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

  Gunshots thundered. Women cried. Men laughed.

  Rachel was oblivious to it all. Her attention had become fixed upon the flurries dusting the woods. With a trembling hand, she caught a perfect little snowflake, then watched it melt instantly in her grasp. There's an order… to these things, Rachel thought and broke down sobbing. Her heart was sinking with despair, her head throbbing with delirium, and she stared at the droplets held in her palm like they were a puzzle to be solved. "There's got to be another way…" she muttered. "There must!" Suddenly the watery remains refroze, remaking the lost snowflake which fluttered away skyward to whence it came…

  Rachel understood instinctively she had made this happen, but not how, only that something had stirred within her, powerful but tenuous like an epiphanic dream from which she would soon wake. Rachel struggled hastily to her feet, determined to face the brutes murdering her sisters.

  "Back on your knees!" the sergeant bellowed, brandishing his smoking Luger.

  "NEVER AGAIN!" Rachel roared.

  With a snort and a sneer, the pig pulled the trigger, but he uttered an impotent curse and his jaw dropped when his bullet halted, hanging briefly in mid-air, then reversed direction, flying backward and drilling the startled swine between the eyes. The pair of troopers under his command shrieked as their sergeant flopped over dead, and aimed their guns at Rachel. A slight young woman worn down to skin and bones, barefoot and barely clothed, but these fighting-fit men didn't dare fire for fear of what she might do. "She's a witch!" one of them gasped.

  "Stupid, cruel, cowardly children!" Rachel spat, and the soldiers began to diminish in size, their ages dwindling, reducing them to mewling adolescents, to bawling toddlers, to howling infants, till they were unborn from the world, leaving behind nothing but empty uniforms and abandoned rifles.

  Three of her precious sisters lay slain, and Rachel could feel her power waning, so she quickly poured her remaining strength into willing their deaths undone. Head and heart pounding furiously, Rachel concentrated on Iris, Norah, and Genessa, on restoring them body and soul. She watched their gruesome wounds mending, saw them rise as from slumber, confused and frightened but gloriously alive! Rachel shed tears of joy at the sight, but then her eyes rolled over white, and she convulsed as her exertions took their toll. Writhing in agony, Rachel collapsed in the snow, blind, exhausted, freezing, starved…

  But not afraid.

  Not with all her sisters there to take care of her.

  In the Trees

  J.A. Marshall

  "There she is, looking up at the trees," my wife whispered, staring out at the woods, her breath fogging the window glass.

  "Stop it," I said. "There's nothing there."

  She was pregnant at the time, and it just didn't seem healthy for someone so emphatically full of life to be obsessing about something dead.

  "I wish I knew what she was looking for," said my wife.

  "There's no such thing as ghosts," I said.

  Eventually, we both changed our minds.

  We knew the property was supposedly haunted when we bought it. The previous owners fondly described the ghost as a grandmotherly soul who searched the branches for nuts. Other people said she was a wild-haired girl eternally scouting for bird nests. Everyone in town had a different story, but they all agreed on one thing. The ghost always looked up at the trees.

  I didn't see her myself until the night our son was born. We had a home birth, and while our midwife got mother and baby settled, I stepped outside for some fresh air. There, at the edge of the forest, stood the ghost, her face upturned toward the falling snow.

  Scrambling inside, I collided with the midwife.

  "The ghost! She was right there!" I pointed to the now-empty woods.

  The midwife nodded. "You know, some folks say it's lucky to see her on the night of a birth," she said, brushing snow off my hair. "She was once a healer, like me, and a mother too, a long time ago. A powerful woman. People said she sang to her baby in voice so sweet, it seemed to curl around them like fragrant smoke."

  She zipped up her coat, and dug her car keys from her purse.

  "Why does she stare at the trees?" I asked.

  "It's a heartbreaking story."

  "Please."

  "Well. She'd never had a husband, didn't need one, but single motherhood was a terrible sin back then. When the village elders found out, they went to investigate. To avoid their punishment, she hid her baby high in the hollow of a tree. They tore her house apart, and even though they searched for hours, they didn't find anything.

  "By the time they left, it was cold and dark. The poor woman ran to the woods, but she couldn't find the tree where she'd hidden her baby. She searched all night, and every day after, for the rest of her life. That's why her ghost always looks at the trees. She'll never stop searching until she finds what she lost."

  I rested my forehead against the icy windowpane, feeling helpless and drained.

  "Take care of yourselves," said our midwife, squeezing my shoulder. "Sleep when the baby sleeps."

  Her keys jangled, and the door clicked shut behind her. My son began to cry.

  Sensing movement outside, I glanced up. The ghost was back, closer now, and different than before. She stood straight as gallows, arms pressed tightly to her sides, fingers flexed into claws. Her eyes were cold and black, and I realized she wasn't looking up at the trees anymore.

  She was staring at our house.

  Toward the sound of a baby crying.

