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

  Okay. Calm down, Quint. This isn’t good, but no need to panic yet. For the next hour, Quinten yelled, calling out to any other hiker that might be passing along. No response or assistance came and desperation was beginning to take hold. His voice had grown hoarse and his throat was dry. The south Alabama sun had begun to rise higher into the summer sky, and the heat was taking its toll. Using his left hand and standing at a ridiculous angle, Quinten fumbled at the straps of his pack with trembling fingers, fishing out his canteen. He drank several long swallows in an attempt to quench his thirst and assuage his fear, but while doing so, the branch his left foot was resting on snapped in two. Quinten’s left foot plunged into the mire, and in a state of panic, he flopped to his right, dropping the canteen. He watched in shock and horror as it sank into the red clay.

  Uh-oh. Quinten could feel himself being pulled to his right by the weight of his pack, it having fallen into the muck when the branch broke. He managed to free it from his left shoulder, and though he couldn’t really see it, he could feel the suction around his arm and legs as it was pulled beneath the surface. Again, Quinten screamed with all of his being, yelling, pleading, begging, praying for someone, anyone, to free him. He yelled for help as the summer sun crested at noon. The bubbling mud had pulled him deeper, now chest-deep. He waved with his free left hand, yelled, cried, and prayed. By the time the next two hours had passed, his chin was resting on the red clay surface. Tears flowed like pouring water from his eyes as he prayed to every God he could remember, confessing all of his sins, both real and imagined. At five o’clock, only four white fingers were visible on the surface of the mire. By six, they were gone as well.

  The Tickle Monster

  Marty Hoefkes

  At first it tickled. The flat of a cold, invisible fingertip, gingerly caressing the space between my shoulder blades. Not a trick of the mind, or a rogue sensation: it was something unseen actually pressing against me, a shallow dent wandering around my back. I’d snake away, dodge, shake. Nothing could dislodge it. The finger stayed.

  My friends and coworkers called it the Tickle Monster. To me, “monster” was a reach for something as benign and harmless. I thought of it as a pet.

  I saw a doctor. I saw a healer. I saw a psychic. All of them were equally perplexed. The doctor, from arm’s length, advised I keep an eye on it. Neither the healer nor psychic had words to share. I suspect it marked the first time they’d ever witnessed a truly supernatural event. Until then they’d been experts in bullshit, and the shock of the real thing dulled their tongues.

  Clothes acted like a barrier. In a t-shirt I could feel it easily. In a winter coat, not at all. When changing or showering, the initial cold prod of the finger on bare skin made me jump. Like a lover’s touch, delicate and teasing. I took to wearing layers and sleeping on my back. Strangely, though, I missed it. It was gentle, after all.

  A year later, a second touch joined it. Not moving in tandem, as you would expect an index and middle finger to do. But independent, each light groove tracing its own random path on my back.

  The third point alarmed me at first, only because it altered my imagined Tickle Monster from having the paws of a koala to tentacles like an octopus. Not necessarily more sinister, but certainly more alien. The fourth and fifth points only confirmed it.

  But still, I didn’t mind. I never thought of it as malicious, or dangerous. Just there. Along for the ride.

  One day, it stopped tickling. The flat fingers turned inward to use their nails, caressing me with sharp points instead of soft ones, like an automated back scratcher. But slowly, imperceptibly, the pressure mounted, and mounted, until skin no longer provided a thick enough barrier.

  I wear a backpack now. Constantly. Kevlar fabric, military grade, stuffed with memory foam to ease the pressure which would push me over otherwise. I need a new pack every month to replace the tatters of the old one. Like a bear mauled it off my back. I put it on over top and then cut the old one away, not risking a second without its protection.

  It’s still getting worse. Every day. Stronger. Sharper. I don’t know how many fingers there are anymore. Hundreds. Thousands, maybe. They never stop.

  Those friends and coworkers from before? They’re gone. I’m unemployed, stretching out the last of my savings while I sleep on the street. Alone.

