monsterbloodbath

Latest Posts by monsterbloodbath

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It’s giving horror story dad joke edition

2 really good mystery thrillers about mother/daughter relationships that I really enjoyed. Happy Mother’s Day :>

(here is another story I wrote a long time ago)

~~~

Imagine this: You’re just a normal, average guy, right? You take a few college classes here and there, you work a part time job—nothing special.

You work at an old convenience store late at night. It’s usually really slow at that time, so you spend your time reading superhero comic books. Every now and then, a customer might walk in and buy a pack of gum or bandaids or something.

So one night, your shift is nearing an end, and you’re almost done with your comic. You’re slumped back in your chair, feeling groggy.

You hear someone wall in thanks to the soft ring of the bell hanging over the door.

“Welcome,” you call out, eyes still glued to your book.

The stranger doesn’t respond, but many don’t, so you don’t think much of it.

Five minutes pass when the lights shut off. You curse under your breath as you set down your comic on the counter. It’s only when you look up, you realize it.

The stranger is standing right in front of you, right at the counter. How long was he there?

It’s impossible to see him clearly in the dark, even with the streetlights shining in from outside. He seems to be wrapped in a long, black trench coat, and his head is covered in a hoodie coming from under it. You can’t see his face, except for his eyes. You don’t know if you’re imagining it, but they appear to glow a sickly yellow and are lined with dark red veins.

You’re frozen. Your heart’s racing, but you can’t move. It felt like time itself had stopped.

Finally, logic enters your brain, and you jump from your chair. Stop looking at me like that! You don’t actually say it, but you almost do.

“I’m so sorry, it’s just a power outage, I’ll call someone. Sir? Are you okay?” you ask.

He doesn’t reply. You fumble for a flashlight.

So you continue. “I’m sorry about all this. This has never happened before, really. Can I borrow your phone?”

The lights flicker back on. You blink, struggling to adjust for a moment, when you realize it.

The man is gone.

Over the next few weeks, you keep seeing figures out in public that you swear is him. You catch him on a bridge up ahead, or disappearing behind a building at the corner of your eye.

You must have been tired that night, you need to keep telling yourself. So why do I keep seeing him?

You try to ignore the lingering figure. You pretend you don’t see it. But it’s getting harder and harder.

And he’s getting closer, and closer.

You become more terrified as time oasses. You scroll through the internet for hours, and flip through dozens of books. No answers..

You sleep with all the light on and a baseball bat under your bed—if you can even sleep at all.

He’s like a disease eating you. You begin to get weaker and weaker, and soon, you fall ill.

The thought of being stuck in bed scares you. You can’t run. And he knows this.

You ignore the doctor’s order to stay in bed, and one day, you pass out. You wake up in a hospital. You’re relieved to be surrounded by nurses and doctors.

You’re eating dinner one night when the power shuts off.

You press the button to call the nurse, but nothing happens. No lights, no sound, no nurse.

The room is getting colder and colder. You scream for a nurse. The feeling of alone-ness increases.

You’re relieved to head the door open. You say “Nurse! Thank you! There’s been a power outa-“

Glowing, yellow eyes.

He’s watching you, right at the foot of the bed. Towering over you.

“Who are you?l you scream. “Leave me alone!”

The figure doesn’t move. The room is getting colder, and it feels like your fingers are going to fall off. You scramble to get up out of bed, to run. Instead, you pummel right onto the ground.

The figure kneels in front of you, and you let out another blood-curdling scream. He takes off his hoodie.

And you see your own, smiling face staring right back at you.

~~~

Other stories by me:

CLOWN IN A CORNFIELD COMES OUT TOMORROW

That night, I tossed and turned in my bed, sweating, as visions of the tooth-framed orifice in the center of my mother’s face descending on that sandwich visited my dreams over and over: the unsticking of the dry flesh of her lips as they parted, the soft click of her tongue as it released from the roof of her mouth and extended fully to wrap like a coil around the bread and meat before retracting quickly back between her mandibles. Every time the motions of her snatching the sandwich repeated, her teeth became elongated, sharper, glistening pearly white. A glint of light bounced off of her fangs, blinding me and sending a metallic ringing through my nerves. The sound of the food being swished around between her cheeks became an unbearable deafening static in my brain.

Read the full story below

open.substack.com

Tusk

Short story: a tense horror story about the monsters we hide at home

Short book review: There’s No Way I’d Die First

⭐️⭐️

I think this book had a lot of potential but it really just wasn’t it for me. My biggest issue that a lot of people on Goodreads agreed with was the political message…considering it’s supposed to be about racism, it’s painfully pro-rich. The villain had a point, this cast of characters were all spoiled brats who got their way and took advantage of other, nor do they ever acknowledge their privilege or admit their wrogdoing. These people are insanely rich btw, not upper middle class. I think when discussing intersectionality we need to acknowledge that people who are minorities and are also ultra rich will likely never understand or completely relate to the experience that everyone else faces. How the hell is the average reader supposed to root for and feel bad for these characters at all? The main character was super annoying because she kept insisting the cops will blame her for this bc she’s black…and then they don’t. Why even bother discussing the rampant racism in our judicial system when ur not even gonna show it? U make ur own character look like a paranoid annoying self-victim. And i couldn’t really give a shit about that either knowing her parents could easily bail her out a jail. Just seems insulting to the millions of black Americans who actually face this typa shit everyday and don’t have enough money to get out of it.

Also the clown’s name being Gabe instead of a clown name was a bizarre choice. And if he were a pennywise impersonator wouldn’t he just go by pennywise?

Whateva. 2 stars.

Here’s another silly strange rule story about a poor guy who starts working at an unusual oil rig.

One of my favorite short stories ever is this Creepypasta called Shut that Damned Door by WriterJosh. Highly recommend you read (or listen) late at night in the dark when you’re super tired

this is an edit I made back in 2015, which I can’t believe was 10 years ago.

For those of you who have read it, how do you feel about The Return by Rachel Harrison? I really enjoyed it, but it seems that from some reviewers they found the banter between the characters quite boring. I guess I just really like good dialogue 🤷🏻

Childhood can be scary.

A collection of some of my hand-drawn horror looping animations!

Terror

Disclaimer: This story is completely fictional. It's a semi-horror story but doesn't contain any violent or graphic content. I was inspired by a Let's Player who played a horror game where someone was buried alive.

Terror: extreme fear.

His eyes open, and all he sees is black. A horrible headache is gradually becoming noticeable. He asks himself, "Where am I?" right away. The air is thick, and his surroundings are damp. He moves his hands carefully in an attempt to sense his surroundings. Immediately he realizes how narrow the space he’s in is.

His fingertips touch a wall, the contact sending a shiver down his spine. It was a strange sensation. He presses his palm flat against the surface. “Wood… that feels like wood,” he thinks. Just where exactly is he right now?

He tries to remember what happened before he woke up in this strange place…

He was in the city in the late evening, had just grabbed a coffee from Starbucks, and was heading to the park. When he went into the park, he noticed it was strangely empty. He lives in a big city, so even around 9 the park was very crowded with various people. He went to sit on a bench near the center, but then he noticed something strange. There were eyes in the bushes. He wanted to stand up and leave as he got a bad feeling about this, but suddenly he heard a loud thud behind him, and then everything was black. That’s the last thing he could remember. 

