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

  Justin eased the car to a stop in his driveway and got out. Tired and a bit drunk, he quickly ran through the nightly routine: make coffee, feed his dog Max, and check if the alarm was set. Sleep came early that night.

  A barking Max woke him up at three in the morning. Not normally a yappy dog, Max’s excited barking alerted Justin that something was wrong, and he picked up his phone, ready to dial 911. Before his head cleared enough to act, however, a dark figure appeared in the doorway. The phone fell from his shaking hand as the intruder bolted toward him.

  ***

  The fuzzy murmur of conversations filled the East Side Lounge. Doug Herrera sat in a booth with coworker Cynthia Dunkin, who was idly playing with her miniature plastic sword. The young woman’s body language, feet tapping accompanied by yawns, couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than boredom.

  “Hey. You’re not complaining about your wife. Everything okay?” she asked.

  “Sorry. Just tired. I’ve been having this really disturbing nightmare…”

  Streetlight

  J. L. Knight

  Click, clock. Click, clock. Her footsteps echoed down the dark, empty street.

  Click, clock.

  She was afraid of the dark. It was childish, she knew. A silly holdover from the days of bogeymen under the bed. When she was offered the extra shift at the restaurant, she almost turned it down because it meant she would have to walk home alone, late at night. But she needed the money, and grown people are not supposed to be afraid of the dark.

  Click, clock. Click, clock.

  The streetlights made welcome islands of yellow light. She was at the faded edge of the next one when it blacked out.

  Her heart jumped. The darkness seemed more acute with the sudden absence of light. She mentally scolded herself for being such a coward and kept walking. Her steps remained firm and regular. Click, clock. She passed under the dead streetlight.

  When she was safely in the friendly glow of the next one, she glanced back over her shoulder. The streetlight was back on.

  A week went by before she had to work the night shift again.

  Click, clock. Click, clock. The night was silent and still. She focused on the reassuring row of streetlights and their steady bright circles. She was close to the next one when it blinked out, plunging her into darkness. The same one as last time, she realized, as a flood of irrational thoughts threatened to overwhelm her. She regained her composure, kept walking. Click, clock. Almost out of the shadows. Click, clock. The sane, regular tapping of heels on concrete, carrying her forward. Click, clock. The shadows thinned in the approaching sodium yellow of the next streetlight. She looked behind her.

  The streetlight was on again.

  She asked to be taken off the night shift. The manager wasn’t having it. If she didn't work the night shift, she would no longer have a job. She began to dread the solitary walks home in the dark. She dropped plates at work, delivered orders to the wrong tables. Then, finally, inevitably, it was time to go home.

  Click, clock. The streetlight was coming. Click, clock. She knew it would go out like it always did. Click, clock. She fought the urge to stop walking, because she was afraid she might not be able to start again. Click, clock. The streetlight flickered out.

  Resolutely, she forced herself to keep going. She was directly under the streetlight when it turned on again.

  She felt pinned under the yellow spotlight like a butterfly. She stopped walking. Click.

  Clock.

  It slithered out of the sewer grate. Its white skin shone pale yellow in the streetlight, a glistening mass uncoiled across the pavement and wrapped around her ankle. She opened her mouth to scream but there was no time. It contracted like a giant muscle and pulled her down into the sewer. Smaller tentacles swept the debris from the outside of the grate. It was over in less than a minute.

  It took pleasure in showing itself to its victims at the end. The flesh was nothing without the fear.

  The night was silent and still. The streetlights cast tiny, regular pools of superficial light in an orderly row.

  As the Light of the World Went Out

  Matthew Jeffrey

  Dusk descended over the abyss, and Lucifer Morningstar waited. After centuries of scheming, his plans had finally borne fruit. Today was the day of his ultimate victory, the day his realm would claim its ultimate prize. On a usual evening the gates of Hell would be heaving with souls passing through mortality’s darkest passage. The screams of the tortured and insane would resonate through the black halls, and flocks of demons would swoop down upon the newly doomed, carrying them off to unnamable punishments. Lucifer had banished his children, and pardoned every wicked spirit which passed through the portal. Even the crimes of the most brutal warlord paled in comparison to the one who was coming, and he needed no other to sustain him. With this soul in his possession, Heaven would be proven false, and with it, the world of men.

  Morningstar mulled over the past few months. His prey had been the most wicked of spirits. Thousands had died by his hand. Entire tribes were raped in his name. Blood was his only currency, from the lives of men to the innocence of women. And yet, at every juncture, Lucifer had failed to stake his claim. His quarry was elusive, playing the system, exploiting loopholes in cosmic law to remain beyond the reach of infernal justice.

  But then, three decades past, his prey had made a mistake. He dressed as a commoner, walking amongst those he oppressed, proclaiming salvation. The people saw through his hypocrisy the instant he opened his mouth. They took him, beat him, and put him to death, visiting on him the kind of suffering he had inflicted on others for years. And now, at last, he has passed into judgment. He would burn in Hell eternally for his crimes.