  Just me and my Tickle Monster.

  *Click*

  Marc Kinsville

  Little Ashley sat quietly in her high chair like a good girl while I mopped the floor. With nothing else to play with, Ashley had taken to flicking the light switch on the wall. The first switch controlled the light in the kitchen. The second controlled the light in the dining room. The third one was a mystery. We don’t know why it was installed as it didn’t seem to control anything. For some reason, Ashley seemed fixated on the mystery switch.

  *Click*

  *Click*

  *Click*

  I didn’t mind. It kept her occupied which meant I could finish mopping.

  My husband returned home from work just as I was putting dinner in the oven.

  “Hey honey!” he greeted. “Wow! The floor looks spotless! I can’t believe this is the same kitchen!”

  “Thanks!” I replied.

  “You’re performing miracles. What’s for dinner? I’m starving!”

  “Dinner isn’t ready. It will be ready in an hour.”

  *Click*

  “What do you mean dinner isn’t ready!?” he barked. “What the fuck have you been doing all day!?”

  “Excuse me!?”

  *Click*

  “Woah! Sorry honey!” he stammered. “I didn’t mean to snap. It’s been a long day. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Now that you mention it, maybe you can set the table?”

  “Sure thing!”

  *Click*

  “Okay, where the fuck are all the forks and knives!?” he cursed.

  “Hey!” I yelled. “What has gotten into you!? You never swear like this!”

  “I asked you a fucking question, bitch! WHERE THE FUCK ARE ALL THE FORKS AND KNIVES!?”

  I slapped him.

  “Don’t you EVER talk to me like that!”

  *Click*

  “Oh my God. I… I am sooooo sorry! I didn’t mean to…”

  I held up my hand and told him to go into the living room to cool off.

  He left the kitchen and pulled little Ashley out of her high chair. She protested as she wanted to continue playing with the light switch. My husband kissed her and bobbed her up and down in his arms as he retreated to the living room.

  I watched them close as I continued to prepare dinner. I had never seen this brutish side of him before. What had gotten into him?

  After we went to bed, I told him I did not appreciate the way he acted. I’d worked all day at getting the new house in order. He apologized and vowed he would never disrespect me again.

  We kissed each other goodnight and drifted off to sleep.

  He spooned up to me, and caressed my hair gently. He kissed my neck. It was his cue he wanted sex. We went through the motions silently. We’ve become experts at quiet sex since neither of us wanted to wake Ashley. Unfortunately, little Ashley was still not used to her new surroundings yet, and woke up.

  We disengaged from each other and I slipped into my night robe.

  “I’ll get her some milk,” I sighed.

  “Hurry back,” he whispered. “I can’t keep this up forever.”

  I giggled at the double entendre and headed over to Ashley’s room, which was still laden with unpacked moving boxes. I picked up Ashley who by now had already screamed “Mama" at least a dozen times. Usually when I pick her up she calms down right away but even my immediate presence did little to soothe her.

  “Hey, hey!” I said in my best motherly voice. “Mama’s here! You can calm down now.”

  I entered the kitchen with her bawling in my arms and then she stopped crying. Her body went rigid. I smiled at her and noticed she
was pointing to the wall making grabbing motions with her little hands.

  She was fixated on the light switch again.

  “Oh?” I realized aloud. “Little Ashley wants to play with the light switch again? Alright, but just for a minute okay? Mommy has to make you some milk.”

  I held Ashley up to the light switch and let her play with it.

  *Click*

  *Click*

  *Click*

  *Click*

  *Click*

  “The first thing I am doing tomorrow is unpacking your toys!” I said hoping this little light switch game didn’t become a habit.

  I heard footsteps from down the hall. I turned and saw my husband, standing there naked. His face was a cross between stunned and enraged, like he had been asleep the whole time and had been rudely awakened.

  He held his gun in his hand.

  "H-h-h-honey?" I stuttered as Ashley flipped the switch again.

  *Click*

  My husband squinted, confusion was painted across his face once again.