He shifts and moves again, trying to turn, but to no avail. Eventually he recognizes the shape of the space he’s in. It resembles a casket. A casket. Immediately he tries to push open the lid, but something very heavy is covering it.

As realization dawns on him, he starts to panic. Is he really underground right now? This has to be a bad dream. How did he even get here? Was he falsely declared dead? What happened after that loud thud?

Suddenly he starts screaming. He screams his lungs out, calling for help. Minutes pass, and eventually his voice is hoarse. No one heard him; he’s 1.8 meters underground. There’s no way anyone could hear him when he’s buried that deeply. 

Everything feels so surreal. Of course he heard of the scenario of being buried alive, but that was in movies, video games, or history books informing about stories like that centuries ago. He read about how there used to be bells attached to coffins because the people back then often mistook the living for the dead, and a falsely buried person could just ring the bell to signal they’re alive.

When he first read about this, he thought it was stupid and unnecessary, but oh, how he wished for one of those safety coffins with bells right now. He could just pull a string and ring a bell, and someone would get him out of here, but no. He’s completely sealed with no hopes of being dug out. He’s stuck and will either die of oxygen shortage, starvation, or dehydration.

Mentally he has already given up. There was nothing he could do. As he lies there, he notices he’s lying on something uncomfortable. The realization that he’s wearing the exact same clothes he wore before waking up dawns on him. As he reaches into the back pocket of his jeans, he realizes what he’s lying on. A lighter. Whoever buried him didn’t empty his pockets. 

Something feels strange about it. Why would he be buried with all that stuff? He reaches into his jacket and sees that he even still has his cigarettes. Then he reaches into the other pocket he has on his jacket. Jackpot! His phone. Maybe he could call for help? Text someone to tell them where he is right now?

He hurries and unlocks his phone. With incredible speed he opens his calls and clicks on the first contact that shows up - in this case, his mother. He looks at his phone screen, watching as the phone tries to call his mother. It drives him crazy to see the word “connect…” repeat over and over again, just for the phone to automatically hang up after 30 seconds because it didn’t find a connection. He should’ve expected that. There’s no way he can reach anyone on the surface like this. 

Right now, however, he was desperate, and while his rational mind was telling him it wouldn’t work, he still tried to text everyone he possibly could. Even if he expected it, it was still disappointing to see that an error occurred on every single message.

With nothing else left to do, he turns on the flashlight of his phone to inspect the casket he’s lying inside. It’s nothing special, just dark wood. But then he sees something. On his left side something small was carved into the wood.

“Keep Still” 

How strange… But beneath that, something else is written. 

“Not Alone”

A shiver runs down his spine. Is this some kind of joke? A mistake? Someone carved that into a casket, and that someone knew that the person that’ll be inside this casket will be alive. Nothing makes sense. Not alone? He’s not alone? And why should he keep still? Is this other person not allowed to hear him?

Everything about this feels like a dream—no, it feels like a terrible nightmare. A terrible nightmare he’ll hopefully wake up from now. He pinches himself, but he’s still in the casket. 

Hours pass of this terrible silence where he can only hear his heartbeat and own breathing. But that tiring silence eventually gets interrupted by shifting. He can hear shifting around his casket. Like something is digging around him. He shuts his eyes tightly and tries to focus on the noise. Is it a mole? But as the noise comes closer, he realizes it’s way too big to just be a mole. 

The closer it comes, the bigger it sounds. He can also hear its breathing. For some reason it sounds hungry. Very hungry. Scarily hungry. He starts to get nervous. Is that what “Not Alone” meant? Is that the thing that disrupts his solitude in this narrow and thick-aired grave? 

His thoughts are interrupted by something bumping against the casket. The next thing he can hear is intense sniffing. He starts holding his breath and stops moving completely. Whatever that thing is, he knew it definitely isn’t friendly.

The louder the sniffing gets, the more scared he gets. From nervousness to fear. From fear to terror. Terror.

He’s terrified. Terrified of whatever this hungry beast was that’s breathing so harshly and sniffing the casket. He can hear it digging around him, the force of its body causing his surroundings to vibrate. Suddenly it stops moving.

Is it… listening? 

He’s been quiet this entire time, so the risk of it hearing the poor man was low, but he’s still so utterly terrified. What if his heartbeat is too loud? He can’t hold his breath for much longer; he’ll have to take a breath soon.

At this point he’s practically shaking. He tries so hard to hold still, but it wasn’t possible. The terror he felt just got so much more intense. What if his shaking is going to make the creature know about his presence? 

The next few seconds felt like torture, but to his luck, the creature dug itself away from him. As it’s far enough away, he takes a deep breath and starts panting a little. It’s gone… whatever that was is now gone. 

There was still only one problem present - he’s still buried underground. As he tries to think of a solution to distract himself from whatever that thing was, he can suddenly hear digging again, but not from around him. It’s from above. It also sounds different - like three main motions repeating themselves over and over. Something being stuck into the earth, a part of the earth being lifted up, and then the sound of it being thrown away and landing on the surface.

This is the sound of humans digging. With a shovel. Someone was digging him out. Finally, he can get out of here! Soon he can feel the casket being lifted up and placed somewhere. He was smiling. It’s over now! This nightmare of being buried alive is over!

The casket door is being opened, and immediately he sits up and tries to get out, but something stops him. The people around him, the ones that dug him out, look surprised, shocked, and one even disappointed. His smile immediately falters as one of them opens their mouth to speak.

“You survived it?”

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚆𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚜

There was a space.

A space between the walls.

It was there when we moved in. Me and my dog. Just us

Right at the end of the hallway. You could barely see it. Just where the house turned, where the light barely reached. Barely casted a shadow.

I didn’t think nothing of it.

—

All I wanted was to retrieve the dog toy.

It had just happened to roll down the hall. It didn’t mean to.

Honest.

It was his favorite ball. He just flung it, it couldn’t be helped.

—

I went down the hall. It had to have bounced somewhere. It was bright yellow - the obnoxious kind of ball that squeaked broken when it was chewed.

The kind that lit up fluorescent when light shone on it.

I used my phone flashlight, assuming it had rolled under a cabinet or the vase by the bathroom.

None.

I looked everywhere.

Well, until I caught the bit of yellow in the corner.

I crouched, directing my phone light.

There it was.

On the ground, at the end. In the space in the wall.

—

I reached for it with my arm. I got to shoulder length, collarbone smushed against the wall.

No avail.

Out of reach.

My phone goes between my teeth, flashlight shining partially in the flesh of my cheek and in the expanse of nothingness. But there was the ball.

It looked like an easy fit.

—

I slotted my arm through. Easy shuffle, and next dips my chest. I had to suck in, but I fit. Phone still in my mouth, flash still on the ball.

My hips, my legs.

My face.

My body.

I can get in, I can get out.

—

I shuffle.

Nudging the toy with the sole of my foot.

It squeaks, defeated.

—

My fingers grip the wood in front of me, pressing into it and shimmying. Got to get out.

That damned ball.

It rolls to the very end, where I came out of.

Not all the way, but there.

Perfect.

—

It was suffocating feeling. Being between the two walls was becoming panicking.

Like sand being stuffed into your lungs. Filling your throat and weighing you down.

First came the shakes.