  An earthquake shook Lucifer from his reverie, and the light of the world blasted apart the vast stone gate. Through their ruins his prey stumbled, caked in dirt and blood. His wounds were many, and his crown lay in pieces upon the hard earth. Lucifer beheld the face of his adversary, the face of true evil, now humiliated, panting, and sobbing tears of true grief.

  Lucifer smiled. “Welcome to Hell, Father.”

  Ghosts of Ourselves

  Ashley Franz Holzmann

  It began as the doctors described. A strange sensation. My neuro pathways and all that nonsense refusing to accept my arm was gone. I could sense my arm, but when I thought about moving it, there was no nervous system, no flesh.

  Sandra was still around on the third day. We were told to take it slow. Let me adjust. I had to learn to brush my teeth with my non-dominant hand. It was frustrating.

  Sandra did all she could. She owed me that. I never saw her pick up her phone or daze out. No texting with her friends about the problems we were having. She was present. It was refreshing, but I was mourning.

  It was while brushing I felt the tingle. It was as if my arm was still intact. It was so vivid, I stopped brushing, which prompted my arm to become nonexistent once more.

  The fourth day, I felt the tingle again while brushing. This time, it was further pronounced. So unique.

  That's the first time I felt the limb move - but not under my control.

  Sandra wasn't in the room when the mirror shattered. She couldn't understand how I wasn't bleeding from punching the glass. Our relationship was never a stone pillar. A part of me always thought the accident was one of the reasons we were still together. She had some misplaced guilt. It wasn't love. Not by then. I wasn't even sure if I could love her anymore.

  The fifth day, I woke up to the sensation of - well, I don't want to get into it. It was an invasive moment, and I genuinely felt violated on some level. The probing. That's when I started to feel worried about the arm. Breaking a mirror isn't the same as - the other stuff.

  Sandra didn't make it past the sixth day. There was a moment and something sparked again. I never hated her. Not entirely. Even after all she had put me through. The last couple of years. The last few months. We were becoming intimate when the limb did something
horrible to her. She was angry at first, and then she was begging. She tried grabbing for her phone, but the limb got to it first, crushed it, and threw it against the wall. Sandra tried to hug me before she fell back. The limb started with Sandra's mouth and then in a flash, it was everywhere. It stuck itself so far inside of her, liquid gurgles overtook her screams. I could feel the sensation. The organs and the scratching. Invisible but very real amounts of flesh getting trapped underneath my nonexistent fingernails.

  She flailed and clutched at her insides while she bled out. I thought for a long time about whether or not to call someone. Maybe 911 or a friend.

  I just couldn't.

  I couldn't sleep that night or last night.

  I should have kissed her before it was over. It’s been my biggest regret. We had grown apart, but she was still a part of my life in some ways. If only I could forgive her for everything.

  The limb has been comforting me. Rubbing my shoulder, rubbing my back.

  It touches me even when I try to push it away or ask it to stop. I've given up resisting.

  Sandra is starting to smell. I'm afraid to drive with the limb.

  I've thought about killing myself. Taking the limb with me. Letting everyone think what they will about Sandra and me. I'm not sure if it's worth the risk - running away. But I can't stay here. Maybe the limb will protect me. Maybe I'll simply start a new life.

  I've decided to write a note to Sandra to help myself leave. Tell her how I've felt all this time. That I wanted to break up. That I wanted to months ago, but then the car accident happened.

  I should have left then. I couldn’t make myself forgive her for everything. Especially, for texting on her fucking phone when she drove the car into the semi-truck.

  The Pagorian Sleep Cycle

  Nicholas Ong

  "Doctor… what exactly am I looking at here?"

  Dr. Pagorian smiled, adjusting his glasses as he always did whenever he was excited. This was the great reveal of his story, the point where imagination and reality intersected, where man would finally answer the greatest question of evolution:

  Which came first, the chicken or the egg?

  "You are witnessing the first batch of experiments that underwent the Pagorian Sleep Cycle. Simply put, we have modified their sleep patterns to function on t-d(1 minute), where t is their usual sleeping time, and d refers to the days since the start of this experiment. It is a constant drop, so the body gradually gets accustomed to the lack of sleep. We are observing how living beings survive without the need to rest, and thus far the results are as what you see below."

  "It's been over a year since this first started, hasn't it? Most of them should be going by on less than half their usual-"

  "It's been a year since I officially publicized this, my good man. It's been eighteen years since the Pagorian Sleep Cycle was implemented."

  The reporter looked down upon the test subjects. Ape-like creatures were moving around, their long limbs flailing weakly. They appeared simian, with opposable thumbs and long toes, but there was something… intelligent… in the deliberate way they moved about. Their heads were outfitted with a small device responsible for altering their sleep cycles. They seemed energetic enough for having no sleep.

  "What does this conclude?"

  Dr. Pagorian grinned manically, pushing up his glasses.

  "Once their sleep cycle hits zero, the number continues falling somehow. The subjects begin to experience what I call "negative sleep" and they begin to… change. Through this, we might find out the truth behind our ancestors through de-evolution."

  "These are- what?"

  "These were people once. My son, now eighteen years into the cycle, has been my biggest breakthrough yet."