  The Things Beneath the Ice

  D.G. Collins

  I don’t think they have eyes.

  It’s the only explanation for why I’m still alive. Without eyes, the dark shapes circling beneath the frozen lake can’t see me standing right above them.

  Not far away, Kim is in the same situation. Like me, she’s creeping across the ice, moving so slowly that she’s practically a statue in the cold moonlight. But she seems miles away compared to the things that are hunting below our feet. I have no idea what they are or where they came from, and I don’t care. All I care about is getting off the ice.

  The shoreline is tantalizingly close. Normally I could sprint the distance in half a minute, but on ice? Not smart. Not just because I might slip, but because running makes noise, and the blind things beneath me have incredible hearing. They’re also fast.

  This much I know, because I used to have more friends than Kim.

  A bunch of us came down to the lake tonight to see if the ice had gotten thick enough for skating and fishing this weekend. It had, so naturally we began horsing around. Everyone was having a great time until Ben whirled Tegan around like a pro skater and sent her spinning off, shrieking with laughter.

  Out of nowhere, the ice below her erupted. She was gone in an instant. Ben charged toward the hole yelling her name, and they got him too. He came thrashing back up only once, just long enough for us to see the slithering black tentacles fighting over him as they pulled him apart.

  We panicked. Everyone scattered, slipping and sliding toward shore. Everyone but me and Kim, who were frozen with fear. The two of us could only watch helplessly as, one by one, the rest of our friends got pulled under. And that’s why we’re the only ones still alive.

  Now, a beckoning light catches my eye. I look over to see Kim waving her phone and making gestures. Giving her a nod, I pull out my own phone and carefully cradle it in my gloved hands as I check the screen.

  Nothing. No signal bars for me, either. I shake my head and Kim deflates, but it’s probably just as well. Trying to call for help would make noise.

  My mind races while I gradually move forward another inch, and another. I’m thinking about the phone. What if I turned on some music and tossed it away? Would it work? Could I throw the phone quickly enough? Far enough? How long would it distract these creatures?

  Inch after inch creeps by in silent, agonizing slowness. I keep glancing at my phone as I try to weigh the risks, but it still takes me several minutes to n
otice something has changed.

  One bar!

  I wave excitedly to Kim and she gives me a thumbs up. Now it’s decision time. Should I take a chance on calling for help, or risk seeing if music distracts the monsters?

  I’m still considering my options when a noise shatters the silence. Given the danger lurking below, it feels like the most ear-piercing sound I’ve ever heard.

  The dark shapes start swarming.

  The ice starts bucking.

  Kim starts rushing toward the shore while I fumble with my phone like an idiot, uselessly trying to silence its blaring ringtone with my gloved fingers.

  I have just enough time to realize my caller ID is showing Kim’s picture.

  Then the ice explodes beneath me.

  Zombies

  Micheal Sundberg

  “He’s dead.”

  “Oh my god.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Oh my god.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “He’s dead!”

  “Oh my god he’s dead!”

  “He’s dead!”

  “Who killed him?”

  “He’s dead!”

  They stood as a group in a circle around the body, awestruck. The man’s head was misshapen, bludgeoned beyond recognition; his eyes still open, pupils pointing at unnatural angles.

  “He’s dead!”

  “He’s dead!”

  “Who killed him?”

  “He’s dead!”

  Norman had a pretty exciting day at work. Some prankster had switched the decaf with the regular coffee. The prank was likely intended to fool the office staff who always had regular in the morning, but it had an exponential effect on Norman. Norman preferred decaf, he thought the flavor was better, but this morning he got quite the surprising buzz.

  Norman had decided to walk home from work today, partly because it was April and the temperature was just about right, but mostly because he was still high off of the coffee he drank earlier. As he strolled about the streets, he laughed to himself a bit. This was going to be a great story to tell his cat.

  As he rounded a corner he came upon a group of people encircling something.

  “He’s dead!”

  Norman drew closer.

  “He’s dead!”

  “He’s dead!”

  “Oh my god!”

  “Who killed him?”

  “HE’S DEAD!”

  Norman walked past the group. As he did so, they all turned toward him, suddenly becoming silent. Norman started to feel a bit nervous.

  They began to point in his direction.

  “It’s him…”

  “It’s him…”

  “There he is…”

  “It’s him!”

  “He did it!”

  “I saw him do it!”

  “IT’S HIM!”

  “HE DID IT!”

  “I SAW HIM DO IT!”

  Norman’s wistful recollections faded as he watched the group advance toward him.

  “IT WAS HIM!”

  They quickened their pace.

  “I SAW HIM DO IT!”

  Norman began to walk faster.

  They followed faster.

  “HE DID IT!”

  Norman was afraid.

  “MURDERER!”

  Norman began to run.

  “GET HIM!”

  I had been watching a commotion out of my office window, and felt strangely compelled to find out what was going on. I chugged the last of the morning’s coffee, and walked down the stairs toward the street.