Then the fear. Frantic movements when I realized no, I cannot get out the way I came in.

I cannot get out.

Heavy breathing. Saliva coating the back of my phone, still in my mouth.

It was in my mouth.

At some point.

I don’t remember when I dropped it, I just remember that it fell.

I remember being stupid enough to crawl into a space that wasn’t meant for people.

—

I remember staring at something other than the bit of light that shines from the entry way. Head stuck tilted to the left, check pressed against the splintered wood paneling.

In the direction of that damned dog-toy, the bright yellow faded into a dust-covered grey.

The dog just comes and stares. Waiting.

Waiting for the ball that neither of us couldn’t quite reach.

Or, he used to.

He doesn’t come by anymore.

I don’t see my dog anymore.

I don’t hear my dog anymore.

—

I Think Someone’s Watching Me Through the TV Reflection

I don’t know if anyone will believe me, and honestly, I don’t care anymore. I need to get this out somewhere.

I live alone in a small apartment. Nothing fancy—tiny kitchen, creaky floors, TV across from the couch, the usual. I’ve always liked having the TV on in the background. Static noise helps with the silence. Until last week.

It started with the reflection.

I was watching something late at night, the room mostly dark except for the flickering screen. I paused the episode to grab a snack. As I stood up, I saw it in the TV’s black screen—a shape. Behind me. In the hallway.

I spun around. Nothing. Just my coat hanging off a chair. I laughed it off. I really did.

But then the texts started.

Unknown Number:

do you always watch alone?

I blocked it. Of course I blocked it. But new numbers kept texting. Different ones. Always a little too specific.

Unknown Number:

the reflection likes you. you shouldn’t turn off the screen tonight.

I started unplugging the TV at night. But then the whispers began.

It’s not like they’re in the apartment. It’s like they’re in the silence. Behind the white noise. I turn off the fridge and they get louder. I leave the TV unplugged and the air feels heavier.

Last night, I gave in. I plugged the TV back in, just to see if it would stop.

And the screen was already on.

Static.

Except, it’s not random static. There’s a face in it. Barely visible, like it’s pressing against the glass from the other side. I swear it moved when I looked closer.

I’m not sleeping anymore.

If this is some prank, I don’t care. If this is real—I don’t know what it wants.

But if I go missing, check the reflection.

The Whistle

It was 11:30 in the morning, and the school grounds were quieter than usual. Most students had already shuffled inside for class, but Sky and Talia lingered outside, taking their time with lazy footsteps and casual conversation.

“So that’s what happened yesterday,” Sky said, finishing her story with a sigh.

Talia snorted. “Sounds stupid.”

“That’s because it was stupid.”

A small hum escaped Talia’s throat in agreement. She let her arms swing at her sides, eyes drifting across the empty school yard. Then her expression shifted—just slightly—as something else came to mind.

“Oh, have you heard about that new creepypasta character?”

Sky raised an eyebrow. “Creepypasta? No. What character?”

“They call him The Mimic,” Talia said, eyes bright with the kind of curiosity that always danced around horror stories. “Apparently he can shape-shift. Like, into anything. People, objects, whatever.”

Sky tilted her head. “Okay, that’s actually kinda cool. How do people even know he exists?”

Talia looked around for a moment before answering, her voice dropping just a bit. “Some people said they saw him changing shape before they were attacked. But there’s something else—right before he strikes, they say you hear this weird, creepy whistling.”

They both stopped walking, instinctively scanning the area. The breeze blew gently across the field, ruffling leaves and whispering through the trees, but other than that, there was nothing unusual.

“Well,” Sky said, trying to shake off the chill that had snuck up her spine, “that’s cool, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Talia murmured, already turning toward the school. “We should head inside.”

Sky nodded and followed for a few steps—then cursed under her breath when she felt something loose. Her shoe was untied.

She crouched down to fix it, fingers fumbling with the laces. Just as she tightened the last knot, a soft, eerie whistling drifted through the air behind her.

Faint. Slow. Almost playful.

Sky froze.

She stood up slowly, heart thudding in her chest. “Talia?” she called, trying to laugh it off, her voice cracking just a little. “If that’s you messing with me, you’re not funny.”

She rounded the corner toward the front entrance of the school—then stopped dead in her tracks.

Talia was lying on the pavement. Her limbs were limp, her eyes open but unblinking. She didn’t move.

Sky staggered back a step, panic bubbling up in her throat. “Talia?”

Behind her, something creaked.

The bench she had passed moments ago began to shift, its shape warping in unnatural, sickening ways. Metal bent like clay. The wooden slats stretched and split, folding in on themselves.

And then the thing stood up.

No longer a bench. No longer anything human.

It grinned at her with too many teeth. And began to whistle.

Sky didn’t scream. She couldn’t. The sound stole the breath right from her lungs.

All she could do was run.

A really silly story I wrote as a kid.

Killer Korner

When I told him what street I was going on, he shook his head and called me an idiot. I didn't care for his opinion though. He's just my boss. So I walked.

I liked walking. It calmed me down. I had done it through many streets.

But, I had never walked down this street before.

It was called Stonecrystal Lane. Sounds magical.

It's not.

Everyone in my town knows that. It was a small town, called GreevesVille.

No one in GreevesVille would go near Stonecrystal Lane. Why? Why don't you ask one of the twenty four dead bodies found on that street? That's right. It is a murder street. That's where it got it's nickname, Killer Korner.

The police say there could be other explanations than murder. Please, GreevesVille, the billions of stab marks found on the victims and I would like to disagree. Either they are too embarrassed to admit they can't find the killer, hiding the fact that they still go out in the middle of the night and cut people up, or just doesn't care. GreevesVille doesn't exactly have the best police force out there.

Maybe it seems childish to blame the police on these murders. Well maybe it is. But it's better than no theory at all, right?

Anyways, you're probably wondering why I'm going on a slaughter street. Hey, Slaughter Street.

That's good.

Anyway, everyone in this town would call it stupid. Well, maybe it is.

Maybe I shouldn't have walked into the depths of Killer Korner, hands shoved in my pockets, whistling as I completely ignored the warnings in my brain. But I had already decided, Hey, why not?

I meant, it's not like everybody who goes on the street get butchered up. Unless only twenty-four people have gone on that street, which is doubtful. It's not like it was called Killer Korner since day one, It was Stonecrystal Lane. And no way only twenty-four people would go on a street called Stonecrystal Lane in ten years. But, anyways...

Maybe I should've brought a weapon.

A pocket knife. A switch blade. Even a glass bottle to break the bottom when I hear something.

Maybe I shouldn't have gone unarmed.

Or at all.

But a murder hasn't been committed in two years. Of course, no one has been on that street in two years, but hey, maybe the killer got bored and left. Maybe.

It was when I heard a noise when I wanted that pocket knife. That switchblade. That glass bottle to break the end. But, all I had was a piece of string.

Then I realized how paranoid I was being. It was a leaf crunching under my feet.

I continued, though I still scanned the dump, hoping to find something to defend myself with. Who knows what could be laying around in a street kids dubbed Killer Korner.

I sucked in a nervous breath, and glanced around. Slaughter Street wasn't too bad. Yes, the eerie quietness does send chills down your spine, and the empty, broken down, abandoned houses sends a shiver through your bones. The loneliness making you want to dash off running.

