Frightmares: A Fistful of Flash Fiction Horror (20 page)

I started by getting some background information on the building. I was shocked to find out that there had been a fire; several second story inhabitants were trapped by the blaze.

There was only one casualty: Maureen Bates. The woman who I was seeing? I wasn’t sure.

The next evening she returned, like a bad habit. I trembled under her gaze, but forced myself to speak to her.

“Maureen Bates! You’re no longer welcome here. It’s time for you leave now,” I commanded firmly.

Maureen just looked back at me with a smile. Then she spoke to me.

“Daniel Cruz, I’ll leave now since you asked me to go, but I need to tell you one last thing.”

She stared at me intensely, her eyelids burned away. Then she turned to my bedroom door. As I followed her gaze, I detected the scent of smoke in the air. Then the door of my apartment caught on fire.

As the fire drove the shadows from my room and Maureen Bates disappeared with them, she said, “Your neighbor passed out forty minutes ago, a bottle of 151 in one hand, and a cigarette in the other.”

P.A. Clark
currently resides in Sacramento California. He graduated from San Jose State University in 1999 with a B.A. in liberal studies. His works include thrillers, mysteries and short stories. His current project is a series of audio book thrillers called
The Lin Wu Chronicles
.

JUSTICE FOR GINGER

GRAHAM DUCKER

“Leave me alone!”

Grabbing my purse I scrambled out of the car and sprinted up the hillside, knowing Ginger’s killer would follow me into the deep brush.

How easy it was to let him pick me up at the same bar where Ginger had last been seen.

I slipped my hand into my purse as I faced the brute. “If it’s money you want, I have lots; just don’t hurt me.”

“I don’t want your money,” he growled.

“Well, how about this?” I eased out my Berretta Bob Cat.

One twenty-five caliber bullet blew through the pig’s groin and a second took out his right knee. His surprised faced ploughed into the ground like a felled tree.

I stayed out of his reach. A wounded animal can still be dangerous.

“Now, I am going to ask you some questions, and you will answer immediately. Do you understand?”

Hatred oozed from his face.

The bullet tore off half his left ear. “Yes!” he screamed.

“You are the one who has been raping and killing women around these parts aren’t you?”

The question was redundant, but when he hesitated his right ear splattered.

“You are taking way too long,” I stated.

“Yes!”

“That’s better. Today your slimy lawyer had an inept judge free you on a technicality.”

“Yeah, I had a good lawyer.”

Had
, I thought as I pictured how earlier two bullets arranged the attorney’s arrogant face as he sat in his BMW in the parking garage.

“Now, let’s see how good your memory is. About a year ago you picked up a tall blonde at Marvin’s.”

I could see the guy was trying to remember, but I raised the Bob Cat to
help
.

“Yes, yes! Maybe! Possibly!” he yelled, holding out his hands. “Gimme a minute, will ya? Can’t you see I’m in pain here?”

“Not as much pain as you gave her when you raped and killed her; and certainly not the agony I have been living with these past years looking for justice for Ginger.”

“Yeah, yeah, I remember, a tall blonde, tall like you.”

“Do you know who she was?”

The beast shook his head.

“She was my twin sister!”

The Berretta coughed. His head snapped back as a third eye appeared in his forehead.

On the sun visor, Ginger photo cast no incriminations as I topped-up the eight-shot clip.

I stroked the picture.

“Two down Ginger, and one to go. Now let’s pay a visit to Judge Parker at his secluded cottage on Baker Lake.”

Graham Ducker
has been writing short stories since high school and has many published nationally and internationally. Published books include
Don't Wake the Teacher
and
Observations of Heart and Mind
. www.grahamducker.com.

HYDROPOD SLUG INVASION

ZOLTAN VARGA

Once, a newscaster claimed a monster was destroying the city. Who could believe such a ridiculous tale? I scoffed at the news of a gigantic invader leaving a swath of destruction throughout the city. The freaky newscast had to be a mistake.

Right?

***

It was twelve-thirty with a half moon. Jeez, I was exhausted from my new business. I should’ve hit the sack sooner, but I was putting the last twelve bottles of home-canned hot chili peppers on the kitchen counter. Twenty cases were filled. Open packages of sea salt sat ready for the next batch.

I was behind schedule, yet I was too tired to cook anymore. My customers wanted thirty additional cases. Finishing the job would take at least another six weeks.

A few minutes later, my neighbor, Jake, pounded on the front door like a mad drummer.

Jake yelled, “Get out! A monster is headed this way!
It eats houses!
”

I stood speechless at the doorway as he jumped in his van. His kids were wailing. His wife looked frightful in hair rollers and blue face cream. They followed him into the van then they careened together down our cul-de-sac and smashed into a mailbox.

Hah!
That jerk was nuts to believe the news. It had to be a fake.

Didn’t it?

Frankly, a gigantic alien monster that ate houses was the craziest thing I could ever imagine—until moments later something pounded against my windows.

It shook my house so hard it felt like an earthquake. A strange odor like burnt rubber and musty swamp gas stung my nostrils, followed by this thunderous, deafening noise.

Above me, the timbers that made my walls snapped, windows broke, and the kitchen tipped to one side.

Everything slid around and slammed into each other. My cases of hot peppers crashed to the floor and shattered, sauce and salt dumped from wall to wall as if I’d fell inside a washing machine.

