Opening Lines to Horror Stories I Have yet to Finish
Honestly haven’t started any of them aside from these run-on sentences, either.
The storm was coming, we had just run out of mayonnaise and it turns out his last earthly words would be, “It’s gotta be Heinz;” now, while I respect the deceased and their last wishes (intentional or otherwise) as much as anyone, we weren’t talking about ketchup, and I wasn’t about to deviate from my Hellmann’s brand loyalty — especially not with what was coming.
One of the last texts you ever want to get is one where someone asks you if they can FaceTime you to take you through their concept for a rhyming children’s book about some sort of Dark Lord they think they made up but that you know deep down in your heart actually exists in some form or another.
In hindsight, I absolutely should have listened to the psychic — and it looked like with the way things were going, I’d only live barely long enough to have made that realization.
“I’m dressed as myself aggressively gaining weight for a role, what’s it to you?” I said to the young trick-or-treater who called me out for being sans costume and then had the goddamn gall to ask me if I had anything other than Airheads.
I was half-watching the MLB playoffs on mute while questioning my general existence as the soundtrack from Halloween played in the background when she busted through the door carrying a Target bag dripping with what I could only assume was human blood.
I was trying to wrap up the sexting session before the edible kicked in when then came a light knocking at my door.
The Linkin Park Song “In the End,” but a polka cover version, ended and then it started again, which was when I realized that maybe I was actually in a circle of hell that I’d created in my mind.
It probably wasn’t a good sign that even the monster who lives under my bed was starting to get fully freaked out.
Turned out someone had been reading all the morbid jokes in the group chat and it had gotten us put on some sort of list.
I knew something was wrong when she didn’t cry, not even once, during Homeward Bound, and i was more than worried about what was now filling the void where her soul had once been.
“I can’t, for sure, or in good conscience, say there’s not some traces of Fentanyl in any of this,” she said as my head was starting to spin.
I’d just learned that it was intentionally spelled “Men’s Wearhouse” and wasn’t really coping with that epiphany all too well, so i sure wasn’t at all prepared for any more surprises.
It suddenly became apparent that I was becoming a shell of my former self, but that didn’t really matter too much anymore.
I’d always operated under the assumption that it would take a special kind of person to survive a zombie apocalypse even for a little bit, and that I lacked a lot of the fundamentals to fit that mold — including a stringent will to live, especially in a world where they would, most likely, no longer make Zyn.
Of course I’d finally landed a date with a smoke show I had no conceivable business matching with in the first place when the aliens decided to show up and clock block not only me, but all of humanity.
