Frightmares: A Fistful of Flash Fiction Horror (10 page)

The sun seemed to be going down faster than she anticipated. She wouldn’t normally be here but had overheard a job lead earlier and hurried toward the site. Evidently, it turned out to be a dead end; the building boarded up and abandoned.

“
Allliiiccceee.
” The wind seemed to be calling her name.

Her head shot up in panic . . . but there was no one around; not even the normal city vagrants. She resisted the urge to run to her car, telling herself that it was all in her mind.

Alice found herself wondering where everyone had gone. She was surprised that none of the empty buildings housed any squatters. She experienced a brief flash of the hordes of zombie-vampires in
I Am Legend
, and thought of what would happen if she was surrounded by similar creatures. She giggled at the ridiculous thought and continued to her car. A rumble went through the street like a small earthquake, and Alice wondered if there was a thunderstorm coming.

She looked again at her vehicle a block away. Alice halted, eyeing the distance incredulously. She had gotten no closer to the car than she had been five minutes earlier. How could that be? She looked at the building next to her realizing that it was different than the one she had started from. The buildings appeared to be closing in on her.

“
Allliiiccceee, we’ve been waiting
.”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She sensed she was being watched, refusing to open her eyes lest her imagination become a reality. After a while, she finally found the courage to open them, relieved to find no one waiting around to eat her brains. She looked at the building next to her again, and it seemed as if she were closer to it than before. Again, she glanced over her shoulders and it still seemed like the buildings were consuming her space. She closed her eyes again. A warm breath hit her neck and she cringed.

Forcing herself to face her fears, Alice opened her eyes to see that the buildings were bending over her in a surreal death gaze. She watched as they leaned closer down to her with their fiercely red malevolent eyes. The building next to her opened up its doors and swallowed her whole.

Once again, the neighborhood had found peace.

Lori Michelle
was born in Los Angeles where she was trained to be a ballerina. After injuring herself, she turned her creative efforts elsewhere. Now she resides in San Antonio and is the mother of two, a bookkeeper/IT tech for a real estate company, a dance studio owner, and a graphic designer (www.lmbgraphics.com).

THE UNWRAPPING

CARRIE ANNE MARTIN

Moments of the past, once exquisitely captured on camera . . . fading. Lies, vanishing.

Part of my brain had begun to throb, gaining momentum with every stark flashback. I hugged my glass of wine as I had once clung to the comfort of my covers against the dark shadows of night.

Under the dimmed chandelier, the empty wine decanter glistened between us. She sat across from me at the dining table; her head tilted sideways, feigning sympathy behind pale green eyes. With arms stretched stiffly forward, she clasped her glass like a sword, deflecting the perilous memories I dared to reveal.

“I don’t remember that,” she replied, robotically.

Still I continued, unwrapping the past between us.

Behind the stillness, her face worked ardently to mask her empty soul. “Let it out. You let it out,” she said.

So I did.

Suddenly, I was small again. Alone in our family livingroom. With her.

I sat motionless on the chair, staring into the morphing colours of the TV screen. Willing myself to join them. But no matter how still or quiet I remained, her icy silence grew thick.

Fear had rooted me to the cushions. I edged my head to one side to glimpse her form, undetected. An invisible fist tightened around my heart. Her hunger, her evil, enveloped me.

Her arms were folded tightly, one leg crossed over the other, staring through the TV. Mentally fixated on her prey. As if only to enjoy the suffering. And in that naive fear, I implored of her, “Mom?”

Her eyes hardened in smug hatred.

“What?” she snapped.

“Mom, what’s wrong?”

She turned toward me. “Nothing,” she said.

Lost between then and now, the unspoken truth fell from my lips, “I want my mommy.”

I should have stopped then.

“Don’t,” she said.

She shook her head and repeated, “Don’t.”

But it was too late.

And I saw with adult eyes the beast, and nothing of the mother.

She seethed with revulsion. Her body stretched and popped grotesquely. Then she pushed her clawed hands against the table and stretched upward.

“I should have killed you when you were born,” she hissed, slithering her fur-clumped body along the wood. Saliva spat from a jaw-full of spiky teeth protruding from her face. “You were needy and pathetic. So trusting. So loyal. Just like your father.”

Fear laid heavy in my soul.

“And you.
You
,” she howled. “Always questions. Sick hope! Have you any idea what it’s like, living like this? Living the pretense of human life, day in, day out?”

The deranged truth of my entire existence–of hers–was inescapable now. Anger flooded my fear, sweeping me upright to meet her wild stare. Tensing for battle, my fingertips ached to rupture talons and shred her to extinction. But I would not let myself become her.

I turned away, and went to bed.

A quake of slamming and bashing ensued beneath me. And then, the mother I never had, was gone.

Carrie Anne Martin
is a freelance designer and writer, born in West Yorkshire, England. She now resides in Ontario, Canada, with her husband, young daughter, and three fur-balls.

AND THEIR NAMES WERE...

BRIAN J. SMITH

Girlfriends? Yeah, I have lots of them. Tiffany, Sarah, Jessica, Mary, Angela and Olga, the beautiful foreign exchange student from Russia.

My new girlfriend’s name is Erica. She has long blonde hair, green eyes and a body to die for; thick lips and a pair of breasts the size of two beer steins. I first met her a year ago, in a little café on campus. I accidentally bumped into her table and almost spilled her mocha latte; I put my hand over the top to keep it from spilling. After my initial apology, I offered to take her to dinner but she sighed, picked up her laptop and coffee and left.

