Horror d'Oeuvres - Bite-Sized Tales of Terror Read online

  None.

  I glared at Jarod. He glared at me.

  He was supposed to protect me. They were all supposed to protect us, but I guess they all got their wings clipped before they could finish the job.

  He watched me with a snide smirk.

  I stepped off the ledge.

  Stare

  Grace Bowland

  I always liked train journeys. There was something comforting about the rattle of the train and the clatter of the tracks, and something liberating in the huge windows and the endless views of the countryside they provided.

  But not anymore.

  Last week, my husband and I caught a train into London to finally spend some time together after a month of overtime and night shifts. It was a long journey, and a crowded one, but we were lucky enough to get seats next to one another, facing one of the windows. I settled down with a book as he perused the newspaper, companionable as could be.

  About halfway along the route, as we rattled through a tunnel, I glanced up and caught my husband staring at me intensely in the reflection of the darkened window. I smiled at him fondly, expecting him to smile back, but instead he just stared. His eyes bored into mine as I stuck my tongue out at him, but his expression never changed.

  Oh, I thought to myself. So it’s a contest, is it? I locked eyes with his reflection again.

  I stared.

  He stared back.

  My eyes itched, but determination kept them open - I'd always been competitive, even with the people I loved most. He just stared, blank and unchanging, as I struggled not to blink. How was he doing it? I'd always beaten him in staring contests before. I frowned, about to give up-

  He smiled at me, only for a moment, a sly, cruel, fleeting smile. For a single second, no more, I saw his mirrored hand reach out, cold fingers scraping my neck as they hovered menacingly over my jugular. I gasped, and blinked - and when I'd opened my eyes again, we were out of the tunnel and the reflection was gone, replaced by the dull grass banks surrounding the tracks. There were no fingers on my throat, no cold, dry skin against my frantic pulse. Snapped out of the trance by the light pouring through the windows, I turned back to my husband.

  “David,” I snapped, shoving him, “what was that?”

  He didn't respond. His head lolled to the side, and he slumped into me. I grabbed his arm and felt the cold skin beneath, and my heart stuttered. Shaking him, shouting, slapping him; none of it worked. People gathered around. Someone pulled the emergency stop cord. Someone called an ambulance. Someone draped a coat around my shaking shoulders, took my phone and called my sister.

  That was a week ago. Today, I received a call from the man who'd been sitting across from us, the one who'd called the ambulance.

  "I'm sorry to bother you," he began. "I know this must be a difficult time. I've been wanting to apologize to you all week, I just couldn't find the words."

  "Apologize? You did everything you could," I murmured into the phone, stroking a hand absentmindedly across the photo of our wedding reception on the shelf.

  "I only wish I'd realized sooner," he said sadly. Confused, I asked him what he meant, and he replied-

  I hung up abruptly, my fingers trembling, before the well-meaning man could say anything more. Shaking, I sank to the floor, the photo dangling from my cold hands. Was it just my imagination, or was my husband watching me coldly from the photo? No, it must have been in my head. Just like the staring contest must have been a figment of my imagination, a desperate attempt by my subconscious to alert me to the tragedy. Because if not… after what the man from the train said, about the paramedics, the coroner's report, what he saw…

  My husband had been dead for half an hour before I noticed his reflection staring at me.

  He died with his eyes closed.

  Medusa

  Dieben

  The cave of Medusa was exactly where I had been told. Inscrutable without a map. Hidden; a three-day journey in the high mountain ranges.

  Legend said whoever killed Medusa would gain her treasures. More gold and silver than a king would possess, but I was not interested in treasure, power, or even in killing Medusa. I, a humble monk, had heard of this horrible beast-woman, the epitome of ugliness, and immediately wept for her lonely, suffering heart. I wished to be the first to gaze at her with compassion and love. I wanted to embrace her and let her know that all which exists, including her, is beauty.

  The light of the sun had faded away quickly upon entering the cave, leaving only my feeble torchlight to reflect off of the rocky walls. Though my intention was benevolent, unease had begun to arise in me. Inching along slowly, I could feel every pebble beneath my feet and every damp stone my hands used for support. I could hear all the airy sounds of the breathing cave, and most importantly, the massive field of looming blackness ahead of me was wholly experienced, my senses energized with the power of life and death.

  Finally, out of the murk, I came upon a cluster of “people”. Scores of man-sized statues. Much larger than I, in fact. Heroes carrying swords and shields. I observed their faces closely, frozen in their last moments. Some bore stances of action, with faces frozen in battle cry; fierce and unyielding until the last instant. For others, the last terror-filled thoughts as they realized futility were etched on their faces forever. I recited a prayer for the hearts of these men and their loved ones.

  Walking forward a moment, another small grouping of statues came into view. The weak torch cast its light on their small, slim bodies, shaven heads, and robes. A sharp pang of dread stung my chest. My mind briefly tried to deny what my eyes perceived, but yes, these were monks. Around fifteen of them had come before me, undoubtedly with similar intentions. Fifteen noble brothers, frozen in stone.

