Frightmares: A Fistful of Flash Fiction Horror (27 page)

A violent shock of maddening lightning evolved through the night’s sky and highlighted the sharp silhouettes of the tombstones. He fell deeper into throes of terror and anger. His mind was imprisoned in a cage of paranoia and became strangled by virgin fear. He fell heavily to his knees, clasping his hands as if in repentant prayer, his face uplifted to the harsh, black sky. Tears of blood streamed down his face, forging crimson channels on his withered skin. The violent winds whipped his flesh, stabbing him with the most forcible of all kisses of death. The shadows flitted eerily in front of his eyes, caressing him with their inky blackness. His tears rained down upon the unhallowed soil, nourishing the worms that fed off blaspheming decay. The shadows danced around the man, maddening him further.

His mental memory strip inked his mind’s eyes. His scars, never truly healed, bled out the tears of his crimes. Time reversed its stream and stabbed him with the deeds of the past. The shadows kept moving in on the guilty man, enclosing him, swallowing him in their darkness. They engulfed him completely, encroaching harshly deep beyond the weak seams of his mind. They tore at his thoughts, ripping violently at the delicate shreds of his decrepit sanity. They demolished him, stealing the last dim lights of his life. He screamed out his tears and invoked upon the shadows for the prison of death; deeply craved for after the prison of immortal life. The shadows ignored him, refusing to pause in their mental torture. His guilt raged on, and the shadows pressed on. But they did not leave him, for the crimes of our blood are shadows.

Rania Hanna
is a young author currently working currently on a trilogy, the first novel tentatively entitled
Shahor
.

ROAD HAZARD

CHARLIE BOOKOUT

I-70 cut through the Kansas night like taut wire. Sam switched on the rented Camry’s radio, and the FM station he’d found back in Topeka was still clear; still on its 90’s kick. He couldn’t remember the exact name of the group that was playing, but he was pretty sure it had the word “crow” in it.
Counting the Black Sheryl Crows
, he thought and grinned at the oncoming headlights.

He could sense the enormous presence of his next landmark coming up on the right: the first in an army of windmills that would loom against the stars, row upon row, for the next ten miles.

There they are . . . That means six hours to Denver, and a drink. A few meetings to sleep through tomorrow and I’m back on the road
.

“You’re right about one thing, my dear,” Sam said aloud to the radio. “Every day
is
a road. But mine is not winding.”

***

It was both instantaneous and eternal, the way all highway crashes are. The thing standing in his lane was almost human. It was in his lights for the briefest of moments, but Sam saw with clarity its pale translucent skin, its ragged hospital gown and the indescribable horror of its mouth. He swerved to miss it and overcorrected. As the car spun out of its third roll and pirouetted into a cornfield, Sam lost consciousness. But Sheryl kept on singing until the fiery end.
I get a little bit closer to feelin’ fine . . .

***

Since its escape, it had been living in an abandoned service station off the exit 219 ramp. It slept during the day, its bed a pigeon-shit covered chunk of drywall stuffed into the stinking remains of the checkout counter. At night it searched for the manna the interstate would sometimes expel into the ditch. There were never any cats or dogs out in the dark territory between towns, but coyotes were good. . . especially if they were still twitching.

Its latest find—a putrid owl—was down to just bones and feathers, so it had tried
the trick
again. It raced to the smoking wreckage. It had only moments, before others would come, and it would have to disappear into the corn. It was cautious as it hurried. It still had a sliver of glass lodged in its tongue from the last time it licked human blood off the hot pavement.

***

One Saturday in August, some local kids set fire to the gas station. It curled up in a corner, trying to hide from the flames. The firemen heard it screaming. And afterwards, they heard it screaming in their dreams.

Charlie Bookout
lives with his family in Gentry, Arkansas, and is part of a group of artists who have converted Gentry’s abandoned mortuary into a studio devoted to independent music and film. More of Charlie’s stories will appear in upcoming
installments of Residential Aliens, Silverthought,
and
The Washington Pastime
.

SHADOWS IN THE NIGHT

COURTNEY RENE

As the last slow heartbeat sounds, I ease out of the shell that had been my home for the last few weeks. In my basic form I am nothing but darkness. I am a shadow, for now.

I glide quickly over the dark earth until I come to a dwelling of yellow. Flowers of red and white border the home. I hate them. I circle the home until I find entrance. A single window opened just enough to let in the cool night air.

I slip inside and drift slowly up to the far dark corner near the ceiling, where I blend in perfectly. A dim light puts off a rosy glow illuminating the room and its contents. A small form lies in a bed surrounded by bars. I move to investigate.

It’s an innocent. It doesn’t know fear. It won’t do at all. I caress the small body. I watch with glee as it cringes even in sleep. A small cry squeaks out of its little mouth. Maybe later I can play.

Next I flow to a big room at the center of the house. I hide in the darkness along the walls at the floor. A big form is stretched out on the couch watching television. Humans are too easy. I laugh deep and hollow.

The man sits up, looks around, alert. He can’t see me. He doesn’t know to look in the shadows. I slip under the couch and tickle his toes with wispy, smoky hands.

He shivers and jumps to his feet. I laugh again, enjoying the game. I watch as he checks doors and windows, searching the night for danger. He doesn’t realize danger hovers quietly right above him.

His gaze swings toward the back corner of the house and I wonder–

I drift in that direction to look. I enter another room, where a long slender form sleeps. I settle directly over her. I caress her face.

