Frightmares: A Fistful of Flash Fiction Horror (28 page)

During the day she had everything she could want. At night, she was a prisoner for the greater good.

Rebecca Carter
is an upcoming horror and suspense author newly focused on the human monster. Rebecca created the first zombie raptor in media with the short story "Of Children" included in the
Moonlit Daydreams
collection. Her full list of work is available at http://rebeccacarterbooks.com.

SPIRIT

JAMES BEATON

Susan tapped the tip of the needle.

“This is going to be amazing,” she declared. Her pupils dilated with anticipation. The three of us had never tried anything like this before. Spirit heroin was completely new to us.

It sounded so pure.

Susan heard about it when her goth friend told her about the man who supplied it in the market. It was heroin that had supposedly captured the “spirit” of a dead person. It was prepared through a process using the blood of the recently deceased. The spirit’s energy and the heroin were supposed to flow through the bloodstream, elevating the high.

Susan instructed us as if she was an expert. “You push the needle in until you see blood enter the syringe. Then you know you’ve hit the vein.”

Lisa and I held our breath, wondering what it would feel like. Lisa was skeptical. “I just want to try the heroin. I don’t know about this spirit bullshit.”

We ignored her.

Our needles were pressed against our skin, poised for entry. Our foreheads glistened with beads of sweat; a suffocating layer of heat draped over us on the mattress. It was a perfect day for an escape.

“We’ll inject at the same time. Okay?”

“Okay,” we all said.

“One, two, three . . . push . . . blood . . . squeeze.”

The effect was immediate. Everything flashed white. I fell back. Hot lava pumped through my veins. Then a loud burst of screaming imploded from within my head, and I could not move or talk.

I opened my eyes and through the flashes saw Susan, her eyes vacant, and the veins on her face purple, pushing out of her skin. Lisa was writhing around and gnawing on her fingers. Her bones cracked as she bit them.

My arm started to itch and the needle hole contorted open like an awakened mouth. There was movement, more movement, and a black eyeless snake crawled out. It slithered over to Lisa’s leg, leaving an acidic trail scalding her skin. It wrapped itself around her neck and squeezed. Its excretion ate through her skin, muscle and bone. As Lisa stopped moving, the mattress turned dark red. Susan began lapping at the blood like a hypnotized dog.

Everything went pure white. And then black.

When I awoke, Lisa was splayed on the mattress, dead; Susan was catatonic. Panicked and uncertain of what happened, I rushed outside to a payphone and called 911. I refused to give my name and I went home and curled in bed.

A few days have passed and I can still hear the screaming; the agony erupting in the confines of my skull. That hole in my arm opens and closes like a demonic eyelid and the snake appears once again. It is hungry and if it doesn’t eat soon I know it will consume me. I must find it food. I must find someone.

I must find more spirits.

I must.

James Beaton
lives and writes in Toronto, Ontario. He has two black cats that regularly assist him with his stories. He has several short stories forthcoming in the next year and is currently working on a novel. He enjoys reading and writing horror, dark fiction, the surreal and absurd.

SUNGLASSES

PAUL D. SCAVITTO

You’re hungry and cold. The wind bites your face and your body aches. It is morning and far too bright out. You sit up and rub your head. It feels thick and woolen. Your tongue feels too big for your mouth.

You look around the alley you’re lying in and the previous evening comes rushing back all at once. You were at Pete’s Place, that new club, the one with the mirrored bar.

The evening had started with your usual course of weak drinks chased by weaker pick-up lines. The fish were not biting tonight. That was when you saw that delicate dark figure gliding towards you across the floor. The question whispered in your ear:
Do you want to leave?

In the reflection you could see this rare beauty’s eyes and the way light seemed to pool in them; but when you turned around you fell in. Those eyes, those endless eyes. When you caught your breath again you were standing outside in the alleyway where you now lay. The two of you leaned up against the wall and your tongues danced while hands roamed. This was the one you had been waiting for. You wanted nothing more than to scream your dark lover’s name, if you had only thought to ask it.

Suddenly the embrace tightened and you could feel a heat building in you. Your breath quickened and in some fleeting part of your mind you wondered:
In an alley?

For a moment it all stopped and you clung there panting and shaking, grateful for the pause but desperate to continue. Then you felt your head being bent back as your neck was kissed deeply. A soft cry caught in your throat and you would have fallen had it not been for the wall.

Then there was pain; two bright points piercing your neck.

You had tried to scream but your lips refused to respond. You were powerless as this ravenous creature fed. Then it all faded away and seemed less real and more the trappings of a dream.

So here you are in that same alley on the morning after, scummy pavement under your ass and a headache worthy of a sonnet. God, is it bright out.

An elderly man comes ambling into the alley. He sees you on the ground and offers you a hand. You glance up at him and are struck by how hungry you are. You can’t stop staring at his bare, unprotected neck. A wave of revulsion shudders through you. You try to fight it.

You last a few seconds.

You’re going to need to get some sunglasses, you think, as you begin to drink.

Paul Scavitto
is a writer from the haunted hills of Vermont. He is a lifelong lover of the horror genre and he writes screenplays and fiction. This is his first published story.

