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

  I awoke in dark chaos. A harsh siren blared; each bleat like a corkscrew drilling through the bones of my middle ear. My first inhalation in years was laced with the acrid smoke of burning plastic. I fumbled my way toward the cryosphere door, crawling on bare knees over cold steel. Each crawl ignited a tumultuous hell in my stomach. I retched twice before I could cross the thirty-foot expanse.

  The door opened to dim amber emergency lighting, by which I could see other cryosphere doors blinking with a red “INOPERABLE ERROR” warning. Others were open, but the vital sign monitors flowed with flat lines.

  I climbed up through the maze of industrial stairways to find an abandoned, rubble-strewn break room. No, not abandoned. The intermittent amber strobe revealed a moldering corpse. The pistol lying on the floor among scattered metacarpals told me the brown, flaking mess on the wall behind the destroyed skull was the owner’s last criticism of the world.

  An old-style newspaper lay on the counter facing the eolith. The headline read, “MULTIPLE NUCLEAR DETONATIONS ACROSS US. STAY INDOORS OR MOVE UNDERGROUND.” The date was displayed in the bottom corner; 35 years after I had gone into the cryosphere, the Earth had erupted in full-scale nuclear war.

  The hardline phones were dead. The cell in the corpse’s pocket was out of battery. The Internet was down. I assumed all communications had been knocked out by the bombs. I could have been the only human left alive.

  The heavy sliding doors leading to the upper floors of the laboratory couldn’t be moved with the sole paltry generator powering the entire facility.

  I was stuck.

  And then I saw a bank of closed-circuit monitors surveying the surface of the underground complex. On one screen, a man cut roses in a park. On another, children ran near a swing set, an idyllic red-bricked neighborhood behind them. In the distance, the mangled steel of the capital city's skyscrapers were headstones marking the death of my civilization. A third monitor faced across the street where a scrolling bank marquee showed the date – 80 years after my voluntary internment.

  War had come and gone. Life blossomed mere hundreds of feet above me, but I had been forgotten in my subterranean prison. Left to die in my last hope for life.

  Riding the Gamut

  Jonas Lefkowitch

  Seth was slopping the hogs, his sons tossing a ball back and forth, when a horseman crested the horizon, headed toward their homestead. The boys quit playing when they spotted him. "Who'd you think that is, Pa?"

  "Reckon I'll find out, Zane," Seth said.

  The boy laughed, hooked a thumb at his brother. "He's Zane."

  "Dang," Seth muttered. "Can't never tell you two apart."

  "Nah, you's right, Pa," the other boy said. "Zane's just joshin'."

  "Joshed me good," Seth replied, joining Zane and Beau as they watched the rider hurtling their way like a dust devil. Seth pulled his sons close, hugged them tight. "Time for you to go inside."

  Seth sat himself atop the fence enclosing the pigsty and waited, chewing a toothpick. Stone's throw away, the stranger reined up and dismounted, continued on foot. Fellow looked like Death himself ought to – dark eyes and a grim, pallorous visage, wearing all black – along with a pair of pearl-handled pistols and a glinting gold star.

  Seth kept seated. "Howdy, marshal."

  "How'd you reckon I'm a marshal, Mr. Jaines?" the lawman asked, voice deep and gravelly as a charnel pit.

  "The badge."

  "The very symbol of the authority vested in me by the United States government…" the lawman said.

  "Yeah… So… Why you here?"

  Crossing his arms, the lawman tutted like some disapproving school marm. "Tell me, Jaines, what do you think of my boots?"

  Seth's eyes flitted briefly down. "Real… spiffy."

  The lawman smiled. Looked like his first try. "They're brand-new. Still stiff, but I'll keep breaking them in till they give… Stomping on your head ought to do the trick."

  Toothpick slipped from Seth's trembling lip. "W-why you wanna do that?"

  The lawman heaved a sigh. "It's the sort of thing I do. Beatings. Floggings. Cutting fingers off and feeding them to the hogs… I enjoy a good interrogation."