  The two looked down again, one in horror and one in pride, as a bald monkey covered in scales emerged from a pool.

  Fair Game

  Kathryne H.

  Although she didn't think he'd been intentionally training her to win a match against Death, Jill was thankful her father had forced her to play chess with him. This wasn't the first time Jill had realized she shouldn't have held all of those years of practice against him. She had made many long-lasting friendships and business relationships while competing in regional chess matches.

  Death was a surprisingly magnanimous sport, and led Jill back into the world of the living as promised. They parted without any theatrics. Death gave her a nod and whispered "See you soon" before returning to the shadows. Like her lack of memory of how she died, she didn't dwell on those words for long. When she got home, Jill was more focused on finding a way to thank her father without sounding crazy than the flabbergasted expression of surprise on her husband's face when he answered the door. She didn't notice this until later in the night when he killed her for a second time.

  Luckily she never remembered any of the deaths which followed either, because it took her an embarrassingly long time to realize she shouldn't go home.

  In fact, by the time she'd put two and two together, her husband had racked up quite the body count and their house stank to high heaven. Oddly enough Death felt a little guilty for not giving her fair warning, but it was just so difficult to find someone who could play a good game of chess these days.

  Democratic People's Republic of Korea

  Michael Lee Brown

  Entry 001 [11/30/2015 – 11:32]:

  Infiltration has been successful.

  I arrived at the nuclear test site in Punggye-ri with the documentation and they have accepted it as genuine. I am to be assigned to the security team as a night-watchman starting tomorrow night. They asked few questions about the fictional “incident” which resulted in my transfer here but I was able to answer them satisfactorily.

  Entry 002 [12/14/2015 – 04:12]:

  I am now authorized to patrol the underground facility without assistance. I have been absolutely astounded by the level of technology the Koreans have here; some of this equipment far surpasses even what we have in the US. From what I have seen here, I would suggest the DPRK could easily mount an attack on whomever they please. I will send photos separately when I am able.

  I have located a room called “The Gateway.” This seems to be the hub of the facility, filled to the brim with monitoring equipment. They seem to be watching the tunnels below the facility. But for what purpose? There has been no activity down there since the test in February of 2013. I’m apprehensive; I think they’re building up to something.

  More to follow when I have it.

  Entry 003 [12/18/2015 – 21:12]:

  I have just been informed I’m to be on duty for a planned nuclear test in the next few weeks. The test should be going ahead on January 6th 2016 at 10:00 local time. I have no further details about the test at this time.

  Entry 004 [01/01/2016 – 01:44]:

  I have gained access to the record archives after hacking into the account of [REDACTED], the head scientist here, and I’m not quite sure what to think.

  All the records of previous tests mention a target. These do not appear to be standard tests. In particular, the tests in 2006, 2009, and the last in 2013 all end with the phrase “target incapacitated.”

  I didn’t have adequate time to read every detail included and the copies I made seem to be faulty. I will obtain the full reports and send them on.

  Entry 005 [01/06/2016 – 10:12]:

  There is something in those tunnels.

  It all makes sense to me now, all the secrecy of this nation. North Korea is not a threat to the stability of the world as we know it, they are the reason we have survived this long.

  These previous nuclear “tests” for which this nation had been condemned haven’t been tests at all – they were attacks.

  I’ve seen the recordings of the previous detonations and I’ve seen what they have been referring to as the target. The creature must be 200-300 feet in length, though it’s difficult to tell exactly from the footage. The detonations seem to put it into some sort of coma, b
ut it wakes after a couple of years and then they launch another attack when it gets too close to the surface.

  I’m currently hiding in the men’s bathroom but I will be taking my cyanide pill as soon as this is written.

  The device detonated as expected but it didn’t work. The creature is still awake; it must have developed an immunity. All we’ve managed to do is piss it off.

  It's coming…

  Oh God, it's coming and we can't stop it!

  The Mire

  Michael Parrish

  Quinten stepped over the fallen log, after ensuring no snakes were nestled underneath it, and his right foot sank immediately into the muck.

  Brilliant, he thought while trying to pull his shoe from the grasp of the water-saturated Alabama red clay. It was no use, his right foot was ankle deep, and the ground wasn’t giving up. Seeing another fallen oak to his left, Quinten surmised he could prop his left foot on its branches and use it for leverage to pull free. He made a large stride with his left leg, and propped his Keen boot on the closest sturdy branch. The tips bent down and grazed the top of the muddy bog, but the branch held firm when he tested his weight on it.

  Hope this works, was Quinten’s silent prayer. He pushed with all his weight on his left leg, pulling upward with all of his strength. His right foot didn’t budge. In fact, it actually sank a little deeper into the pit. The top of the muddy sludge was now touching the bottom of his calf.

  Damnittohell. With his left foot secure in place on the dead oak, Quinten plunged his right hand into the muck.

  Hate to lose half a pair of two hundred dollar boots, but whatchyou gonna do. Only when his hand reached the laces of his boots, he found that he could not move his fingers. He pulled back with all the force he could manage, but his arm was as secure in the clay as his foot, unmoving as if encased in cement.