But, if you ignore all that, it's not such a bad place. Then again, maybe it was a dump.

I continued my trek down the creepy street.

I heard a footsteps. And froze.

What was that?!

I slowly turned around.

Next time I decide to go down a street with the name of Killer Korner, please convince me not to. Convince me before I have a tall, masked, bloody being staring back at me. Before I'm staring at a white, blood-stained mask that covers everything except those dark, brown, blood-lustful eyes, and my petrified reflection staring back at me from a monstrous-sized knife.

It was when the hulking blade hurled towards me, a thought struck me before the sharp steel did:

It didn't matter what the street was called.

Stonecrystal Lane.

Killer Korner.

Slaughter Street.

GreeveVille's Butcher house.

Or even Gummy Bear Boulevard.

Those facts didn't mattered.

The facts that did matter, though, was that in a small town, on a small street, twenty-five corpses will have touched the dulled asphalt. No one to be punished for their macabre crime.

And if you ignore everyone's warnings, too, then well, twenty-six.

The Devil's Wheel

The Devil’s Wheel

“If you say yes,” said the Devil, “a single man, somewhere in the world, will be killed on the spot. But three million dollars is nothing to sneeze at, missus.”

“What’s the catch?” You squint at him suspiciously over the red-and-black striped carnival booth. You’re smarter than he thinks you are– a devil deal always has a catch, and you’re determined to catch him before he catches you. 

“Well, the catch is that you’ll know you did it. And I’ll know, too. And the big man upstairs’ll know, I ‘spose. But what’s the chariot of salvation without a little sin to grease the wheels? You can repent from your mansion balcony, looking out at your waterfront views, sipping a bellini in your eighties. But hey, it’s up to you– take my deal or leave it.”

The Devil lights a cigar without a match, taking an inhale, and blowing out a cloud of deep, sweet-smelling tobacco laced faintly with something that reminds you of rotten eggs. If he does have horns, they’re hidden under his lemon yellow carnival barker hat. He wears a clean pinstripe suit and a red bowtie. No cloven hooves, no big pointy fork, but you know he’s the Devil without having to be told. Though he did introduce himself.

He’s been perfectly polite. 

You know you need the money. He knows it too, or he wouldn’t have brought you here, to this strange dark room, whisking you away from your new house in the suburbs as fast as a wish. Now you’re in some sort of warehouse, where all the windows seem to be blacked out– or, maybe, they simply look out into pitch darkness, though it is the middle of the day. A single white spotlight shines down on the two of you. 

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” you say. “I bet the man is someone I know, right? My husband?”

“Could be,” the Devil says with a pointed grin. “That’s for the wheel to decide.”

He steps back and raises his black-gloved hand as the tarp flies off of the large veiled object behind him. The light of the carnival wheel nearly blinds you. Blinking lights line the sides. Jingling music blares over speakers you can’t see. The flickering sign above it reads:

THE DEVIL’S WHEEL

“Step right up and claim your fortune,” the Devil barks. “Spin the wheel and pay the price! Or leave now, and a man keeps his life.”

You examine the wheel. 

The gambling addict

The doting boyfriend

The escaped convict

The dog dad

The secretive sadist

“These are all the possible men I can kill?” You ask, thumbing the side of the wheel. It rolls smoothly in your hand. Then you quickly stop, realizing that this might constitute a spin under the Devil’s rules. He flashes a smile at you, watching you halt its motion. 

“Addicts, convicts, murderers– plenty of terrible options for you to land on, missus!”

“Serial wife murderer?”

“Now who would miss a fellow like that? I can guarantee that the whole world would be better off without him in it, and that’s a fact.”

The hard worker

The compulsive liar

The animal torturer

The widower

The desperate businessman

The failed musician

The beloved son

“My husband is on here too,” you say. 

“Your husband Dave, yes. The wheel has to be fair, otherwise there’s simply no stakes.”

“I know what’s gonna happen,” you say, crossing your arms. “This wheel is rigged. I’m gonna spin it around, and it’ll go through all the killers and stuff, and then it’s gonna land on my husband no matter what.”

“Why, I would never disgrace the wheel that way,” the Devil says, wounded. “I swear on my own mother’s grave– may she never escape it. In fact, take one free spin, just to test it out! This one’s on me, no death, no dollars.”

You cautiously reach up to the top of the wheel and feel its heaviness in your hand. The weight of hundreds of lives. But also, millions of dollars. You pull the wheel down and let it go.

Clackity-clackity-clackity-clackity

Round and round it goes. 

The college graduate

The hockey fan

The Eagle Scout

The cold older brother

The charming younger brother

The two-faced middle child

The perfectionist

The slob 

Your husband Dave

Clackity-clackity-clackity.

Finally, the wheel lands on a name. A title, really.

The photographer

“Hmm, tough, missus, but that’s the way of the wheel. But hey, look! Your husband is allllll the way over here,” he points with his cane to the very bottom of the wheel, all the way on the other side from where the arrow landed. “As you can see, it’s not rigged. The wheel truly is random.”

“So… there really isn’t another catch?” You ask. 

“Isn’t it enough for you to end a man’s life? You need a steeper price? If you’re really such a glutton for punishment, I’ll gladly re-negotiate the terms.”

“No, no… wait.” You examine the wheel, glancing between it and the Devil.

You really could use that three million dollars. Newly married, new house, you and your husband’s combined debt– those student loans really follow you around. He’s quite a bit older than you, and even he hasn’t paid them off yet, to the point where the whole time you were dating you watched him stress out about money. You had to have a small, budget wedding, and a small, budget honeymoon. Three million dollars could be big for the two of you. You could re-do your honeymoon and go somewhere nice, like Hawaii, instead of just taking two weeks in Atlantic City. You deserve it. 

Even so, do you really want to kill an innocent photographer? Or an innocent seasonal allergy sufferer? Or an innocent blogger? Just because you don’t know or love these people doesn’t mean that someone doesn’t. 

The cancer survivor

The bereaved

The applicant

Some of these were so vague. They could be anyone, honestly. Your neighbors, your father, your friends…

The newlywed

The ex-gifted kid

The uncle

The Badgers fan

“My husband is a Badgers fan,” you say.

“How lovely,” the Devil says. 

Then it hits you.

Of course.

The weightlifter.

The careful driver.

The manager.

The claustrophobe.

Your husband Dave lifts weights at the gym twice a month. You wouldn’t call him a pro, but he does it. He also drives like he’s got a bowl of hot soup in his lap all the time, because he’s afraid of being pulled over. He just got promoted to management at his company, and he takes the stairs to his seventh-story office because he hates how small and cramped the elevator is.

“I get your game,” you announce. “You thought you could get me, but I figured you out, jackass!” “Oh really? What is my game, pray tell?” The Devil responds, leaning against his cane.

“All these different titles– they’re all just different ways to describe the same guy. My husband isn’t one notch on the wheel, he’s every notch. No matter what I land on, Dave dies. I’m wise to your tricks!” 

The Devil cackles. 

“You’re a clever one, that’s for sure. I thought you’d never figure it out.”

“Thanks but no thanks, man,” you say with a triumphant smirk. “I’m no rube. No deal. Take me back home.”

“As you wish, missus,” the Devil says. He snaps his fingers, and you’re gone, back to your brand-new house with your new husband. “Don’t say I never tried to help anyone.”