  Standing in prayer for the monks, my ears detected a subtle alteration to the inaudible respirations of the cave. A breath like sickness, or of an animal. The plague-ridden grumble told me I was not alone. Medusa was watching me.

  I turned and immediately saw her heaving, staggering body standing some ten feet away, her cruel eyes trained on me. Her appearance was truly tragic. That of a demon, just as legend had told. Hair like knotted ships’ ropes; swooning stench. Naked, leprous skin.

  Already, I could feel a strange sensation working its way up my feet and legs. Just the glimpse of her had begun my transformation. I summoned my countless hours of training; raising my hands in prayer and calming myself best I could, I stared straight into her eyes and prayed for her soul. I wished for her happiness with all my being. With truth, I wished for her heart to be healed.

  But the stone did not abate. It continued up my waist, approaching my heart. I maintained focus, but I swore I could see a flicker of a smile in the eyes of Medusa. Mischievous and knowing.

  The stone advanced rapidly, and my situation became clear. I would be a failure. One of many. I realized with sadness I would never know if there had been a chance at all, or if I had simply been incapable. Had this been a fool’s errand all along, and I the fool?

  Confusion and doubt.

  Confusion and doubt.

  The stone crept past my neck, freezing my expression in its final, eternal pose.

  Raised by Wolves

  Bill Leeson

  Dr. Monaras had exhausted every tool at his disposal in the specialized rehabilitation clinic. His patients usually showed progress after five years of rehab, with some qualifying for full integration after a decade, but one resident had gone years without any breakthroughs whatsoever: Gale, named for her favorite sound to make.

  Gale was placed under Monaras’ care eight years ago, rescued after being abandoned at a young age. Her initial progress was average, but respectable; she learned her new name quickly and adjusted to her new diet within six months.

  From this point onward, Monaras had been met with nothing but seemingly intentional resistance. Gale would not communicate with him properly no matter how he instructed her. The early theory was that Gale was mentally retarded, but it was soon di
smissed in light of her passing an array of tests proving otherwise.

  Maybe she just wasn’t fond of him. However, her disliking of him wasn’t a scientific explanation for her mental stagnation.

  Monaras explored every avenue imaginable attempting to understand her limitations. He brought in everyone from behavioral psychologists to substance abuse experts to analyze her, but Gale only responded with negative emotions ranging from stupefaction to aggression. He was worried she was beginning to show signs of regression when a final technique occurred to him. He had never resorted anything as extreme before, but he had also never been pushed this far by an uncooperative patient.

  Dr. Monaras unlocked Gale’s cell and smiled at her gaunt expression, always hoping to set a positive mood. “Good morning, Gale!” he began.

  Gale glared up at him, exhausted after eight years of attempted reconditioning but still defiant. The sound of her cell door slamming open drew howls and barks of alarm from his other patients.

  “Gale, I know you don’t like talking to me,” continued the doctor. “So I want to help you make a new friend.” Monaras nodded to someone hidden from Gale’s view who dropped something heavy onto the ground. Something alive and annoyed at being thrown around.

  To Gale’s horror, a ferocious growl crept around Monaras and into her cell, amplified by a brief echo off the concrete walls.

  A muzzled wolf thrashed at the end of a leash held by Monaras’ assistant as the doctor explained, “You don’t enjoy speaking with them, so I hoped you would take the real thing a bit more seriously.” Monaras punctuated “them” with a gesture to the unseen other patients. “Either you’ve learned enough to speak to him, or you haven’t. This is your last chance to show me what you can do, Gale!”

  His assistant removed the muzzle from the wolf and Monaras kicked it into her cell and closed the door, eyeing her through a small portal.

  Gale, trembled as much her restraints allowed and growled as the starved wolf paused and evaluated its new conversation partner, though its mouth still dripped saliva.

  “He’s hungry,” Monaras taunted. He imitated her frightened expression with a puppy’s whimper and added, “But talk him down, and you’ll eat like a queen tonight, Gale, I can promise you that!”

  Chesty

  Ashley Franz Holzmann

  Chester awoke with the same thinning, scratching sensation in his ear; he called it “the itch”, and it was never absent.

  He knew he was not crazy. He was too intelligent for that.

  Chesty.

  Chesty?

  Yes.

  Chesty.

  Junior. The name of Chester's son. Where was Chesty? Wasn't he just-

  Chester had more depth to him than the others - to the point of frustration. If only he could convince them. It wasn't the doctors he cared about. Just the other members of the community. They hated listening to him. All of them except for Stan. Stan, with his fat rolling over the chair with wheels, kicking himself inexorably around the white rooms.

  Everyone else was afraid. They despised listening to Chester tell them the truth. They never wanted to see.

  Mice in cages fashioned from their own delusions, lust, immorality and drug use and-

  Fuck.

  Chesty.

  Yes, Chesty. That's the name Margaret used to call Junior Chesty.

  The itching.

