Frightmares: A Fistful of Flash Fiction Horror (14 page)

MOTHER

FRANCA DI PIETRO

The two boys began to plot Mother’s death. Not only was she cruel, nasty and never around to take care of them or their little sister, Molly, but what she had done to Dad was unforgiveable. They knew all about Max and his late night visits. There was always laughter and noise coming from Mother’s bedroom late at night, and cheap bottles of red wine and cigarette butts were scattered around the lounge room when the boys woke up in the morning. Mother’s crude behavior had to stop . . . and the boys were determined to make sure that it did.

The first step would be to treat Mother like a queen. The boy’s plan was to cook her favorite dinner, consisting of satay chicken sticks on a bed of white rice. In her wine they would dissolve the sleeping pills that would knock her temporarily unconscious. Mother would then be dragged to the attic where she would be tied up, gagged and left to starve until she rotted away. She behaved like trash and deserved to be treated like it.

Mother walked back from the pub that afternoon after having lots to drink. She walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge and grabbed a beer—paying little attention to her children slaving away at the stove. Mother sat down, took her shoes off and threw them across the kitchen floor. The boys hurried the food along and served it to Mother who quickly gobbled it down without bothering to thank them.

Mother chatted to her boys just as she would with her mates down at the pub, and the boys slowly sipped on their glasses of milk, wondering when she would begin to drink her wine. They had dissolved ten pills in the glass placed on the table directly in front of her, but for some reason, Mother didn’t touch it. Molly had given Mother the glass after the boys had prepared it, just as she’d been instructed. While they listened to Mother’s endless chatter, the boys slowly began to doze.

They awakened to find that they had both been bound with rope. They were situated in the attic on two chairs, Mother glaring at them with a look of hateful contempt. She explained that she could no longer handle the brutal behaviour of her two boys, who reminded her too much of their father. From behind her back Mother produced an axe with a gleaming silver blade. The last thing they saw before the axe fell was Molly’s wicked smile. And in that last fateful instant, they realized that they’d been betrayed. Molly had told Mother about their machinations. Once again Mother had won.

Franca Di Pietro
was born and raised in Australia, but is from an Italian background. Franca works in the International Education Sector and her interests include movies, reading and writing. Franca began writing at a very early age and her aim is to engage and leave readers wanting more.

THE HOUSE CALL

C. W. LASART

“He’s not coming.” Mama’s voice was strained, trailing off into a painful groan. The boy shushed her, wiping her forehead with a damp cloth and smoothing her hair back. He thought of all the times that she had done the same for him during childhood illnesses.

“Of course he is, Mama. It’s just the storm that’s keeping him. I sent for him. He’s gotta come.”

Though he said the words, he wasn’t so sure. He had sent for the doctor this morning, but a blizzard had blown in from the mountains that afternoon, and he was afraid that there was no way to reach them. He prayed that the man would be there soon.

“But not in
time!”
It was hard to see his mama suffering like this, but all he could offer was a cool rag on her face and soft words of encouragement. She looked awful; the purple rings under her eyes were dark bruises and her flesh had taken on the color of clay. Papa hadn’t even looked this bad on the day that he died of pneumonia.

“I’m cold.” It was more a moan than actual speech. Her teeth chattered. Her claw-like hands clutched at the blankets.

“Okay, Mama.” The boy left her side to add more wood to the already raging fire. Though it was bitterly cold outside, the temperature in the cabin was stifling. His shirt was glued to his back with sweat and rivulets ran into his eyes from his hair. His comfort was unimportant though. Mama was cold, so he added more logs to the fireplace and prodded the flames with the iron poker. Shadows danced across the inside of the cabin, cavorting in the fire’s hellish glow.

A knock at the door startled the boy and he turned towards the sound, buffeted by a blast of icy wind as the doctor strode in, stomping the snow off his boots. Tiny crystals swirled in the air for a moment before melting. A wave of relief swept over him as the boy saw the man, certain that he would bring his ailing mama some relief.

The doctor wasted no time, crossing the room and sitting on the edge of Mama’s cot. He grabbed her wrist to check her pulse, turning to the boy with an accusatory glance.

“You should have sent for me sooner, boy! This woman is half-dead!”

Mama bolted upright in bed and fastened her teeth on the doctor’s throat, tearing out his windpipe in one savage bite, stopping him from any further accusations. As the doctor slumped down on the bed, his torn neck pumped a furious stream of crimson, soiling the sheets and Mama. The boy turned his back and calmly resumed tending the fire. He could hear the awful noise of her feeding, and he tried to block it out.

“You were close,” he said, more to himself than to the dead man on the bed. “She died two days ago. Thank God you got here in time.”

C.W. LaSart
, a lifelong fan of all things horror, resides in the Midwest with her three children and soul-mate. A recent winner of the
Cemetery Dance
Amateur Writing Contest, she made her publishing debut in
Dark Moon Digest’s
first issue.
Ad Nauseam
, her debut extreme horror anthology, will be released by Dark Moon Books early 2012.

THE CALL

ADAM J. MUELLER

For days he’d heard it, faintly at first; the drums right away; the flute joining in somewhat later.

