FOREWORD
Lightning crashes outside and you jolt up in bed, drenched with sweat and panting like you’re taking in your last breaths. Body trembling, you try to regain a sense of logic, but the darkness surrounding you is too dominant. You’ve dragged yourself from one of the worst nightmares of your life, and you can’t even remember what it had been about. Only that it had been frightening; frightening and endless. Brutal and unforgiving. A minute’s worth of reality, and an eternity’s worth of memory. Like a snapshot in a book of screams.
You may not remember what had been in the dream, but you know whatever had been there sure remembers you, and it will never forget. From this moment on, you know you will never be the same. Forget about getting any more sleep tonight–or any other night for that matter—not when whatever is after you is still out there . . . waiting. And it will never stop until it’s claimed what it desires. All it needs–all it wants–is for you to lay back down and close your eyes. Just for a moment. Surrender your body . . . your mind. It can wait longer than you can stay awake. It has eternity on its side.
The only choice you have is to give in. The nightmare has found you, and it will never let go. So shut those eyes. Don’t say a word. The moon is hidden in the midnight sky and that is the way things will be for the rest of time. Feel the shadows caressing your cheek? It wants you. It is your only true lover. Embrace the darkness. Embrace the fear.
Embrace the nightmare.
-Max Booth III
co-author of The Ultimate Survival Guide for Humanity
(2012 Dark Moon Books)
DARK MOON BOOKS
an imprint of Stony Meadow Publishing
Largo, Florida
Frightmares: A Fistful of Flash Fiction Horror
Copyright © Dark Moon Books 2011
(Individual stories are copyright by their respective authors)
All Rights Reserved
ISBN: 978-0-9834335-5-2
The stories included in this publication are works of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
www.darkmoonbooks.com
E-mail: horrorquarterly@gmail.com
ARTWORK CREDITS
Cover Artwork: Whendy Muchlis Effendy
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This book has been a long time in creation. I am not sure how many body pieces Victor Frankenstein used to create his “monster,” but I’ll bet he used a lot less than we did in stitching this thing together.
It was pointed out to me during the proofreading and editing process that the table of contents included more words (nearly 800 at last count) than any of the individual stories. It was an interesting observation, but it proves a point. A well-written, complete story can be told with very few words. It reminds me of the myth about Hemingway being challenged by a bunch of friends to write a compelling story in six words and he allegedly wrote “For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn.”
So here it is in all of its nightmarish, ghoulish glory: Frightmares–A Fistful of Flash Fiction. And it wouldn’t have been possible without all of the authors who have been so very patient with the process. It would also not have been possible without the assistance of several Dark Moon staff members including (but not limited to) Jennifer Word, Frances Augusta Hogg, Lori Michelle, George Lea, Ryan Falcone, Kurt Reichenbach, Sean Davis, Michael O’Neal and Katie Immethun. And a special thanks goes out to Max Booth III who edited stories like a madman for the last three weeks of the process in order to get this monster sewn up tight and ready for a jolt of lightning to bring it to life. And, yes, that time has come, my friends. “It Lives!”
Enjoy.