  Seth glanced over his shoulder. Slop was all gone, and pigs were always hungry.

  "So quit being coy," the lawman said. "You know why I'm here."

  Seth gulped nervously. "Cyrus… With that shit you do, what makes you any better'n him?"

  The lawman's lopsided grin twisted into a snarl. "THE SCUM I RESERVE IT FOR!" he roared. "I NEVER SHOT AN INNOCENT MAN, NOR CUT A CHILD'S THROAT, NOR DEFILED ANY WOMAN! SO I'M FOR CERTAIN BETTER THAN YOUR GODFORSAKEN BROTHER!"

  "Jesus…" Seth muttered. "I'd better help you."

  "I won't have to kick your face in then."

  "There's a plus," Seth said. "But tell me somethin'. Didja know me'n Cyrus is twins? Identical like?"

  "No."

  "Heard of that bond twins're s'posed to have?" Seth asked.

  "Yes…"

  "Ours is strong."

  "Then you must know where he is," the lawman snapped.

  "Course," Seth said. "We could always sense what t'other's up to, like we's there too. When I's playin' catch with my boys or lovin' my wife, he's here, bein' a family man…"

  "What are you on about, Jaines?"

  "And when Cyrus is out robbin', murderin', and defilin'," Seth added, "I's there, enjoyin' all the fun."

  The lawman's pallid face flushed redder than any Injun's.

  Seth chuckled. "We ride the gamut together, my brother'n me, him the ruthless outlaw, me the upstandin' farmer."

  "I'm about to knock you down so hard," the lawman growled, "you won't ever be upstanding again."

  "How you gonna deliver a beatin' with a bullet in yer spine, marshal?"

  A spasm bent the lawman backward and he toppled over, body gone limp, a rifle's report echoing as he howled his pain, his confusion, his fury.

  Seth hopped down from his perch, took a knee beside the felled marshal. "That'd be Cyrus… Came runnin' when I spotted you… He got plans for you…"

  The lawman could only lie there, moaning like a lamed beast waiting on an act of mercy.

  "Meanwhile, I got to see to my family," Seth said, rising to leave. "But don't worry. I ain't gonna miss nothin'…"

  Saint Gaul

  Ashley Franz Holzmann

  Gaul feared God the way most men fear dying alone. Fear drove Gaul to achieve everything he had ever achieved and perform his utmost at all times. Rare was the failure, but on even the longest timeline, nothing in the world wins out a hundred percent of the time. That's how most people thought of failure.

  Not Gaul.

  Every failure touched Gaul's soul in the cruelest of ways, and he could not help but feel his failings were the most nonredeemable of sins. Failure was him spitting on the face of God. It was horrible. He studied all things to the point of insanity. Anything to overcome the ability to fail.

  That's what his grandmother taught him. Fear was love. Love was life. Life was suffering. Suffering was the path to perfection. Gaul's grandmother loved perfection. She guided him throughout his life. Through all things. He would have never found the path without her firm love. He would do anything for her. She was his only love.

  That intrusive, gut-rolling feeling kept Gaul on the path. He didn't like the sensation of oil, nuts, and bolts swirling through his innards. It was unsettling. Uncomfortable. And it refused to pass quickly. It was only in those moments; Gaul could speak to God.

  Another day. Another delivery. Another C-section. Gaul had memorized all of the statistical data. Many OBGYNs had. It was important to know such things for legal purposes. C-sections were more and more frequent. Some women preferred them; complications were common.

  This woman was no different. Another belly full of plasma, goop, and blood. The woman's stomach cut the same as the others, the blood and muscles, the blood and the sticking. A minute. Then five. All of the organs removed in minutes w
hen it would take significantly longer to put them back in.

  Nurse, I told you to keep your hands…

  Oh my God.

  Please, settle her down.

  Why don't I hear my baby?

  Hit the feet… attempting to suction…

  Jesus.

  I'm sorry, miss. We did all we could.

