Frightmares: A Fistful of Flash Fiction Horror (4 page)

“Too late—” Lonnie whispered.

Hannah’s blouse ripped at the seams as the muscles in her arms bulged and stretched. She screamed with the intense pain. “You didn’t tell me it would hurt this much,” she gasped between shrieks. The seams of her jeans tore next and tears streamed down her cheeks.

Between explosions of excruciating pain came orgasmic blasts of pleasure. Sweet torture, then sudden release. The change was complete. With clothes torn to shreds at her paws, she turned to Lonnie and howled.

She wanted to run and Lonnie knew he couldn’t stop her. The urge to dash through dark woods and howl at the moon was ancient and powerful. Lonnie understood completely and quickly shed his clothes. A moment later, the silvery wolves howled in unison and bounded through the front door.

* * *

“Are you sure you haven’t been drinking, sir?” the officer asked again.

“No,” the man gasped. “They . . . they just came out of nowhere–”

“So, you’re telling me you didn’t notice two people, naked as jaybirds, run in front of your car?”

“No!” the man insisted as he leaned against the fender of his limited edition Silver Bullet Mercedes for support. “And I told you already. They weren’t people. They were . . . dogs . . . or wolves . . . ”

The cop looked at him with doubt, his gaze turning to the mangled bodies of a young man and woman lying in the glare of flashing red lights.

Stan Swanson
is the author of
Forever Zombie
, a collection of zombie tales, as well as two books on songwriting and two fantasy novels for the younger set. He is also the Senior Editor/Publisher of
Dark Moon Digest
and the CEO/Publisher of Dark Moon Books.

SERIAL KILLERS DON’T PAY MEMBERSHIP DUES

K. K. PHILAN

Anthony slammed the door to his apartment and threw his plain, black briefcase on his plain, black futon. Still seething from his annual review, he flung several unopened letters toward the coffee table.

“A twenty-cent per hour raise after everything I tolerate?” the accountant bellowed. “I’m crammed in a cubicle all day, and
still
can’t afford cable television after five years with the same lousy company.”

He looked around his studio apartment, as if seeing it for the first time.

White walls. Cheap furnishings. Boring.

Then, Anthony noticed that one of the envelopes in front of him was from The Accountant’s Guild.

He seized the letter. “More dues? I need a new career. Something more—exciting.”

He rifled through the other envelopes: a Publisher’s Clearinghouse mailer, an alimony demand from his ex-wife, and a bill notifying him of rental payment increases. Anthony strangled the bill.

“That jerk
still
hasn’t fixed my leaky toilet and I’m supposed to pay him
more
? I ought tomurder that son-of-a–”

His spine stiffened.

“I could repay everyone that screwed me. Starting with my greed-ball landlord.” He rubbed his hands together, obsessing.

“I’d definitely be more interesting. No stupid neckties, no cubicles, no dues. It’s perfect.”

Anthony grabbed paper and pen from his briefcase, pausing only to glance at the ex-wife’s letter.

“You’re second on my list. Then, my cheapskate boss. Maybe Ed McMahon, as a bonus.” He began neatly writing names down the page.

Satisfied with his list, he wrenched the tie from his neck and secured it around his head. Anthony raked through his nondescript hair and ran over to a small mirror perched on his T.V. to appraise his appearance.

“Yes! Now I need a scary name.” Anthony frowned, looking around for inspiration. His ravenous gaze fell on a Beatle’s CD.

“Taxman,” he sang and struck a John Travolta pose. Anthony laughed maniacally and snatched horror DVDs from his multimedia rack, prepared to take notes.

***

Hours later, amongst several soda cans, Anthony rapped his pen against hurried scribbles.

“No, that’s not right. A gash from a thirty-three degree down-angle thrust should spurt more blood than that,” he muttered, gesturing toward the melee on his television. He slid the tie off his forehead.

“How am I supposed to account for clothing expenses if this stuff is inaccurate?”

Anthony scanned his notes: creepy hideout, basement preferred; torture tools; car—large trunk; clothing/disguises; disposable gloves; cleaning/sanitation supplies; Taxman “business” cards. Next to each category, Anthony scrawled budgetary estimates. He compared the totaled number to his checkbook.

“Even without Taxman cards, I still can’t afford everything. And if I don’t advertise, how will anybody know these are serial murders?”

He groaned. “It all comes down to money. Even my sanity is dictated by my wallet.”

Anthony smoothed his hair, looking miserably at the movie.

“Lucky bastard,” he mumbled, stabbing the remote’s off button. He readied a bland tie, set his alarm clock, and drifted into a disconcerting world filled with jeering numbers.

K.K. Philan
is a sci-fi/fantasy/thriller novelist living in Mesa, Arizona. Her short stories and poetry have appeared in journals such as
Short Fast and Deadly, Kerouac's Dog Magazine,
and the
Ann Arbor Review
. Her first novel,
Soul Mortem Prophecy
, will be released later this year on Kindle and at storihistorian.com.

THE INITIATION

JASON D. BRAWN

Glen was the most popular kid in my school, and I wanted to be his friend. He was an outstanding all-around athlete who wore the best clothes, got the girls—like a rock star—and was an all “A” student. A promising 15-year-old student who could do no wrong, and I wanted to be his close friend. But to be his close friend, you had to be in his gang–made up of the coolest kids in the school. As for myself, I had no friends and students often laughed at my hand-me downs and long fro. I was the complete opposite of Glen.