  To my shock there was a man lying in the gutter, bleeding profusely. By all rights, he looked dead. My hand moved towards my pocket, intent on calling emergency services, but something stopped me.

  I heard noises coming from a nearby alley, and I followed the sound.

  Around the corner, there was a large group of people standing in a circle around something. As I drew nearer I saw that it was a man, his head misshapen and bludgeoned beyond recognition.

  Next to his body was a simple black briefcase, with a cheap white sticker that read in blue letters:

  “Hello, my name is: NORMAN”

  “Oh my god,” I said, “He’s dead.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Oh my god.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Oh my god.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “He’s dead!”

  “Oh my god he’s dead!”

  “He’s dead!”

  “Who killed him?”

  “He’s dead!”

  The unmistakable sound of high heels reverberated through the alleyway. We all turned. We all grew silent.

  A young woman crossed our view.

  I didn’t like her.

  I didn’t know why.

  I just didn’t.

  Someone spoke.

  “It’s her…”

  “There she is…”

  “It’s her!”

  “She did it!”

  “I SAW HER DO IT!”

  Yes, I thought, it was her.

  I shouted out.

  “I SAW HER DO IT TOO!”

  She glanced towards us.

  “MURDERER!”

  She nervously looked away and quickened her pace.

  “GET HER!”

  And we began to run.

  Tiny Teeth

  Dan Hilliard

  I’ve never been able to see, so it’s hard for me to describe my new friend, exactly. But I’ll try.

  I was smoking on my front porch last year during the first big summer thunderstorm. I’ve always loved the stale coffee smell and rapid thwip, thwip, thwip sound of hard summer rain.

  Footsteps like eggs falling on a tile floor came up the staircase, slowly and deliberate. I haven’t needed a caretaker in years, and it was pretty late for someone to just be stopping by.

  “Hello?” I said.

  There was no response. The egg-steps made it to the top of the stairs and I was hit by a completely alien smell - something like lavender and burnt cheese.

  A heavy settling sound - fuhwump - told me my visitor had sat down opposite me.

  “Can I help you?” I said.

  “No,” my visitor said. The voice was slight and feminine, but it echoed - like a little girl was speaking from the bottom of a well.

  “Who are you?” I said.

  “Tiny teeth,” it said.

  “Is that your name?”

  “Tiny teeth,” it repeated. “Rows and rows of tiny teeth.”

  I took another drag on my cigarette.

  “Can I feel your face?” I said, reaching out my hand.

  I felt something impossibly large move through the air toward me. The lavender-cheese smell was cloying.

  My hand sunk into something soft and cool, like a bowl of wet beach sand. I pulled it back, reflexively.

  “Do you want to see?” it said.

  “I’ve never been able to,” I said.

  “But do you want to?”

  The flesh on my thighs began to crawl. It was like someone pulling up a pair of pants underneath my skin.

  “I’ve done fine without my eyes so far,” I said. “I think it’d just be a hassle at this point.”

  “Good choice,” it said. “I’ll stop by every thunderstorm, just in case you change your mind.”

  “That’s not necessary,” I said.

  “It’s no bother,” it said. “But you’re right - you’ll probably be much happier this way.”

  Again I got the sensation of something large and ponderous moving near my face. The intensity of the lavender-cheese smell burned my sinuses. Then, all at once, the bulk-sensation moved away and I heard those heavy egg-steps moving down the stairs.

  It’s showed up about a dozen times since then, always asking me if I want to see. Every time it does, I become more and more certain I’m better off blind.

  I Was Dying

/>   Kristopher J. Patten

  I was dying.

  Cancer.

  A lifetime of exercise and healthy eating undone by pancreatic cancer. By the time I felt the first symptoms, it had already metastasized to other organs.

  My doctor gave me six months. A pittance when I considered the plans I had. Plans which shook away from their moorings and free-fell into a dark chasm like a neglected bridge.

  My choices were grim: death or cryogenics. The latter may have been nothing more than prolonging the former. A cure for cancer had been on the horizon for decades but, like a Sisyphean rowing team powering against a too-strong current, it had never come to fruition.

  If I chose death, I could spend my last months swaddled in the comforting love of my family; reading books to my nephews, working on Dad’s old 2012 Charger with my brothers, making love to my wife.

  If I chose cryogenics, I might be choosing life. But I couldn’t delay in making the choice. The further my body deteriorated, the less probable it was any cure could save me. Death is and always will be binary. Yes/no. Dead/alive. I couldn’t say goodbyes until I crossed the mortal inflection point or I would enter the cryo-container and never wake up.

  I made video messages for my family while they prepped me for the procedure. It had to be odd watching me tearfully explain to them my choice while my hair was shaved from my body and my skin eradicated of contaminants. When I bid my final goodbye, trying to encapsulate all the love left in my body into two minutes of simple speech, I must have looked like a different person. A pale, hairless man dressed in a white body glove. An alien from an old movie.