When it stopped shaking briefly, I staggered toward the front door with a flashlight.

In the beam of light, a gigantic eye on the end of a gray pole appeared.

I collapsed in the living room. Big as the broken picture window, the huge eye stared at me.

My house lifted off the ground. Light bulbs exploded. Goo slimed through the windows.

Everything was tumbling. In the putrid darkness, the couch slammed me against the ceiling and then a table flattened me against the picture wall. With a horrendous roar, the monster spit out my house—

Or at least, that’s what the police and medics pieced together after they revived me. Minus one monster.

The slug had shriveled into a pile of dried leather. Dead.

Who knew my salted hot chili peppers could save planet Earth?

Zoltan Varga
keeps busy by writing sci-fi and mystery novels for adults and kids. A research grant to document the Leonardo Da Vinci exhibition followed an MFA in art history. She has received many awards for art, poetry and short stories. Mountain climbing brought close encounters with rare orchids, saprophytes, butterflies, voles, and (giant) slugs.

HOUSE CALL

JENNIFER WORD

Lydia Grange first saw it when she wheeled out in her chair to watch Tilda leave. The red Taurus disappeared around the bend, and there it was, stepping out from behind the trees; a dark, shadow-figure, all in black. Even its head was covered, reminding Lydia of an executioner’s hood. What did they call that? A Junco? She shivered in her chair as the figure raised its hand, palm up. Gasping, she turned and wheeled herself back into her home.

The next day, she told Tilda, who gasped as well. “At your age? You know what my family would tell you? Death must be coming for you.”

“I may be old, but if it’s Death calling, I’ll be damned.”

Later, while watching Tilda leave, again, the thing stepped out from behind a tree on the furthest corner of the lawn.

Closer.

She’d been confined to the wheelchair three years, her congestive heart failure keeping stores of oxygen tanks in every room. She was 72, but determined to see a birthday that began with an ‘8’. Mr. Grange had been a very fine banker and left a hefty sum behind; enough to keep the secluded lake house and Tilda: Lydia’s private nurse.

It was an isolated life for Lydia Grange. Tilda was her sole means of social interaction, and she called every afternoon. Lydia’s daughter, Samantha, had ‘come out’ to her mother after her father’s death, and they’d had a falling out. Sam was named in the will, however. Mr. Grange would roll over in his grave if Lydia had cut out their only child. If she lived long enough, however, she might deplete the tidy sum Sam was to inherit.

“I’ll leave nothing for the deviant, disgusting dyke,” Lydia thought with smug satisfaction. In her head, she saw her daughter rollicking naked with another woman, both lathered in sweat. She saw her daughter’s head disappear between the woman’s thighs and felt revulsion.

***

At dusk she found herself investigating the screech of an owl. Peering out the living room window, middle of the drive, in fading light, she saw it; the dark figure.

Closer.

After dinner, Lydia couldn’t help herself. Again, she looked out her window and gasped. The dark figure stood in her front yard. Her heart pounded and she wheeled to her tank, sipping sweet, canned air.

Before bed, she dared look out the window one more time. Her heart froze. The figure stood directly at her window. They were only inches apart.

Death!

Fear paralyzed her. She choked in struggling breaths.

Death reached its hand out and hit the window, palm flat.

Thud.

She convulsed; went into cardiac arrest and slumped in her chair—dead.

***

The figure entered the house and stood over Lydia. Caressing Lydia’s cheek, it removed the black hood and smiled.

“Thanks for everything, Mom. I’m glad you met my fiancée, Tilda, before you went.”

Jennifer Word
resides in Southern California. She has written six novels, dozens of short stories, two screenplays and numerous poems. She holds a B.A. in Psychology from Pepperdine University. When Jennifer was nine, she picked up the novel IT, by Stephen King and began reading. She hasn't stopped since. She loves horror, science fiction and fantasy.

SPEED DIAL

JOHN SCHROEDER

You have five new messages. She sighed, pushed ‘play.’

Friday, 6:13 p.m.

“Susan, I’m so, so sorry. Please pick up.”

Friday, 6:15 p.m.

“Susan?” Pause. “Please, I love you.”

Friday, 7:05 p.m.

“Susan! I can’t live without you. I know you’re there. Please pick up!”

Friday, 10:35 p.m.

“Rachel was just a cheap slut,” the voice slurred, sick with pleading. “If you don’t pick up I’ll . . . I’ll . . . Susan! Susan!”

Saturday, 12:25 a.m.

“Susan!” Screaming now A muffled explosion, then silence.

A slow smile spread across Rachel’s face as she hit the “delete” button.

John Schroeder
is a Derringer finalist who spends his free time on a commuter train writing stories. On occasion, he has speed dialed the wrong number.

THE OTHER SIDE

JEREMIAH DUTCH

Jethro was seated in the chair, straps securing his chest, lap and legs. The superintendent asked if he had any last words.

“Yeah,” said Jethro. “Kiss my ass.” He winced.
Bravo, so original . . .
Exactly what John Wayne Gacy said before they stuck the poison in him. Somehow it just slipped out. He’d wanted to say something that would make the newspapers, that’d be on the lips of everyone in the country by tomorrow morning; not some piddling, pissant cliché!

This was it.