Angelic monster

A short horro story I wrote:)

TW: Blood & psychological horror

I've been such a coward.

Never before have I stooped this low.

Never before have I done something like this out of fear.

Yes, it's all because of a fear that can thoroughly be explained and the reason is an understandable one.

But somehow the feeling I got from doing it hasn't left me.

It's like it's slowly rubbing my back, poisoning my skin.

It has burned itself deep into my soul and the chills I got from that day still haven't disappeared in the slightest.

I dislike this feeling.

I hate this memory.

It feels like I will have to watch my back until my last breath.

That day I went with my students to do research on a strange cave that had been recently found, I'm a teacher you see.

We were driven there by the group that secretly had been holding my family hostage, I knew, but pretended not to and I was lucky that none of my students noticed.

The group wanted me to investigate this cave in order for more power.

It was said that monsters had been created from this cave.

The research I had done before had proven that somehow it's real.

That's when they found out.

My God, why did I have to find it?!

Why did I have to be the one to do this?

If I could go back in time...

Well it doesn't matter anymore now, everyone is dead.

All my students have been killed, every single one of them.

I still remember all their faces, I still remember their ideas, their wishes and the possible futures they could have had.

Well... I don't really want to go on about them anymore.

We found and caught the monster that was needed for the group's project. They needed a weapon and that's the one they wanted.

A monster that could destroy cities with ease.

Somehow the one we found looks much different from what had been foretold in the stories I had studied, no hairy paws or yellow eyes, but it was a monster nonetheless.

A monster of great skill and strength beyond that of a simple human being.

Now years later, the monster sits before me.

It has an almost angelic appearance, with white wings on its back like a lower class angel from the bible.

Its skin is dark grey, its form almost human, and covered with small white feathers, except for on its neck, face and claws. The head somehow has longer feathers growing out of it, like the hair on a human's head.

Its claws are like a combination of that from a bird and the hands of a person.

Having five 'fingers' on each hand that are more longer and slender than that of a human being and of course ending in sharp nails.

The other researchers and I have been unable to find out the gender of the creature, which is another strange thing. But then again, it's just a monster, nothing more, nothing less. It has already killed so many.

It snuffed out their lives like it was nothing and it will surely do so again.

Somehow, by continued teaching it has mastered the human language.

And now it sits before me, eerily calm.

There is a thick glass wall between us, since this monster is being used by the group as a weapon and is of course still a danger to everyone.

"Professor, what is it that you wanted to talk about?" the monster asks politely.

I can feel myself growing irritated by its tone.

Since when did it believe to address me by 'Professor'? That was reserved for my students, not this monstrosity.

Still I decide to let it slide for now, I don't want to anger it.

"Well..." I hesitate, while mustering up the courage: "It's about that day."

"I see." The monster looks down, does it remember? Does it feel guilt for what it has done?

"The day you found me, I assume." It guesses.

I nod: "That day I will never forget how you slaughtered my students." I almost growl at it whilst glaring.

"I didn't." It answers as if trying to hide its guilt.

I hate it.

I hate this monster.

"I want to know what went down there." I demand it: "How did you get there and why were you there?"

The monster hesitates for a moment but then begins to answer: "Well, I don't remember too much about that place. I believe that there are things I don't know about it at all."

"Be more clear."

"Yes, professor, I'm sorry."

"Quit calling me that." I guess I'm saying it now anyways.

It stops for a moment, almost looking shocked from my sudden burst of anger. Well it probably doesn't feel that anyway, I must have imagined it.

Then it nods as I sign to it that it should continue.

"From what I heard about the cave, it could be used as a way to conjure up monsters or demons."

"Go on."

"I don't think you would want to hear it."

"Continue." I say glaring at the monster.

It sighs in discomfort and then does as told: "I believe that there is something inside that cave that has the ability to turn something or someone who enters into a so-called monster."

"Yes, we noticed with the rat."

"Pro- erm, I mean sir, why did those students got sent inside? If you knew-."

I don't let it finish: "It was an emergency."

I was powerless that day, I couldn't do anything. It's not my fault.

"So, then do you remember entering the cave?"

To my displeasure the monster shakes its head: "No I don't. There are no memories from before I awoke."

"Awoke?"

"The moment I heard their screams."

"Well you are the monster of that place after all."

"Sir, I actually don't believe that to be the case."

Annoyed, I look at it: "And what the hell does that mean?"

"Like some of the other scientists say, I don't believe to have come from there, nor am I the creature you have been looking for. I'm just too different."

"They are just toying with you, giving you false hope, you're a monster after all."

Is it just me or did it seem slightly annoyed when I called it what I did?

No that can't be.

For a moment it remains silent.

"But then, isn't the monster in this situation yourself?" The monster then asks me as if it was something completely normal.

"What?! No! You're the monster, you are the reason they died." I panic, wondering what it is trying to do to me..

"I didn't kill them. I tried to save them all."

"Bullshit! You killed them, you were covered in blood when we found you!" I yell as I feel my face growing red. Why would it say such terrible things?

Somehow the monster remains completely calm.

"I didn't kill them." It repeats: "I tried to save them, but the one who went rampant was already killing the others even before I awoke."

"SHUT UP!"

But the monster continues: "I saved one person though, the girl, one of your students, she left the cave alive."

Rage has filled my mind and I'm unable to think clearly.

"I didn't do anything wrong!!!" I yell, slamming my fist against the glass.

But then calmly the angelic monster throws the undeniable truth in my face:

"Wasn't it you who pulled the trigger?"

Now Available!

itch.io

meat4meat by wolfpaper

Transgender and Disabled Body Horror Anthology

meat4meat is a body horror anthology featuring a foreword by @cryptotheism, stories from eighteen disabled and/or transgender authors including Claudine Griggs (as featured in Netflix's Love Death Robots), @masonhawthorne, @horrorsong, @jayahult, and many more, illustrated by several other trans and/or disabled artists including @magistelle, @himecommunism, @receptor-modulator, and more!

I can’t go home. There are only a few places open this late and I am walking. I leave a trail of footprints in the powdery snow. The music hall in the middle of town is playing a local band no one has heard of and a single popup store sits outside. I go to the window. The clerk is on her phone in the small cramped cart. Her screen goes dark and she looks up. Her hair is deep brown and tied back so neat and boxy you’d think it was a nun’s habit.

“Hot chocolate,” I say.

The clerk is nonplussed. She takes my money. Her habit-like-hair is stiff and doesn’t shift as she nods and counts my ones. She moves from one end of the little cart to the other with a Styrofoam cup. 

She carries the sugar-thick hot chocolate in one hand and it lets out a thick steam. I am sure she made it too hot. She stops. Her gaze draws up and over my shoulder. Her pupils expand and shoulders rise almost to her ears.

She glances at my face and then away again. Her lips are thin and uncolored. She mouths the words like an unskilled ventriloquist, “do you need me to call someone?”

I shake my head and take the cup and the texture is squeaky and flakes off in my grip. I walk. My footprints mark the powder-white snow and my city only has a few places open at this time of night. My legs are numb with cold and my eyes ache from lack of sleep. I am grateful for the street lights which are all a pale blue color that is supposed to help the birds. I am a bird person, I think, if I was going to be anything.