THE HANDS

COREY MAIDA

What they didn’t understand—what I couldn’t
get
them to understand—is that I didn’t do those terrible things that they said I did. It was the hands. They were responsible—they were always responsible.

Firstly, they say that I killed my wife. But where is the motive? We were newlyweds just out of college, two professionals madly in love. There was no life insurance policy to blame, no marital strife, no jealous ex-lover—or, for that matter, any given person I had reasonable suspicions of her conducting an affair with—so
why
would
I
strangle her?

The answer is simple: I didn’t. It was the hands. I wanted to stop them—oh, God, did I want to stop them—but I couldn’t, don’t you see that? Tell me you see that. When they grabbed her throat, I was screaming at them to regress, but that’s when I learned of their power. Can’t you understand? They wouldn’t stop. I loved my wife.

Secondly, they say that I killed my brother. But why bother? My brother and I were the best of friends since childhood, and continued to be until the time of his death. He was a great man—an accomplished teacher at our university—and a marvelous older brother, teaching me the do’s and don’ts of manhood far before I even knew what being a man was all about. He was a father figure to me where I had not had one. They say I shot him in his home while he was asleep. They allege that they found fingerprints on my own gun to link me to the crime. But can you guess who the culprit really was? I have faith that you can.

And lastly, they claim me implicit in the death of at least a dozen inmates here at the prison, possibly more they say. They call me a serial murderer. Ha! Try that on for size:
me
, a murderer—a serial one, no less? I’ve tried talking to them all: the warden, the counselors, the inmates, the guards,
anyone
who will listen. I’ve explained that
I
am the victim, that it was the hands that were malevolent; it was the hands that were
evil
and did these awful things. They laugh in my face.

I told them that if I must be here—in prison—at least, for God’s sake, at least
shackle
the hands so they can harm no one else. Instead, they sequester me in solitary confinement, where I now stay. I begged them—I fell to my knees and wailed, “Please—anything—but don’t leave me alone with the hands!” Alas, the cries of a convicted murderer fall on the deadest ears of all. But I digress—I run short on paper, and even shorter on time. I’ve harnessed them just long enough to write this, not a confession but a catharsis. And there—I feel it now, oh God . . . the hands. The hands are—

Corey Maida
is a 20-year-old full-time college student who, quite simply, likes to write (on the off-chance that he has some time). He likes film, cats, and–also when he has some free time–reading the macabre.

THE KISS

SONIA B. SYGACO

I must confess my world is governed by phases of the moon. I fear by hugging you, my teeth will become razors before reaching your nape. I long to release my wings as my slender waist slowly detaches.

This dark possession took my ancestors’ bodies when the world was young. A black heirloom passed on to the next kin, giving an immortal existence. Caged by an invisible prison, I am left to fulfill nights of cannibalism. Often times, my elongated proboscis sucks a fetus’ heart from a sleeping mother. Other times, I live the normal ways of the humans. People think: images like these are surreal.

Tonight, I watch the rising crystal, timekeeper of my altering image and reviver of my ancient curse. I wait for my perfect prey. Once, you were sitting quietly in the corner, alone. Not until the bond existed between us: love and affection that I would be ready to give you my first kiss. No, easier would it be, without love and affection. The others, they flew with me where I felt the human liquid throbbing into my veins. But you, I look at you with difference. To hate this longing of seeing you once more . . .

Sonia B. SyGaco
is a fiction writer and holds a master’s degree in creative writing at Silliman University in the Philippines. Her creative works have appeared in
Philippine Free Press, Philippine Graphic Magazine
, in the United States, Australia, Malaysia, and India.

THE LAUGH THAT MAKES YOU CRY FOR MOMMY

JERRY WRIGHT

My daughter came to me three days ago, after spending the evening in a tent in the backyard with six friends who were there for a sleepover.

She was crying.

She described how she’d heard someone laughing in the darkness . . . but not the kind of laughing that’s fun. This had been scary—the kind of laughter that means someone is going to do something mean . . . the kind of laughter that bad men laugh. I told her it was just the night and that sleeping outside could play tricks with your her. She smiled and hugged me and it was fine.

***

My daughter came to me the day before yesterday.

She was crying.

She’d slept in her room and late at night she’d again heard someone laughing. She told me the bad man must have followed her inside from the tent, because she heard his laugh in her bedroom.

She said his laugh was a crazy laugh that sounded like the monsters on TV. She told me it was a laugh that made her feel cold all over. I told her we were together and she must have had a nightmare . . . that it was just her imagination. She smiled and hugged me and it was fine.

***

My daughter came to me yesterday.

She was crying.

She’d fallen asleep on the couch and I’d covered her with a blanket and let her stay there. She told me she thought the bad man wanted to get her because she was still hearing his scary laugh.

She said it was the kind of laugh that made her teeth chatter and legs shake. I told her that she had to stop worrying, that she was driving herself batty.

She smiled and hugged me, but it wasn’t fine because she took a nap after lunch and never woke up.

***

My daughter came to me last night.

She was laughing.

Jerry Wright
grew up in a many-stationed Navy family so he loves exotic cultures and can cuss like a sailor. His stories have been published in many journals and anthologies and he co-authored the
Blood Prophecy
series. He lives with his wife Kathy, his mistress Michele, and his seven children.