  *Click*

  He took deep, heavy breaths. His gaze fixated on me. His face contorted with unbridled hatred as he raised his gun. Ashley lost interest in the switch, turning her attention toward her father.

  "Dada!"

  *Click-Shick*

  Seventh-Inning Stretch

  Jonas Lefkowitch

  Years later, and that fateful Little League World Series Championship Game is still the subject of considerable media attention. By now, everyone's seen the infamous clip countless times, of Tokyo's Hideaki Nishikawa, stoic on the mound at Lamade Stadium, pitching a perfect game when that thing appeared on the field. The live coverage on ESPN switched to a test pattern during the first horrifying minute of the incident, and whenever the footage is shown on television, they always stop it before the graphic part begins. The videos you'll find online only capture glimpses of what occurred. Unless you witnessed it firsthand, you have no idea how gut-wrenching it was.

  I heard it before I saw it. The white noise of the crowd and the chatter of my teammates in the dugout were drowned out by a horrid, ear-splitting howl mere moments before the creature showed itself, a black blur galloping onto the field from a nearby service tunnel, headed straight for the pitcher's mound. It skidded to a halt, kicking up dirt like a runner sliding into second, and sprang up onto its hind legs, towering above Hideaki Nishikawa who only stood there, rooted to the spot, too petrified to do anything but gawk. The monstrosity was misshapen, like a massive tumor sprouting one lumpen growth from another, with a dozen malformed, thickly muscled limbs haphazardly arrayed about itself. The abomination's ebon hide was taut and lined with swollen red veins, as if barely containing its bulk. There was no head, rather the torso was split vertically by a frothing, fanged maw which gaped and unleashed a deafening roar in Hideaki Nishikawa's face, spraying him with steaming bile. He tried to run then, but it was too late. What happened next…

  You won't see it on television.

  CNN obviously can't show their audience a shrieking, helpless twelve-year-old lifted up by his ankles and pulled apart not unlike a wishbone, the ragged halves of his bisected body whipped and flailed furiously, scattering gore and glistening innards in every direction. And when the blood-spattered beast rips Hideaki Nishikawa's head loose and impales it through the eye with a barbed, prehensile appendage, thrusting so forcefully the head bursts apart like an overripe melon… Well…

  That's absolutely inappropriate for viewers of all ages and dispositions.

  As the savagery persisted, most people ran screaming while some, like me, watched in stunned silence as Hideaki Nishikawa was torn to pieces, reduced to a sticky swath of shredded meat and congealing blood carpeting the infield. And on the mound, the monstrosity became still, its rage finally spent. The infernal creature's slavering, snaggletoothed lips stretched wide, quivering as it loosed an utterance more terrifying than those announcing its arrival and commencing the evening's slaughter, a peal of laughter utterly cruel and shockingly human. Then it leapt into the air, high enough it was essentially flying, and vanished from sight.

  There's been a tremendous deal of speculation about what the monstrosity was. Alien? Mutant? Demon? Wolf Blitzer always calls it "a thing beyond imagining," which is ironic, I suppose, because it certainly wasn't beyond mine…

  When the creature first appeared, I was fuming over how Hideaki Nishikawa had just humiliated me during my last at bat. Three pitches, three swings, three misses. I felt so frustrated and useless… I imagined a monster tearing Hideaki Nishikawa limb from limb. And then it happened. For real. Back then, I had no idea I was capable of such a thing, that my mind can do anything, create anything it can conceive. Well I sure as hell found out. It took me years of experimentation and practice, but I learned exactly what this power can do, and it's fully under my control. There won't be any more accidents. I realize now there's only one thing beyond my imagining.

  How much fun it will be topping what I did to Hideaki Nishikawa.

  Sound Shadow

  Kristopher J. Patten

  "There is a species of salamander that live exclusively in lightless South American caves. They have no eyes, for they outgrew the need. These salamanders did not evolve from a previously sightless species. The fossil record confirms that their eyes withered and disappeared from underuse.