  Most women don't know how complicated the procedures could be. One drug for pain would lead to the baby's heart rate dropping. Another drug would raise the baby's heart rate and it would stall the birth. And so on and so on. All tiny balancing acts to alleviate pain, quicken the process, and keep everyone alive.

  Plenty of room for complication.

  They trusted Gaul. A stranger. They allowed Gaul to talk them into the operation. He was a doctor, after all. He had achieved so much.

  This woman was crying. Gaul wasn't the type of doctor who could make her feel better. The nurses would console her. Gaul let the mother hold the lifeless sack of blood, her most prized thing above all things. It would have been her god to worship and dote on.

  It was nothing compared to Gaul's God. To the true God. Gaul walked to his office after cleaning up. He swallowed the oil, the nuts, and the bolts he had prepared.

  He had birthed enough healthy babies to earn that moment. To earn the opportunity. The numbers caught up to every doctor, but not to Gaul. He was perfect. Perfect through God's will. His mistakes were all planned. All sacrifices to Him. The oil swirled and burned. Gaul fell to his knees.

  "God."

  "Yes, Saint Gaul."

  "I have given you more life. I ask only one thing."

  "Yes. Your grandmother shall live for thirty more days."

  Suitcase

  Eskild Thomsen

  A suitcase sat alone in the middle of the dark street, illuminated only by the nearby flames of a burning SUV.

  The flames tore up from the windows of the car, as if a distorted phoenix was desperately trying to escape. With every gust of wind, pushing the flames this way and that, the shadow of the suitcase dance accordingly. Left, right, stretched thin or shrunken and fat.

  Besides the crackling of the fire, devouring the car and everything within it, the night was completely quiet. There were no sirens in the distance, no onlookers trying to catch glimpses of whatever tragedy had just taken place.

  Only Tommy was there, grappling with the decision of whether or not to grab the suitcase and leave the chaos unfolding before him.

  The flames danced on his retinas as his eyes darted back and forth, between the SUV and whatever hidden treasures he imagined to be inside the suitcase.

  Finally, after dismissing the question of whether or not taking the suitcase made him a grave robber, Tommy sauntered into the street and picked up the only surviving artifact from the fiery tomb that was once an SUV, before retreating back into the shadow, out of reach of the burning light.

  Tommy could feel the weight of the suitcase as he moved away from the disaster. Whatever was inside had to be frightfully valuable to carry such weight. And now it was all Tommy’s. No one could dispute that.

  The horrible expressions on that family’s faces as they came to, stuck in a burning car. Their inhuman screams for help as the flames licked them all over. Tommy had endured that sight. For almost twenty minutes, he had watched that family burn, writhe, and cry, just to make sure there was no one else to claim his prize: a suitcase, alone in the middle of the street, holding such promise.

  It could be anything.

  It could be everything.

  Fearing the Unseen

  Claudia Winters

  I've never been a fan of the dark. The idea of not being able to see is disturbing. Imagining all the hidden dangers, out of sight, always frightened me to the core. My fear of the dark only grew as I got older and went to college. When I ended up in a dorm room without a roommate, I was suddenly inclined to buy a night light for my room.

  Knowing how childish having a night light would appear to others, I opted instead for a fish tank. My paranoia compelled me to purchase a fucking fish tank. It was a creative solution which doubled as a decorative piece and provided sufficient light to ease me at night. As soon as I got back to my dorm, I set up the fish tank and immediately felt more at ease. I slept better with the soft blue fish tank glow filling the room. Soon after, I settled into the college life and everything was fine until the day I found out I wasn’t being paranoid.

  I awoke to the sound of harsh breathing. It was sickeningly wet and dry at the same time. And raspy, too. I allowed a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the room, then I observed my surroundings with the aid of the bluish light. There was a skeletal, genderless figure, with piercing, beady eyes. Even in the dim lighting, it was plainly obvious how sickeningly pale the creature was. It had a literal ear-to-ear grin, with the surrounding skin being stretched impossibly tight. As for its teeth, they were almost completely black, which in the dim lighting made it almost look as if there weren't any teeth at all. The pale skin surrounding its mouth gave the impression of a void. But the most horrifying part was how it kneeled next to my bed, and watched me sleep.