She shivers. Her eyes snap open and I retreat back toward a high dark corner.

I watch. I wait.

She looks around. She sees and she fears. She knows what she is looking for within the darkness. She is perfect in her fear.

I create the illusion of wings, like a bat. I fly directly at her, fast and furious. I need her to see. I need her to . . .

She screams.

I force my way inside her open mouth.

I shift.

I settle.

I take hold.

“Honey?” the man says from the doorway. “Are you all right?”

I blink my new eyes and bring the man into sharp focus. I smile wide. I beckon to him.

Now that I have a new home, a new form, it’s time to play.

Courtney Rene
lives in the State of Ohio with her husband and two children. She’s a member and graduate of the Institute of Children’s Literature. Her works include short stories, magazine articles, anthologies and her YA series
Shadow Dancer.
For a complete listing or to contact her, please visit: www.ctnyrene.blogspot.com.

THE LEOPARD OPTIMIST

BENJAMIN MCELROY

B
rendan awoke to his young daughter’s screams. He rushed into her bedroom as any concerned, single father would, and found her seated on the carpeted floor, sobbing.

“What’s wrong, Carla?” Brendan asked, kneeling down next to her.

“A monster was in my room,” she said.

“What kind of monster?”

“He said he was the Leopard Optimist.”

“What did he look like?”

“A giant yellow butterfly—with mean eyes.”

“I think you had a nightmare.”

“He was real!”

“Some dreams feel that way, but—”

“He said he’s been watching me for a few nights, and wants to stab a big pin into my tummy so he can admire me forever.”

“I’ll never let anything hurt you.”

“What about what happened to Melinda?”

The usual self-loathing surfaced at the mention of his other daughter. In a soft voice, Brendan replied, “That was an accident.”

A flash of movement above Carla’s bed caught their attention, the indistinct shadow flickering from left to right across the room a second time.

“Is that the Leopard Optimist, Daddy?” Carla asked, quivering.

Hugging her, Brendan said, “It must be your nightlight—that bulb is old.”

Just then, something brushed against Brendan’s back. He glanced over his shoulder, and saw a grotesque, moth-like creature with a body the color of a rotten banana looming over them. Its flaccid proboscis hung beneath two menacing, multifaceted eyes.

It said, “I am the Lepidopterist. I’ve come to claim my specimen.”

To his screaming daughter, Brendan shouted: “Go! Now!”

Carla scrambled free from his arms. She started to run out of the room. Toward safety, he hoped, as he stood to protect her from harm.

Brendan screamed at the Lepidopterist as it flew over to Carla, grabbing the little girl by her hair. Brendan growled, refusing to lose his first child, too.

But before he could attack the intruder, it seized him, as well, lifting him off the ground. The beast then gathered both of its victims into its mottled wings and smothered Brendan until he passed out.

***

When Brendan awakened, he found himself bound and gagged on a corkboard floor, surrounded by glass walls. Glancing to one side, he saw that Carla lay stiff and unmoving beside him.

Faced with her demise, he recalled Melinda’s hungry wails that dreadful night two years ago . . . he remembered how he’d fed her from a bottle, and afterward heard her lonely cries through the monitor before she’d eventually fallen silent, like usual. How he’d discovered her drowned by her own spit-up the next morning.

Brendan had failed both of his daughters now. Tears pooled in his eyes, and although he wanted to scream, he couldn’t.

The Lepidopterist peered at Brendan through the open top of the transparent prison, before reaching down and pushing a huge pin through his stomach. The urge to scream intensified.

After replacing the top of the clear box, the Lepidopterist spoke. But Brendan could hear only two of its muffled words through the glass: “admire” and “forever.”

Ben McElroy
is a full-time admissions representative for a Massachusetts state university and a part-time writer of horror fiction. Late at night, the clicking of the computer keyboard haunts the dreams of his family as he composes his latest tale of terror. Ben's five published stories appear in various anthologies.

SPECIAL

REBECCA CARTER

Everyone always said she was special; that she was beautiful, funny, graceful and smart. She felt she would give up all those attributes to rid her of the cause. The same curse that had bestowed those gifts upon her made her lust for the hunt . . . made her endure pain every night that couldn’t be subdued no matter what she did.

Her skin was itching, burning. She braced herself for the next stage of her nightly transformation. It got worse with certain phases of the moon; some nights she only felt her skin expanding and other times she changed completely. She missed out on everything others got to enjoy. No late night meals with friends, no clubbing, no all-night movie marathons. She groaned when her hair started falling out; her fingernails began chipping away as she dug her hands into her desk to take away the pain.

One by one her outgrown teeth bounced to the floor, her skin cracking off in pieces. Patches of furry leather broke through the skin that she hadn’t yet shed. Her wrists snapped into paw-like positions. Her bones shattered with every ragged breath; the pain becoming so bad that she passed out before the rest of the changes occurred.

She awoke several hours later to the pain of her bones once again healing. Her wolf teeth were gone and her regular teeth were growing back in. The leather skin peeled off in chunks; her wrists had snapped back into place.

She crawled to the iron door, begging to be let out. She was special, perfect. That is what they used to say before she came to this place. She actually didn’t mind being here so much anymore. She felt safe and was given everything she wanted and needed. They were even saying her ability to regenerate would one day save the world. Her pain would end the suffering of others.