Cars pass and I am grateful for those too. I reach the street of little cramped stores, one after the next. A fabric store. A second-hand book store. Florists and boutique shoe shops. All too charming to be supportive. The Walmart is just outside our small town limits and I can’t go home.

Across the street, the pub has lowlights on and voices rumble like a thunderstorm from within. I don’t think the rest of the town likes the pub. The bar has one long window made up of colored glass in muted reds and blues and yellows. It reminds me of church windows and leaves the impression of making up for it. Making up for being what it is.

I square my shoulders and push my way in. The air is warm and floor a good type of dark wood. The tables are full enough to be considered a party–or, what I imagine a party to be like. I hadn’t noticed the dusting of snow on my hoodie, and shook it off like dandruff.

The man behind the counter gives me a cursory look. He is a big man with a large mouth and wears frowns like he’s making up for something too. “Mark isn’t here,” he says in a further cursory manner. I shake my head and make my way to the counter. I hadn’t finished my hot chocolate and clutch the Styrofoam cup in both hands.

“Warm up?” I ask but Steven Plyer, the barkeep, is looking over my shoulder. He mouths to himself silently like he’s working out a math problem under his breath.

Two men, big and strapping, move away from the bar’s church-like window. They take seats at the end of the bar and Steven Plyer, the barkeep, leans over the counter. His pupils are ink-dipped coins. I fiddle with the ends of my sleeves. He looks over my shoulder just as I push my hot chocolate closer over the counter.

“There’s a whole world out there,” he says.

I close my eyes. “I know.”

“You don’t have to go.”

I shake my head and Steven Plyer takes my hot chocolate and disappears behind the swinging doors to the back. The rest of the men have moved away from the window and sit on either side of me. They murmur in voices too low to hear.

The oldest of them, a man that smells like leather, stands. His voice has a vibrating quality, unsmooth, dragging out the “a’s” like a regal sheep. “Do your parents know?”

Steven Plyer returns with my hot chocolate steaming and passes it to me with both hands. I get up because the old man needs my seat, I think. The first two men huddle by the front door, coats on and heads bent together like prayer, and I leave without them. The snow is no longer powder but inch-thick fluff. I kick up the fluff with each step and the silver hangs about me like fairy lights, I imagine. I take a sip of hot chocolate and it is too hot and too sweet and you can be grateful for that too.

The sidewalk ends and I walk alongside the side of the road just on the edge of the white line. I think I can see the lights of the Walmart beyond the lights of the city. Trees gather on either side and I miss the blue glow of the street lights and the concerned gaze of the clerk in her tiny cart. I wish she had come with me. I wish Steven Plyer had called me by name.

A solitary car passes and its stark white headlights blare against the night, more violent than kind, and I have to shield my eyes. The car is red and large and pulls to stop on the other side of the road. The window rolls down and a curly-haired woman sticks her head out. Her face is small and elfish and mouth pinches together at the corners. She wears a tight shirt buttoned up all the way to her throat like it might hold her in.

The head beams glow perpendicular to me and I regard the woman as she regards me. She is slow to speak. Slower than the men at the bar had been.

“Get in,” she says, buttoned-up to the throat and with eyes more tired than sad.

“No,” I say and take a sip from the hot chocolate. It’s cold.

Her windshields wipe away the snow and she looks over her dashboard. Her voice is breathy in the way of a Hollywood actress from a bygone era. “I’m worried.”

I nod. They all are. “That can be enough.”

Her mouth zips together into an angry line. She sticks her head out the window, close to a snarl, looking past me, and honks her horn in one long blast. I shy away from the noise and the too-brightness of her head beams. She drives with her head out the window, honking her horn over and over again as loud as she can.

I walk and there are no more cars. The snow settles over my shoulders and I don’t bother to dust off my hood or warm my hands. I leave the white line and walk in the middle of the road. The lights of the Walmart warm the night just outside of town and I can make out the outline of parked cars in the distance. They’re aren’t that many places open this late at night. 

I slow to a stop and sway a bit, like I'm drunk, I think, if this is what that's like. A second pair of footprints mark the snow in front of me. When had that happened? I tilt my head all the way back. The clouds are bright like daylight and snow growing heavy. I think it will all be glittering when the morning comes.

FIN

My book! 🐈 Newsletter

in the rain

A short horror story I wrote last year, I'm surprised to find out I hadn't posted it here before.

Word count: 1848

TW: psychological horror

The sound of the gentle tapping of the rain on my window awakens me.

Just by glancing over at the window I can see the dark autumn sky even though it must still be around noon.

Slowly I get up from the couch, I must have dozed off for a minute or so.

I walk over to my kitchen to see if there is anything to eat.

Opening all the cabinets and finally the freezer, I discover that I'm all out of food.

Damn, I forgot, it's grocery day today... and I still have to go out with this shitty weather.

Still I ready myself to go outside, I take my dark green raincoat and a bag.

I put on my shoes and finally leave, locking the door behind me, walking towards the nearest bus stop.

I know I'm being lazy, walking that distance can be done in about half an hour, but still this weather seems to only be getting worse.

As I turn around to face the weather I feel the cool breeze going through my coat and the water gliding off my face.

A greeting from the outside, a cold and wet greeting.

Quickly I make a run for the bus stop.

Each time one of my feet hit the middle of a puddle, the water flies around me, making me feel like a little kid playing in the rain.

It takes a couple of minutes for me to reach the small square hut, known locally as the bus stop.

I live in the middle of nowhere anyway.

As I finally lay eyes on it I almost dive for cover under the roof.

I know it doesn't really matter, I'm already soaked, but still, it brings me comfort.

Immediately I notice that I'm not alone.

Someone else is standing beside me.

Most likely also waiting for the bus to come.

Their face is obscured by their coat... Their dark green coat.

Did he get it at the same store as me?

For a while we awkwardly stand next to each other, not speaking a word, or perhaps letting the rain itself do the talking.

Cold seconds pass slowly and eventually I can't take it anymore.

"So... uhh... the weather is pretty bad, éh?"

I know the question is bad, small talk is not everyone's favorite, but worse than that, I don't get a response at all.

And we are back at listening to the rain and just standing next to one another, but this one more awkwardly than before.

The person next to me didn't show any sign of even hearing me.

Finally the bus arrives and I get on.

I look back, but the person behind me doesn't seem to be moving in the slightest.

Does he even breathe? I really can't tell.

"Hey man? Didn't you need to take the bus too?" I call over to him, gesturing that he can go in, but again he doesn't move at all.

I shake my head and then turn it towards the bus driver.

Unlike the usual uniform, they seem to be wearing another dark green raincoat. Almost exactly like mine, or perhaps it's completely the same...

I show the chauffeur my ticket, but he doesn't move a muscle.

Quietly I turn around to look further inside the vehicle.

It's almost completely empty, except for a few strangers dressed with the same dark green jacket.

For a moment I hesitate.

Do I really want to be on this bus?

But then the squeaking doors behind me close, cutting off my only escape route.

Obediently I take a seat, trying not to look around me and just stare out of the window.

When the bus finally comes to a halt at my stop I get out as fast as I can.

Strangely enough this is the first stop it made, no one got on and no one got off.

As I step outside, I am greeted by more rain, falling down even heavier than before.