  When the creature realized I wasn't asleep anymore, its malevolent smile grew even wider, with the act being accompanied by sickening popping and crunching sounds. A stalemate soon followed with the two of us looking into the other's eyes, and neither of us blinking. I refused to shift my gaze, fearful for my life if I turned away. As for the creature, it seemed to hold a slight amount of interest, or curiosity, behind its gaping leer. The stalemate lasted until hints of sunlight creeped through the curtains and the creature finally broke its glare. Then, it stood up. Its knees were bent at an odd angle making it difficult for the creature to walk. But it made its way across my room with a few halting steps.

  Then, with one last glance at me, it quietly slid into my closet.

  It was mentally scarring having seen the creature, which in retrospect, made the dark a blissful ignorance. Knowing this, I ended up returning those fish to the pet store, but I kept the fish tank. Now I use the tank, among other heavy things, to hold my closet door shut.

  But I have a feeling it won't be enough to stop it.

  Curfew

  Edwin Crowe

  I'd been walking for miles. My enjoyment of the hike was long gone. I should have turned around when my phone died. When the rain destroyed my maps, I was lost. I was supposed to be back at the campsite before sunset, but the sun had long since disappeared over the horizon, the last streaks of light had all but faded in the sky.

  I'd walked eight hours before I became lost and chose to continue on, instead of turning around. I hadn't passed civilization yet. I thought I'd have more luck reaching a nearby village to get a taxi.

  When the forest thinned and the dirt track turned to tarmac, a smile grew on my face. Points of amber light could be seen in the distance, illuminating their source.

  I saw the inn as I approached the village. A red telephone box stood in the small carpark, its receiver long since lost to time. I frowned and took the last few steps to the door. I held the large wrought iron handle, the wooden structure creaked as it swung open.

  The conversations evaporated, heads turned to face me, the foreigner in their mix. The locals didn't look away until the barman spoke. With a towel, he cleaned a pint glass.

  "You're a long way from home, boy," he said in a coarse Scottish accent.

  "I'm sorry, I need to use a phone, I'm lost." I feigned a smile, looking for sympathy.

  "Line's dead. Be back up in the morning; get you a drink?" he asked, friendly and welcoming.

  I sighed and sat on a stool next to the bar.

  "I've got to tell my wife and kids where I am! Doesn't anyone have a cell phone?" I pleaded.

  "It's nae use up here, no signal," the man next to me answered, his hairy arms planted on the bar, gripping his glass. He necked the contents and turned to me, "Go! Go now, don't say I never warned you!"

  "Shut it, Greg! I'm
sorry about him, he's not Scottish, he cannot take his liquor."

  From behind, the squeaking of metal against metal took my attention.

  "What was that?"

  "The locks," the barman said.

  "What do you mean? Is this some sort of lock in?"

  "You could say that."

  Next to me, Greg blurted out, "It's curfew; it's a full moon tonight."

  The hairs on the back of my arms stood on end; Greg stared at them, then at me. I ran to the window, clouds veiled the moon, hiding its full size.

  In the streets people began to gather, they held flaming torches in their hands. A man stood out from the crowd and approached the window.

  "Bring out the foreigner!" he demanded.

  The barman pushed past me and shouted out the window, "NO! He's ours! You had your chance."

  My heart raced. I ran back to my seat. "What's going on, Greg?"

  "Curfew, foreigner."

  "Why do they want me?" I asked, terrified.

  "You don't want to know."

  "Is that why the doors are locked, to keep them out?"

  "Nae, they're to keep us in."

  I turned to leave, Greg grabbed my hand. Hairs began to sprout and spread over his forearm. His eyes turned yellow and bright.

  "It's too late, pal, you're ours now."