Soon, I found the courage to ask Glen about being recruited, for which I had to be initiated. All I had to do was swim across a lake and I would be his new best friend. Despite my fear of the water and inability to swim, I felt bullied to take this dare.

With agreement, I waded through the lake, shivering and sinking deep and deeper while the murky waters touched my neck. I was still within earshot of the boys screaming at me to go on. I did so, but then slipped, losing my balance and fighting to retreat.

The boys laughed and I caught glimpses of them hurling rocks and bottles at me, thinking it was fun to watch me struggle. I didn't see anything funny. Eventually the waters entered my mouth, suffocating me and forcing me to the deepest end, where I would never be found.

That was three months ago.

I see Glen and his cronies heading for the lake, along with another vulnerable novitiate. Only this time, they won’t see what hit ‘em.

Jason D. Brawn
lives in London and his short fiction and poetry have appeared in countless anthologies, magazines and webzines. He is also close to finishing his debut novella,
Refuge
, a Hammer-horror inspired tale. His blogroll is http://www.jasonbrawn.blogspot.com/.

STAKES

P. R. O’LEARY

When the vampires attack, I will be ready. Everyone thinks I am crazy because I have been preparing for years. I have read the books, seen the movies, studied the folklore. I know the weaknesses of vampires. I have dozens of crosses. Tons of garlic. Giant halogen lamps. Wooden stakes. The vampires have no chance.

When the day finally arrives I am ready. I stand at my window and watch. I see thousands of the creatures pour over the horizon. When the moonlight hits them I realize that there is one thing that I have not prepared for.

I hope werewolves hate garlic.

P. R. O'Leary
writes and makes films so some day he won't have to work in a cubicle. He also enjoys running, attending film festivals, and playing geeky board games. You can find his work at www.PROleary.com, and you can find him at his geodesic dome in New Jersey.

NOSTALGIA

MIRIAM H. HARRISON

What I remember most fondly about my last relationship is his eyes. They’d been an interesting shade of blue–pale at the center, but growing darker toward the edges. Sometimes they would change, lightening when he would smile or darkening when he was angry. Oh, how I miss those eyes!

Or more accurately, “missed” those eyes.

Now I can see them whenever I like. Of course, it isn’t quite the same. They don’t change when he smiles, but then again, he isn’t capable of smiling anymore. I keep them in a jar, hidden away in my room. I take them out every now and then, for old time’s sake.

But not too often—I don’t want to scare my new boyfriend. As it is, I’m worried that things aren’t going too well between us. And I must admit, I would really miss his lips . . .

Miriam H. Harrison
is a poet and short fiction writer living in Sudbury, Canada. She is currently the Editor/Publisher of
Open Minds Quarterly
, a literary magazine that has been publishing the writings of consumer/survivors of mental illness for over ten years. To find out more, visit her weblog: miriamhharrison.wordpress.com.

THE HEART OF HELL

LIAM FORD

Jamie fell from grace into the dark, scorching rivers of hell. The shores of brimstone were straight-edged and glossy as glass in a full midday light. His lungs sought air, but there was none. His body searched for gravity, something stable and upright as he was taken by the river like a fish in a raging current, ever being forced towards the maw of a beast.

Jamie let the river carry him. He needed to preserve his strength. Souls flowed towards eternal damnation beside him, vanishing downstream. Their faces stretched, distorted, as if stuck in their final moments of horror. He coursed, spinning and tumbling until he heard her voice, calling out, scared and lonely.

“Jamie!”

She sounded so frail, so frightened.

“Angel?” Jamie called, fighting desperately against the current. He gathered his strength and pushed above the surface. She was floating up ahead as if ghoulish hands caressed her, succored her.

“Jamie!” She called again.

Jamie pushed his body to the extreme, struggling against the currents that pulled him from her.

Angel beckoned for him, reaching out her arms. Jamie caught her small hand in his and pulled her close. He rose to the fiery air above, sending black cascades of water over the surface of the river. The walls cracked, roared and demons tattered robes flew in circles above them.

Angel screamed.

“Don’t worry!” Jamie cried. “You’re leaving.”

Jamie skirmished with every soul that came near, forcing them away with his free hand while Angel clutched his shoulders, burying her face in his chest. The spirits keened for his life, screeched as they were being sent back to the depths by the dangling
crux
around his throat.

Blood-red storms sputtered forks of green lightning. Jamie pressed on. The gate held before them, a swirling abyss.

As Jamie pushed Angel toward it, she said, “Brother, come on.”

“You go on without me.”

“No!” Angel sobbed as she was plucked from Hell and thrown through the gate into life.

Jamie fell back into the river of death. "A life for a life," he said out loud. "But I tricked you!”

As the demons in tatters circled like crows, ready to pick at his eyes and flesh, their faces warped in perversity, his
crux
shattered and flooded light into the heart of Hell.

And then, as his deed was registered, the gates of Heaven opened up and burst into Hell.

Liam Ford
found his passion for writing only a few years ago when he discovered his lust for world creation and plotting. He draws inspiration from old tales from all over the world. To see more of Liam's work, check out "69 Flavors of Paranoia.”

LADDER OF THORNS

JOHN IRVINE

Madeleine slipped on a pair of tight, black lace gloves, the sort he had always insisted she wear. She lifted a long-stemmed rose from the vase on the night stand with her right hand, and took his fat, flaccid penis in her left, working the stem carefully into his urethra. His eyes bulged, and his throat worked at releasing a scream, but the three pairs of her soiled knickers stuffed in his mouth prevented all but a faint gurgle.