Quickly I race towards the store and feel a sense of relief wash over me as I finally reach the entrance and hear the familiar chime.

The bright light hurts my eyes, it's a lot brighter than outside after all.

I let out a shivering sigh from the cold. It might be less warm here than outside, or perhaps it's because of how wet my clothes have gotten.

The water has gone right through my coat after all.

I notice my breath leaving my mouth in small clouds and rub my hands together for some warmth.

I guess it must be cold here after all.

Carefully I look around, it seems that I'm the only customer inside the store.

I should probably hurry up, I'm not sure if there will be many buses leaving after I'm done with shopping.

I take a shopping cart and start to move around the store.

Taking with me things for breakfast, things for lunch, things for dinner and of course some snacks.

Eventually I find myself next to an aisle that's entirely empty.

"How strange..." I mutter to myself: "I was sure these were filled just last week..."

I take a few steps back, towards the fridges where they keep milk and stuff.

Something about it seems off.

Carefully I take a closer look.

It looks like all the cartons of milk from the highest shelf to the lowest have all been cut in half in a straight row.

No, cut isn't the word.

More like half of it has been melted off.

The contents are spilled all over the floor.

As I inspect the next row, I see that these all have half-faded packaging.

I look up to find a huge dark stain on the ceiling above it, water is slowly dripping down onto those products and the floor.

It's almost as if the rain is washing it all away.

Quickly I leave for the check-out and find another one behind the counter.

A person, dressed with the same raincoat as mine, somehow still with a faded nametag on their chest, too faded to read.

Honestly it looks a bit silly.

Their hood is up and they look down, causing me to be unable to see their face just like with the others before.

I greet the 'worker' like normal even though he doesn't move at all and I hand them the money, which they don't take either, so I place it before them.

"Keep the change." I say, trying to joke away the fear I feel inside.

That is the truth after all.

I'm scared.

I'm terrified.

I'm terrified, but I don't want to let it show.

Everything about this day has been strange.

Normally I don't fall asleep during the day, normally I don't take the bus to the store, normally I don't stand waiting for a bus with a stranger...

Then there's the fact I haven't seen a single familiar face since I woke up. Why isn't anyone here when usually this store is filled with people I know?

I pick up the pace, too scared to look behind me.

What if they did move?

What if they did move, but only if I wasn't facing them.

What if they were right behind me, staring at me from underneath those hoods?

What if they wanted to do something to me?

I shake my head and enter the rainy and windy outside world again.

The rainfall has gotten even heavier.

I can barely keep my eyes open from all the water pouring down, only able to open them again as I blindly enter the bus stop.

This time I'm alone.

Though I doubt if that really is the case.

I mean, what if they're watching?

While waiting for the bus to come I look at my sleeve.

The dark green fabric has been completely soaked.

Why is it that we all wear the same? I think to myself.

Where and when did I even buy such an ugly thing?

I have another one, a blue one... right?

No, now that I think about it I'm not so sure.

This rain... it's making it difficult to remember.

The bus finally arrives for me to go home again.

Trying to avoid the spats coming from the sky, but failing, I enter the vehicle.

It's cold here too.

Like in the store small clouds leave my shivering mouth.

I look at the driver.

It's one of them again.

Or am I supposed to be one of them?

My coat shows our resemblance.

My hood is still up too.

I take it off and smile at the driver.

"Good afternoon sir, bad weather we're having, don't we?"

Suddenly I hear something moving in the back of the bus.

Multiple people dressed like me are sitting there, more than before.

All of them seem to stare at me from underneath their dark hoods.

I smile at them too, but now that I'm looking at them too they have stopped moving again completely.

The door behind me closes and I take a seat.

Everything feels so unwelcoming, it makes me feel a bit sad.

Looking outside of the window I appreciate the beautifully dreary scenery from my home.

It looks like the water levels have been rising far.

Much further than it normally would.

Almost like the water is trying to swallow it all up.

I'm glad I live up high.

We drive past a small cliff.

I look down at the water through the window.

The rain is still relentlessly hitting the windows, coming down unforgivingly at the windows, making me scared that it could shatter them any moment.

It has become a droning noise overtaking any thought I might have had as suddenly, I feel light.

Everything starts feels like going in hyper speed.

The bus has made a turn.

A turn off the cliff.

And we hit the water before I even realized what was going on.

It's all going so fast and yet, none of them moved even an inch.

All of the other 'passengers' keep sitting the way they sat before, not even trembling because of the fall. Making it look like they were plastic figures glued to their respective benches.

Windows break and water starts to pour in even faster than the rain.

Loudly I curse and get up from my seat in a daze.

My head is pounding terribly, did I hit something?

I'm not sure.

It just hurts.

The vehicle starts to sink and I start to panic.

A heavy tree branch falls through one of the small windows in the ceiling.

I jump back, but then see that it has shattered the entire window and created a way for me to get out.

The water is rising higher and higher and I reach for the window.

Now the people in the bus do start to move.

In a strange and shocking way.

Moving like they have never used a limb before.

Crawling around, stumbling around, a strange form of swimming.

Shit!

They're coming for me!

They're coming for me!!

They get closer and closer with their strange movements.

Trying to wrap their arms around me.

As I feel their freezing cold fingers touch me I kick around me as hard as I can.

"Stay away!" I yell: "Stay the Hell away!!"

Desperately I hold on to the branch.

The first few already have their hands wrapped around my ankles.

"Let me go!!!" I yell, kicking and screaming.

More hands.

And then they start to grip and pull.

The gray light from the sky starts to grow distant, my head is getting closer to the water.

The heavy rain has started pushing me down now too.

Pushing back my hands, letting me slide back down.

I've never seen or even felt a rain storm this heavy, it feels like it's trying to get rid of me.

Trying to clean this place by getting rid of me.

Like a ghost town being washed away by the rain...

My kidnappers didn’t know I was pregnant when they locked me in this cage

At least I’ll be able to eat soon.

2 Sentence horror story by u/traumafactory28 on Reddit.

Another short story I wrote as a kid. Not too bad, but a little cliche. If I come up with something better I will rewrite it.

Hide-And-Seek

I forced myself to breathe softly, praying I wouldn’t be heard. His footsteps drew near, closer, closer, before the door slowly creak open, and I let out a blood-curdling scream.

Josh took a step back, aghast. I got up from my hiding spot in the bedroom.

"Sorry," I said.

"Why did you scream? I wouldn’t have found you."

"I can’t help it, it’s a force of habit!"

"It’s 12 AM! You’ll wake someone up!"

Alex’s brother is at the store, and her parents are working the nightshift. Who am I going to wake up, the house?!"

"The neighbors,"

"Whatever,"

I followed him as we scouted for our other two friends, Alex and Sarah. First, we found Alex. Then a big, nasty, hairy spider. Then Sarah. Then, oh wait. It was my turn.

After I finished counting, I started my long, hard hunt. It took me ten minutes, until I could find the first person. It was Josh, in the closet, who grinned at me the entire time he followed me searching. Next was Sarah, behind the laundry machine, who made fun of me for taking too long. Last, was Alex, in a cabinet, who took the longest to find. We were awestruck at how she could fit in such a small space! When asked how she did it, she modestly replied "Don’t know, it’s not too hard."