I kept my distance, following her to the parking garage. She got her key in the door and had unlocked it when the sedative I slipped into her coffee took effect. I rushed forward to catch her before she could hit the pavement and carried her to my mini-van.

Did everything work out? She’s here with all the other girls, her own nametag right on top of her cage. Tiffany, Sarah, Jessica, Olga, Mary and Angela, and now, Erica.

Brian J. Smith
has been featured in
The Horror Zine, Darkest Before The Dawn, Crooked
and
The Flash Fiction Offensive
and such anthologies as
Living Dead Press' Book Of Cannibals 2 and E-Mails Of The Dead
and
And Now The Nightmare Begins...Vol. 1 The Horror Zine
. He currently lives in Chauncey, Ohio and cheers on the Ohio State Buckeyes.

THE BEAUTY OF DEATH

CRIS KEUGGAR

Her screaming intensified along with the blood, flowing crimson with a sharp odor of lingering iron.

I loved it.

Over and over she was stabbed until her stomach was torn, leaking out horrible smells and liquids mixing in and diluting her dark red blood.

No longer would she be able to smile, or light up a room with her beauty. Her face would soon be torn, her lips, lashes, and creamy complexion gone.

I would personally be gouging out her eyes with a hot, needle-sharp knife. IfI was lucky she might even still be alive and shrieking as the burning steel punctured through her iris
.

Her screaming continued.

Her stomach was wide open now, putting on a show for us as we watched her gleaming and still-pulsing organs dance along with her heart beat.

I reached in and caressed her warm and delicate essence. I grabbed a strand of intestine, pulling it out and letting it fall to the ground with a thud.

I knew she was dead only because her screams had subsided and her body no longer twitched or squirmed.

My smile vanished; disappointed that she would not be able to fully enjoy the performance, let alone be able to feel her very flesh being stretched and ripped from her gorgeous skull.

I turned in trembling anger, forcing down a scream of my own.

Death was such a beautiful thing, it’s such a shame that the dead cannot witness their own death.

Letting out a sigh, I simply moved on to the next girl in line. The woman’s daughter. This time I would refrain, take my time, let her linger. My smile returned as I held up the knife and her shrieking began.

Cris Keuggar
was born in a small town with no apparent and important facts that have given it an enormous reputation or bold name on a map. Thankfully, she was blessed with two wonderful and hard working parents who taught her what life is meant for and to follow her passions.

JUST LEAVE

MILO JAMES FOWLER

Abigail is only five years old, but she knows the rules:

Don’t talk to strangers. Wash your hands. Brush your teeth.

When Mommy and Daddy shut their door, best not to open it, no matter what sounds they may be making.

“We need our playtime too,” Mommy says.

“Why can’t I play?”

Abigail has all kinds of toys.

“When you’re all grown up, you’ll understand.”

Abigail knows about “grown up toys;” Daddy’s stereo, Mommy’s laptop.

Why would anybody think they’re fun? She knows the rules are meant to keep her safe and healthy.

But they’re kind of tough to follow when two men she’s never seen before are sitting on her couch.

“Hey pretty, what’s your name?” One man is big and bald and wears a sweaty T-shirt.

He smells like Grandpa after he’s stepped outside for a few minutes; like a dirty fireplace.

Abigail glances at Mommy, who is standing with her arms down straight, tears shining in her eyes.

“Please, just go,” Mommy whispers.

The strangers laugh. One belches without excusing himself.

Daddy stands like a statue beside Mommy. His eyes are bloody, like he’s been staring at the computer too long.

“Go back to your room, Abby.”

“That’s a pretty name,” says the stranger.

Daddy steps between her and the couch and rests his hand on her shoulder, turning her toward the hallway. “Just take it and go. Please.”

“Pretty please?” The other stranger snickers, up on his feet. He punches Daddy so hard he falls to his knees.

“Daddy!”

Mommy scoops Abigail up into her arms and turns her face away. The strangers kick Daddy and step on him, smushing his face into the carpet.

“He can’t breathe!” Abigail screams. “Mommy, why are they here?”

“They’re buying one of Daddy’s old toys, Sweetheart.” Mommy’s wet lips shiver, brushing her ear.

“Gotta love Craigslist!” A stranger sits on Daddy, hopping up and down. Something inside Daddy pops. The strangers laugh.

“They’re hurting him!”

“Don’t watch,” Mommy whispers.

“Take what you want . . . and go,” Daddy says.

The stranger kicks him in the face and blood splashes onto the carpet. “Don’t you worry.” He laughs. “We’ll take everything we want.”

Abigail knows the rules. Always use your inside voice, never hit or kick or scratch Mommy.

But Daddy needs her.

Mommy can’t hold onto her. Abigail is screaming wildly, thrashing like an animal. She hits the carpet and launches herself at the man on top of Daddy. He laughs, catching her in his arms.

“Quiet down, Pretty!”

Abigail has little monkey fingers—that’s what Daddy calls them—and fingernails that need trimming.

She tears off the big man’s eyelids and digs out his eyes, squishy and wet. He beats at her with his fists and she feels things pop inside her.

“Leave my daddy alone!”

She drives her hands into his eye sockets as he falls over backward. She hears Daddy coughing, Mommy throwing up. The front door opens and heavy footsteps pound away.