Thrump, thrump, thrump: continously, even in sleep. He’d wake, not knowing why, or where; consciousness slowly kindling. Then he’d hear the beat of hands on taught, dried flesh.

He stood at the back door with his hand on the knob, staring out the window.

What makes me keep coming back
?

The darkness outside was absolute; an impenetrable sheet surrounded by gnarled branches, faintly swaying. Nothing stirred.

His wife called to him from the living room.

He left the door, sitting down next to her and their two children.

He looked at his family, feeling something stir that he couldn’t identify; an odd, alien feeling that was nothing like love, or loathing, or even apathy. It felt like there was something
inside,
something that wanted to leap out and . . .

Everyone was in bed. The back door again. His hand rested on the knob as he stared into the blackness.

Thrump, thrump, thrump, and something more; a lighter, higher sound, fainter than anything he’d ever heard before. A thought that had raised its voice.

The beating went on, his heart seeming to match its rhythm: thrump, thrump, thrump.

The flute came in softly, secretly. Like an insect, it flitted in and out of the drum’s steady cadence, never repeating the same pattern, never following a predictable path.

It was a burning butterfly;
chaos.

It made him smile.

He stood at the back door and stared into the night.

From the darkness there stepped a man-like shape; a shadow in the twilight that sat down cross-legged in the backyard.

The thing began to make motions, like it was beating a drum.

More shapes appeared, forming a circle on the lawn.

The flute played faster.

He laid his hand on the doorknob.

Is it time?

The drum sped up, the flute becoming more erratic.

He twisted the knob, pushed the door open and stepped out into the dark. As he walked toward the circle of drums, he heard the beat break into two distinct rhythms; one slow and one fast.

Thrump! Thrump! Thrump!

Tharuump. Tharuump. Tharuump.

The night shivered, fraying apart, shadows tearing away to flock past him into the house.

He sat down at the circle and crossed his legs. He smiled when someone handed him a drum. He kept time mindlessly.

It is time.

Thrump, thrump, thrump.

Screams came from the house.

Thrump, thrump, thrump.

His wife wailed.

Thrump, thrump, thrump.

His little boy yelled.

His daughter’s cry split the cold air.

Thrump, thrump, thrump.

The flute continued tunelessly, weaving in and out of the beat, still burning, still burning . . .

Adam J. Mueller
is a former United States Marine and the author of several pieces of short horror fiction. He lives in Wisconsin with his wife and children, where he tries to write out his nightmares.

BLOOD TIES

ROGER KILBOURNE

James’s family had been hunting these woods for generations. Yet somehow, he’d managed to lose his bearings.

Shadows pooled on the ground beneath the copse of pines ahead.

Did I go through these before?
he wondered. From what he could tell, he was still headed toward the road.

The pine boughs shrouded him like black velvet drapes. He picked his way over pinecones and fungus-encrusted logs, avoiding dead limbs that poked at him like skeletal fingers.

Hopefully, he’d still be able to get back to the truck before nightfall. What was it his great-grandfather used to say about these woods?
Trust me, you don’t want to be in there after dark, sonny boy.

He tightened his grip on the 12-gauge pump and walked faster.

When he stumbled into the clearing, he almost fell into an old cellar hole. A blackened stone chimney jutted up from one wall.

He’d never been here before, but the overgrown foundation unsettled him.

I should go. Now
.

A sudden wind picked up, whispering to him through the trees. He stopped to listen.

He heard it then—a vaguely female voice. Harsh. Breathless.

While he listened, his will to flee melted away. He understood the meaning of the strange words.

They were commands.

Unable to stop himself, he watched through his own eyes as he hopped down into the old foundation and slumped into a mossy stone corner.

When James turned the shotgun around and put the end of the barrel into his mouth, the cool metal chinked against his teeth. His hand shook when he reached to click off the safety.

His mind raced out of control. He’d never considered suicide, definitely didn’t want to die now.

What the hell is happening?

In response to the thought, the voice showed him a vision.

A raging fire engulfed the little house, shooting flames high into the night sky to illuminate the clearing with bright orange light. A group of men on horseback watched the blaze, holding torches.

“Burn, witch,” he heard one say. The man who spoke looked a lot like a younger version of his great-grandfather.

Just then, a tortured scream from within the house pierced the night, spooking the horses. It was joined by another, higher-pitched. And then another.

The screams grew louder and louder until they filled his head, an inhuman chorus of agony that made his teeth itch, his eyes water.

The vision abruptly faded. James watched his arm stretch down to pull the trigger and realized he was the one screaming.

Roger Kilbourne
was born and raised in the hills of western Pennsylvania. He now resides in Massachusetts with his wife and two children. His stories have appeared or will appear in
Necrotic Tissue, The Best of Necrotic Tissue, Static Movement's Beyond the Grave
and
Monster Gallery
anthologies. You can follow him at http://rogerkilbourne.wordpress.com.

CATHOLIC SCHOOL

S. WALKER

She’s taking notes rapidly, her eyes scampering while the teacher paces across the front of the classroom.

I can’t see her face because I sit behind her, but I can tell. I can hear that silver bracelet of hers scrape across the desk and see her nodding her head, eagerly, as if she understands. A convincing act, yet I’m sure that’s all it is.