It was at that moment, we heard a key turn in the front door. Alex whipped around and whispered "It’s Felix! Let’s surprise him by hiding in the basement!" We all tiptoed into the small room, and crouched behind the door. It was cramped, hot, and smelled faintly of old wood. Alex clicked off the light to avoid detection as the older boy finally got the door opened after struggling with the lock. Alex chuckled as her brother walked to the living room, muttering about how the little brats finally went to sleep. The T.V. clicked on, and I cringed at the sound of a familiar macabre scene of my well-disliked movie play on; the scene I loathed the most played at a grotesquely high volume.

We held in our giggles, waiting impatiently for him to near the door. The T.V. shut off. Silently, we listened. Felix groaned angrily, mumbling, "Dumb T.V." Silence. Then we heard a scream.

"Whoa!" he said. "What were you doing in there?"

"Playing hide and seek," we heard Alex’s voice reply, definitely not in the basement. I froze. My eyes widened at the click of the door lock, followed by Alex’s menacing laugh breaking the sinister silence.

It’s Whatever by u/BusyBusyLizzy on r/scarystories

So Cute You Could Die

I’ve never been a fan of babies. Actually, that’s putting it lightly.

But there’s few social taboos as huge as telling a parent that their newborn is anything less than beautiful. And, well, I find it hard not to be brutally honest when all babies resemble potatoes to me.

So when my social butterfly coworker Geraldine returned from maternity leave and started showing everyone a picture of her baby, I made sure to steer clear. Still, each water cooler break, my fellow employees’ transfixed reactions to her kid grew more sickly-sweet.

“Oh my gosh, you must be so proud” gushed sales rep Fiora, gazing down at the polaroid. “She’s so cute you could die!”

“How absolutely friggin precious!” sang file clerk Donny, holding up the photo to his face. “She’s so cute it just kills me!”

“Okay, you’re making my ovaries ache” trilled receptionist Mona, looking over the snapshot. “She’s cuter than a heart attack!”

At the time, I rolled my eyes at each of these effervescent displays and turned my attention back to my work. People often speak in those sorts of ridiculous exaggerations, so I thought nothing of it. Imagine my utter shock when I heard the news the following day.

Fiora, Donny and Mona had all been found dead in the parking garage, having seemingly suffered heart attacks the previous night.

It was an absolutely insane coincidence. All of them had looked at that baby photo of Geraldine’s and all had died in the same way, on the same day. I could draw no other conclusion: the picture of baby Brooklyn was cursed.

Sitting at my desk, barely concentrating, my mind jumped from possibility to possibility. Could her baby itself be some eldritch demon, killing people to hide its identity? Or was it harvesting their life source through the photo, to sustain itself?

My curiosity was simply too great to resist. I decided to finally glimpse this fatal frame for myself.

“Sure, I’ll look at your baby, Geraldine” I agreed as she thrust the picture out to me, too. Tentatively, I glanced down to see…

…a perfectly normal baby girl, sleeping in a cot. I felt fine. Nothing to indicate being cursed at all.

“Congratulations, Geraldine,” I replied, relieved. “She seems like a great daughter.”

Hours later as I’m leaving the office, I still can’t help but feel silly for believing there was ever a curse.

Suddenly, midway through unlocking my car, I feel a sharp prick in the side of my neck. I spin around in enough time to see Geraldine pulling a syringe out of me. Her eyes are incensed, her teeth gritted in maternal rage.

“What the hell!” I cry out as heart attack-inducing toxins surge through my body. Geraldine merely wags her finger.

“That’s the last time one of you idiots mistakes my baby son for a girl!”

Poor Comatose Souls

There are hospitals where people can hear the thoughts of coma patients.

When this technology was first invented, it came with caveats.

The first was that the machine only worked on a random handful of coma patients. This angered many heartbroken family members who’d excitedly waited for the technology.

The second was that the mind-scanning devices were not powered by electricity, but some proprietary secret.

Despite its exclusive, mysterious nature, this new technology yielded incredible results. Entire thoughts of a select few comatose were broadcast to their loved ones. Nostalgic memories, song lyrics and philosophical ruminations were streamed right from their brains into speakers, bringing closure to loved ones.

As an orderly at one of the few hospitals using this tech, I grew curious. Dr Wincott, the neuroscientist in charge of the comaprojection unit, was tightlipped and we were under strict orders never to pry for more info. If patients were a viable candidate for comaprojection, we’d project their thoughts.

But what about the rejected candidates? What would happen if the scanner was used on this majority? Surely it couldn’t worsen their situation if they’re already in a long-term coma?

One day my curiosity got the better of me. While doing my rounds, I snuck into the coma ward. I entered the room of one of the rejected coma patients, Mrs Flowers, a middle-aged woman in a coma for 3 years after being struck by a cyclist. Despite her long stay, she looked peaceful.

Nothing could’ve prepared me for what I heard from the speakers when I turned the mind-scanner on.

Howling, agonized, unrelenting screams. Minutes upon minutes of screaming. The sound was so guttural I nearly collapsed as Mrs Flowers’ comatose cries reverberated around the room.

By the time I switched it off, Dr Wincott had already been summoned by the cacophony.

“What the hell?!” I sputtered to him in the doorway. “Those were her screams! She’s conscious and suffering!”.

I pointed to her motionless in bed.

“That’s why it’s better not to use the device on most” Dr Wincott answered emotionlessly. “Some people are peaceful in comas. Their families pay top dollar to hear their thoughts. But most long-term patients are like Mrs Flowers.”

“Then why not pull the plug?! Raise the alarm about what they’re experiencing?!”

Dr Wincott just cackled, motioning to the scanner.

“What do you think is powering the tech in the first place? It’s those screams.”

I’d learned too much. As I tried to flee the building, I felt the sharp push of Dr Wincotts hands against my back. I tumbled down that flight of stairs…and straight into the coma I’m in now.

Within my comatose mind, I repeat this story to myself again and again on loop. Hoping someone uses the device on me and learns the truth. If you’re hearing this, please blow the whistle on Dr Wincott and comaprojection.

If you’re not, then it won’t be long until I’m screaming too.

If you’re itching for strange macabre and gorey short horror stories may I recommend this anthology by Adam Cesare, author of my favorite book series ever. Some of these stories definitely made me feel a little queasy

clown graveyard and its just one grave

The second half of the second sentence really slaps ya in the face

He went to open his drawer shortly after waking up at 3 AM. When he opened it, however, there was a huge, menacing tarantula that jumped out at him. As he went to bed, terrified, he forgot that his closet was open, the skeleton of the 34 year old man he killed in 1999 was seemingly invisible in the cover of the dangling clothes. It seemed as if it were always looking at him, menacingly, he felt shivers go up his spine when he saw the fear in the man’s eyes flash before his as he was recounting that night in November 1999.

This is a veryyyy short story I wrote probably a decade ago that might’ve been a good contender for r/shortscarystories if it was any good.

A Ticket

When John called me in this morning, I already knew why. A new case. That's what detective's do. They solve cases. Non-detectives can't even go near the crime scene.

It was a murder case. For the average person, this is some scary stuff. But with years of experience, you get used to it.

Everybody knows what a detective gets to do. It's like owning a ticket to investigate a crimes scene. Of course, it's all for work, and no play. But there is another advantage.

No one suspects the detective.