Horror
Number 50
Forty-nine. Forty-nine tallies etched like splintered veins into the sturdy oak headboard he once shared. Forty-nine less monsters terrorizing the town he called home. Forty-nine more reasons to keep fighting, to keep searching. He would carve out every inch of that headboard if it meant finding his family—his wife, his son.
By D.M. Roseen5 years ago in Fiction
Liminal
I found it at a bus stop. Waiting for the 8:15 from downtown to the Park’s Ridge neighborhood so I could walk thirty minutes home. There was plenty of people around me and even though it was dark the bus stop’s lights made is safely bright. It was, like a crack in a door, between a tall trashcan and Coke machine. It wasn’t much brighter than the place around it but it was just bright enough to make this strange thin rectangle stand out of place with the rest of the environment.
By Arthur E Nickles5 years ago in Fiction
The Inquisitor
Dust fell as the clock creaked its steady symphony. Tick… tock… Round and round the hands went playing their roles for an audience that had long since departed. No encore would be played when the performance ends. Each tick rattles the frame imperceptibly causing the wood to shudder and creak. Each creak shouts to the world "I am alive" but the world isn't listening. Instead the only purpose of this once proud device is to wind down its life and to harbour within its workings a locket.
By Jacob Alistaire McCrone5 years ago in Fiction
The Wisdom of Men
I’ve never known the world the way it is in books. What was it like when so few people died that they had celebrations and buried them in the ground? Did they just dig a big hole and shove ‘em in there? As the oldest man alive, I know my turn is coming soon. I’ll be another bag of bones rotting wherever I perish. But at twelve years old, I wish I had as much of a chance as the dead did before my time. As far as I know, it’s just me and my little brother. My mom left a week ago and we haven’t seen her since. She told me the story of the end of organized civilization often, so I’d always be alert to danger.
By Brandy Enn5 years ago in Fiction
Life as we know it
The afternoon was hot, her forehead felt damp, unsure if it was from her overheating body or the outside rays of the hot sunlight that beat more and more neutrinos into her body. But she was grateful for the heat, the uncomfortable feelings of barely there nausea in her belly where the slightly stale veggies stirred, they were only a few days old. Just enough to make them edible but also just enough to sit uneasily to cause discomfort
By Elaine Spark5 years ago in Fiction
Monica
The locket isn’t bleeding tonight. That can’t be good. It belonged to a friend of my sister. She died for the second time nine days ago. A simple, brass, heart-shaped thing that measured life from one cheap chain to another over its eleven-year run around the neck of Abigail Rossi. She was a nice girl, abrasive at times, but pleasant once the emotional walls lowered. After she died, the locket transferred in ownership to my sister. And, when Izzy found the whole thing a little too odd, it passed to me. Well, technically, it passed from Izzy to my mother to the garbage can and finally to me. It felt wrong leaving it in a dumpster.
By Benjamin Ford5 years ago in Fiction
To the East
The sun rose again, despite Williams best efforts. William was absolutely certain that last night would be his final one, and prayed that today would be. To the east. The Locket was speaking to him again. No, not speaking. Commanding. Sure, you could resist. Walk west. Before you know it, the sun is at your back as the stars begin to wake. William couldn’t remember the last time he tried to resist the commands. It terrified him. Not in a pulse pounding fight or flight kind of way in books or movies, it was a like a cold spike inserted itself into the bottom of his stomach. It’ll fade. He knew his weak attempt to convince himself that the fear would leave him was a mere hope. He was beginning to lose the ability to distinguish his own thoughts from the command of the locket. Was he losing himself? Or was he becoming like the Locket? It was innocent looking. A heart shaped casing hiding tumblers, springs, and perhaps something sinister. As he made his way eastward his mind went elsewhere. That was probably the only good thing about the situation. He could be on autopilot all day, although eventually he would feel the strain. He No longer felt pain or hunger. Not that his mortal body would sustain itself, he was commanded to eat whatever was near when the Locket deemed it lunchtime using some inexplicable method of telling time. Can it see what I see? Can it hear my thoughts? You have to tell me if you can hear my thoughts, otherwise it’s entrapment. William chuckled to himself. No. I am not losing myself. I will get out of this. The fear melted like ice, giving way to a smile.
By Jesse Wright5 years ago in Fiction
The Train to Freedom
Standing at the ocean’s edge felt like standing at the edge of the world. Hanna imagined the high density buildings and city lights falling behind her, with the moonlit ocean becoming her only reality. The onshore wind kissed her face. Only four spins of the lighthouse’s beacon, then I am free, she thought to herself. Hanna instinctively reached for the letter in her pocket, unfolding the crinkled paper. She brushed her finger across ink to see if she could feel Mia’s voice in the smudged letters.
By Mary Hampton5 years ago in Fiction
Ashes for Abuelita. First Place in Bedtime Stories Challenge.
It is Mexican tradition that moral stories and fairy stories for children are more like horror stories. There’s an understanding in the Mexican culture that the child is not interested in the sugar-bubblegum-pop. Rather, it is in the grotesque that has been swept under locked doors that the child finds humanity. They pop the stories in their mouth like a dulce de tamarindo, a tamarind candy, and they savor the sour and spice.
By Victor Javier Ortiz5 years ago in Fiction