  It had never gone so deep before. And there was Stan. Stan with his fat, droopy face of indifferent banality. As insane as Stan was, Chester knew Stan would listen even though he knew nothing about earwigs.

  Chester knew Stan would watch.

  Watch as Chester finally showed them all the earwigs. All the earwigs in their nest.

  Chesty.

  Chester could hear them. They knew the answers. Knew what happened to Margaret and they would finally tell him. And Chester would finally show the mice what reality truly was.

  Chester used his hands at first. He could barely feel it with all the dope in his blood. The doctors thought it helped, but Chester was too smart for them.

  It took almost five minutes to rip out his hair and to start scratching through the skin.

  Digging.

  Digging.

  Chesty.

  Stan's eyes didn't move, but they did widen. They widened when Chester finally got through the layers and to the bone.

  Stan's eyes widened when Chester screamed and banged his head against a steel support beam.

  And Stan's eyes could not look away when Chester finally cracked open his skull, and attempting to get a finger inside.

  It took five security guards to stop Chester from tearing the insides of his head out. The only reason they stopped him was because he passed out.

  Chesty Brandley, the man who had to be monitored constantly because he would try to collect bugs and coax them into his ears.

  Chester Brandley, the man who self-admitted when he found the body of his son. Decomposing. Covered in earwigs, with a note from his wife admitting she had done it.

  Chester Brandley, the man who repeated the word "Chesty" over and over again when he spoke.

  Henry's Eyes

  Jonas Lefkowitch

  I could prattle on endlessly about Henry's magnificent eyes, such was the pleasure they gave me. A thousand glorious shades of green they were, depending on the light, of emeralds and apples and all manner of verdancy. Whenever Henry gazed upon me, I felt galvanized, given new life, made more than I was. Truly they were windows to a soul of unparalleled kindness and generosity. Oh, how I adored them!

  And him…

  Long had I dreamt of making my feelings known, and if only Henry felt the same for me, I mused, joy might burst my heart, and mine would be a happy death indeed. But of course, I dared not reveal my love, lest I bring shame to my family and to my dearest friend. Neither did I wish to humiliate the boring young woman to whom I had become affianced, and thereby lose her wealthy father's patronage.

  But upon the occasion of my graduation from medical college, Henry and I celebrated rather excessively, carousing late into the night, and when all the good wine we shared ignited a fire within me, like Prometheus I seized it, damning myself. We were toasting my late mother, in whose memory I had labored at my studies, endeavoring to someday conquer the forces of sickness and death which had stolen her, and the next instant I had embraced Henry, so closely his heart was beating its rhythm against my chest. Lost in his gorgeous green eyes, I professed my love and raved of my desires. Pressing closer still, my lips brushed his, when suddenly he pushed me away, gently to be sure, though in my ardor, the blow was more devastating than any I had ever suffered. Henry seemed as inebriated and dazed as I, but when finally he spoke, his words were terribly sobering. "I shall always be your friend, Victor," said he, "but I could never be more." With our revelry so disastrously ended, he bade me farewell, and I returned home in misery, cursing my indiscretion.

  Some months later, during which we had not spoken, I sent Henry an invitation to tour the premises where I had begun practicing medicine. He graciously accepted, and upon his arrival I greeted him in the office where I received my patients, then showed him the rooms where I conducted examinations and ministered to ailments. All the while, I was sad to see Henry was now ill at ease in my company, and I realized our former camaraderie was gone. With a heavy heart, I escorted him to my laboratory where he took in the impressive sight of the arcane apparatuses assembled therein. What followed was a moment which haunts me, blessedly brief, when Henry unexpectedly turned just as I swung my axe, and his eyes filled with terror while I dealt the single blow which killed him… It still shames me that he did not die as I intended, ignorant of his impending doom…

  Please understand, I know I had no right to take Henry's life. But I had such… need… It was not a waste, though, I assure you.

  I made something of him.

  I am not sure it can be called a man, though it does possess a man's form. My creation wears Henry's face, but its featur
es have lost his soulful expressiveness. Thankfully, the eyes are as vibrant as ever, perhaps even moreso. Admittedly, the creature lacks man's capacity for higher thought, but its depth of feeling and unflinching obedience are ample compensation, as when it dutifully snapped my father-in-law's neck, then strangled my wife, earning me an inheritance and freeing me of those tiresome entanglements.

  We live most happily together now, my creation and I. Each day, I kiss its slack lips and make love to its clumsy patchwork body, pretending its unintelligible grunts are eloquent words of devotion. Afterward, gazing into Henry's adoring eyes, I am contented.

  The Deep Hell

  Nicholas Ong

  "Are you sure it's safe here?" questioned Mark for the millionth time.

  I groaned.

  "Yes, you idiot. It's perfectly safe. The only things you have to fear around here are sharks and the bloody kraken."

  Through the dim lights of our submarine, Mark seemed less anxious, but he was still a quivering bag of nerves. The Amphibian shined its search beams downward, illuminating the darkness of the deep ocean, until there was a stripe of white-

  "WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?" screamed Mark.