  "As such, these creatures were able to retain more metabolic energy than species that retained sight. That extra power made them quick, agile hunters. This is the nature of the incessant evolutionary arms race between predator and prey. Predator sheds qualities to evade detection while prey develops ingenious sensory systems.

  "And so, I am proud to unveil the species we discovered in the bright, icy clime of Antarctica. The perfect predator…"

  The aged biologist smiled to the crowd and tore a black velvet curtain away from a primate-sized cage with her small, bony hands. The audience's premature applause died before it picked up steam, punctuated by confused whispers and screeching chair legs as spectators stood for a better view.

  The cage was empty.

  The biologist laughed. "As I said, the perfect predator. Invisible to conventional sight due to a unique pigmentation that diffracts light waves. If you look closely, you'll see a distortion of the background like a funhouse mirror."

  The crowd murmured. Some claimed they saw the aberration, some insisted otherwise.

  The woman on stage caressed a cannon-like device. "Allow me to prove it to you. This is a sound wave emitter. With it, we can detect the position of the creature from the reflection of the waves. Like echolocation. With the large, couch-like microphone opposite me, we can detect the sound shadow left by the creature and infer its shape by combining the two measurements. On the screen behind me you will see the first-ever image of our find. It may be quite mobile, as the sound gun produces quite the unpleasant sensation.

  "While unpleasant," she added after a pause, perhaps remembering laypeople frequently became enraged at suspected animal abuse, "the creature will sustain no lasting damage. Perhaps some temporary equilibrium issues."

  The screen lit up, revealing an empty cage.

  "I…" the scientist stammered, running a shaking hand through her hair. "My God. Everyone stay calm. Stay bloody still. The creature's escaped."

  The woman directed the sound gun into the crowd. It passed over the assembled guests, their worlds exploding into dizzying, knee-buckling shrieks. Half-digested hors d’oeuvres were retched onto brocade carpet and rented tuxedoes. Blood spilled from nasal cavities onto pressed shirts and silk dresses.

  One man near the back of the room watched the wave of agony wash toward him like he was at some hellacious baseball game. The man to his right fell to the floor, heaving. Then the woman on his left fell completely unconscious. He was left unscathed.

  An uneasy smile crept to his lips. It was as though he had been shielded from the sound. Perhaps he had found one of those “sound shadows?”

 
The smile faltered as he recalled the full explanation of the sound shadow. He tried to stand and felt a strong grip holding him in place.

  Unseen teeth bit into his neck as easily as an apple. As his vision began to fade, his attacker lifted its head, visible now in the man’s own gore.

  Its face and large cranium were unmistakably human. But the teeth were unnaturally sharp. The perfect predator.

  My Parents Are Hiding Something

  Marty Hoefkes

  They confine me to the attic. They’re ashamed of my scars, and my growths, and my burns. I have fingers like spider legs, extra bones in my neck, and sharp, crooked teeth clutter my mouth and clack when I chew.

  I can’t remember when I last looked in a mirror, but I’ll never forget the hideous thing I saw.

  They’re right. I’m a monster. I belong here.

  Every morning, Father retracts the attic ladder and pokes his head in. He plops a plastic bucket on the floor and slides it close enough so I can reach with my chained hands. He used to say a few words. He used to look at me with his downcast eyes. But now he only thumps back down and shuts out my only saving light.

  The bucket comes full of scraps: slimy vegetables, moldy fruits, and any foods Mother hates. Sometimes there are cold chicken legs if I’m lucky, dog food if I’m not. I eat it all. And when Father comes to take it back at night, the bucket leaves full of waste.

  It’s lonely. For fun, I put my functional ear to the wall vent. If I’m lucky, I can hear the TV. Entertainment news, or shows about bickering housewives. Usually, though, I only hear my parents fighting.

  “Blame your genes!” Mother shrieks. “The true monster is in your blood!”

  “He’s our son, whatever else he may be,” Father pleads. “He deserves more than this.”

  It always ends with Mother throwing things.