracy and…oh you’ll never guess what she heard.”

  The rest of the meal filled with the gossip that Paul’s mother had learnt during the day, Paul sensed that his dad wasn’t really listening but he seemed to nod and answer in the correct places.

  Paul had a good family, and he knew it. He had seen how bad Gavin’s dad was to him and he was grateful for how kind and loving his own parents were. Even though they had basically kicked his brother Jack out of the house at eighteen, forcing him to join the army, Paul was sure that was Jack’s own fault.

  Jack had been a bit of a problem child. From the age of eleven he was always being sent home from school; he had insulted one of the teachers or he had punched another boy in the face. He had been expelled from his first school when he was Paul’s age, but calmed down a bit in his second school. But he seemed to have simply saved his chaos for after school hours from then on. He would be fighting every night, and was arrested several times for smashing car windows or throwing bricks through neighbours’ windows. His parents must have been counting down the days for when he was old enough for them to kick him out. Still, it seemed to have worked. Since going into the army, Jack developed some self-discipline and self-respect. He trained to channel all the anger that he had while growing up. He appeared to be turning into quite the respectable adult based on what his parents had been saying.