Short Horrors
In the spirit of Halloween, several of our writers created short flash fictions within the theme of the holiday. Happy Halloween everybody, from the Revellations Staff.
Midnight Horror, Empty House
Natalie Lydick
When I got up in the middle of the night I did not expect to wander down the stairs, but something in my feet compelled me. The floorboards creaking undertow felt suddenly alien, but I didn’t slink back to bed. At the foot of the stairs I watched the curtains billow out of the corner of my eye, and it made my heart tap on the window to my nervous system. Why was I awake tonight?
If the dim light of the guest bedroom hadn’t called me I might’ve turned around, but instead I was shuffled in by persistent toes. The lamp in the guest bedroom glowed and buzzed, but the dark corners of the room didn’t speak at all. I crawled into the black part of the pull-out couch that didn’t reach the buzzing and settled in.
When the lamp snapped off the individual voids each swallowed me, and I turned to spoon a cold body pillow. The air was silent. The room was dark. The house was empty. The burning in my feet became static, and shutting my eyes brought me little relief. No one would haunt me tonight. I was the only ghost in the house.
Awful.
Nicole Sowers
Now listen, I’m not one for this sort of ridiculous thing, so don’t think I’m making this up.
I’m of sound mind, and my vision is well formed, please be assured.
On Friday night, pretty late, when everyone else had gone to a Halloween party of some sort, I was alone. Not that I mind being alone, I’m fine alone with my thoughts.
The fog was particularly thick that night, and it seemed to cling to every solid thing, like a swirling pool that dark things could hide in. It was well lit, with good visibility, but as I passed out of Muir towards PC, there was a hole that drew my eye. There was no denying it, I swear to you that Sun God, who was normally well lit and comforting, was completely, entirely, missing. The sound of rustling feathers drew my eye towards Mandeville, where I saw, creeping along quite slowly, the shadowy form of something not human. Lurching closer, the figure loomed upon me, and I was sure it was the end of my miserable life.
But it passed, and when I opened my eyes, that horrid bird was posed back where he always was. Watching me.
The Memory Under The Bed
Matthew Gustafson
A thud beneath the bed woke Alexandria from her sleep. The house was old enough to shy such ominous noises off as a sign of weakening materials. A gust of wind slammed a tree branch into the second story window. A miracle that it hadn’t been shattered. After all, this storm had persisted for three days. Alexandria was alone in that house with no way to leave due to the snow piling in front of the entrance.
Yet she knew this noise was out of the ordinary. The floor normally creaked at the legs of the bed. This sound came from directly under her and sounded like something hit the floor.
Someone.
As a young girl, Alexandria was told that the only real monsters were the ones we created. Illusions of thought, no more. Peering beneath the bed, only darkness revealed itself. Quietly, Alexandria drifted off to sleep. All that could hurt her were the memories of that awful night. Of that awful man. Of how he hid beneath her bed until she was fast asleep, waiting to strike.
Beneath her bed. Fast asleep. Falling with a thud.
No one has seen her leave the house since.
Dreams
Reese Welch
I see my death often in my dreams.
It’s never the same. Sometimes, I watch from a bird’s eye view as I walk off the edge of a cliff into a turbulent ocean below. My body flails as it crumbles against the rocks like a ragdoll. I don’t feel any pain. It’s as if I’m watching a movie.
Other times, I’m watching as a bystander. I watch as I walk into a dark alley, despite all my common sense telling me not to. Perhaps I’m looking for a shortcut home, I’m not sure. Either way, my wallet gets taken from me, and I receive a bullet to the gut in return.
Only on the rarest occasions do I find myself actually watching the scenarios play out from my own eyes. House fire, serial killer, train. These possibilities are never my fault.
After each and every one of these dreams, I wake up, gasping for air as I try to remember that it wasn’t real. But then I look down at my hands, translucent as the moonlight from my window passes through them, and I realize the truth.
I am dead, and one day I’ll remember how it happened.
A Cat’s Horror Story
Lauren Ring
There was a mysterious noise coming from the refrigerator. I stuck my paw beneath it but found only lint. Before I could search more, I heard a worse noise: a door had closed. I sprinted to the newly created wall and yowled, trying to reach my humans, but the only response was a sharp rebuke.
I slunk away. What had I been doing? Where were my humans? I passed the balcony and caught a glimpse of movement. I dropped into a hunting crouch. Out there! A squirrel! I had to catch it.
The squirrel chittered and flicked its tail, then hopped closer to the door. It was much bigger than I had thought it would be. My own tail drooped as the squirrel stared me down. Now its chitters sounded like the kind of laughter my humans made when I fell off the back of a chair. It hopped closer and closer, its dark eyes gleaming with malice. I couldn’t do it.
I ran for my humans, but I couldn’t get to them. They had closed their doors and made walls. But why did I want them? What was I doing?
I heard a mysterious noise coming from the refrigerator.
Untitled
Jeffrey Keller
“A life for a life,” the apparition growled. “That’s the offer.”
The man looked at the creature in front of him, a dark, featureless humanoid figure. A ring of blood on the ground encircled the creature.
“A… life?” He asked.
“The blood you have given me has brought me here. I require a life now. The life of a person close to your heart.”
The man thought to himself. What life would the creature take? Did it matter? He would give up anyone in his life for his chance at revenge. To kill the one who had taken so much from him.
“Do we have a deal?” the apparition asked.
“We do,” said the man with determination.
The creature’s hand stretched out towards him, becoming nearly solid.
“Then shake.”
The man grasped the creature’s hand. Tendrils of darkness extended from the hand, absorbing the man’s arm. He screamed.
The demon opened the eyes of its new body. Humans were so easy to manipulate. So willing to believe that a magical being would do their bidding. They were truly a despicable species. The demon’s first task completed, it turned its attention to the town below. There were humans who needed judgment.
Parasite
Jenny Robertson
The spot is no bigger than a fingernail. It’s a small dark splotch on your ankle, easily mistaken for a bruise. It doesn’t even hurt when you touch it.
But then it grows.
It spreads down to your heel, to the ball of your foot, to your toes until your entire foot is a discolored dark grey. It doesn’t hurt when you touch it. You can’t feel anything when you touch it.
It continues to grow, crawling its way up your leg and leaving a path of death in its wake. Sometimes your leg moves on its own. You are unaware it isn’t under your control until you see it twitching and stretching as if something is learning to use it. You try not to think about it.
When it reaches your heart, the fear and anger and denial stops — nothing, not even feelings, can sprout from the roots of a dead thing. You now know what it is to come and you wait.
You wonder what it will be like when it finally reaches your head. You imagine watching yourself live, like a phantom or a parasite, unable to change anything but always there. You wait. It grows.