Stan Swanson
Editor/Publisher, Dark Moon Books
CONTENTS
Head Shot John Erbar
Stranglers in the Night Jeff Carter
The Deal Mike Wilson
$2 Bust From An Antique Sale Eric J. Guignard
Circle Of Salt Adam William Spike
Genesis Natalie Mcnabb
Running With The Pack Stan Swanson
Serial Killers Don’t Pay Membership Dues K. K. Philan
The Initiation Jason D. Brawn
Stakes P. R. O’Leary
Nostalgia Miriam H. Harrison
The Heart Of Hell Liam Ford
Ladder Of Thorns John Irvine
The Burly Men Of Maine Eric Dimbley
Motherhood Cindy Little
Grease Monkey Joseph Robert Desylva
A Modern Problem Rob Smales
See Jack Run L. A. Tobin
80 Square Feet Jason Burum
A Jury Of His Peers Andrew Alford
I Live In Your Cupboard Santiago Eximeno
The Children Of Faith Sean Templeton
Sally’s Dream Gary R. Hoffman
They Won’t Get Us T. J. Reed
The Shackles James S. Dorr
Skipping Stones A. J. Brown
Mush Logan Branjord
If These Walls Could Talk Jack Nealy
The Real World Cyndie Goins Hoelscher
A New Suit John Hunt
The Voyeur Ran Walker
The Summing Of Parts Vince Darcangelo
Awake Adam Stehly
Leaves R. F. Marazas
Instinct Suzie Lockhart
Every Fiber Peggy McFarland
Welcome To The Neighborhood Lori Michelle
The Unwrapping Carrie Anne Martin
And Their Names Were . . . Brian J. Smith
The Beauty Of Death Cris Keuggar
Just Leave Milo James Fowler
Lobotomy Pedro Iniguez
The Mailbox Of Broken Dreams Pavelle Wesser
Neighbour From Hell Paul Johnson-Jovanovic
Popsicles Charles Nathan Capasso
Number Thirty-Six Alba Arango
Not Very Long Left T. E. Samad
Feed Suzie Savage
Springing Forward Steven Jenkins
Prototype Niall Mcmahon
Blood Of Gleuvinn Nicholas Conley
La Rana Cynthia (Cina) Pelayo
Apple Of My Eye Ramona Gardea
Polly Gone Nathan Robinson
Mother Franca Di Pietro
The House Call C. W. LaSart
The Call Adam J. Mueller
Blood Ties Roger Kilbourne
Catholic School S. Walker
Eye Candy David Buchan
Evading The Dark Pursuer Ron Koppelberger
A Thoughtful Gift Kevin David Anderson
A Fishy Tale Connie Berridge
Twitch And Twitter Steve Voelker
Dead Eyes See No Future Scott Davison
Howling Richard Allden
Lovely Girls Marshall A. Taylor
The Creature Beneath The Narrows Bridges Judy Comer Franklin
Always Come Back Joe Mynhardt
Insanity Ellen Denton
Infected Donald Haas
Absorb Lance Davis
I Used To Find Things Keith Deininger
Dead Reckoning Hope Sullivan McMickle
The Final Fight Kevin Brown
Language Bunny Ultramod
The Girl Next Door Lev Heller
Death Is Just A Tick Away Kelli A. Wilki
ns
Black Ice Bon Tindle
The Beat Of Intention Greg Chapman
The Buoy Scott Scherr
Golden Amelia Frances Augusta Hogg
Like A Puff Of Smoke P. A. Clark
Justice For Ginger Graham Ducker
Hydropod Slug Invasion Zoltan Varga
House Call Jennifer Word
Speed Dial John Schroeder
Thirteen Seconds George Morrow
Living Things Stephen D. Rogers
Last Meal Rachel Green
Such A Shiny Pretty Blade Blane Rogers
Road Diary Of A U.S. Army Grunt Joseph Rubas
Night Shift Tara Fox Hall
The Man In The Carnival Booth Eric Houge
House On Fredrick’s Way Rebekah Galas
Murdered Angel Valerie D. Benko
Grizzly Possibilities D. M. Slate
Mother Hen Phil Bledsoe
Stitch David Horscroft
Bloody Perfect Vincenzo Bilof
Fertilizer John Erik Petersen
Grasping At Straws Patricia La Barbara
Gray Janel Gradowski
Hollowed Walls Diane Ward
In The Other Room J. M. Lewis
Oral Fixation April Williams
Marvel The Magician Gerald A. Griffiths
Mirror View Max Booth III
Moments From The Fringe George Wilhite
Nothing Left But Faith Eric Pollarine
Of What Is Hidden In The Blood Stephen Gresham
Primal Were Timothy P. Remp
Question Mark Robert Wilde
Residue Of Decay Rania Hanna
Road Hazard Charlie Bookout
Shadows In The Night Courtney Rene
The Leopard Optimist Benjamin McElroy
Special Rebecca Carter
Spirit James Beaton
Sunglasses Paul D. Scavitto
The Hands Corey Maida
The Kiss Sonia B. Sygaco
The Laugh That Makes You Cry For Mommy Jerry Wright
The Raven And The Snowman Sharif Khan
The Secret Of Mrs. Is Grier Jewell
The Subject Charles Thurston-Snoha
Unexpected Visitor John T. Foley
Finis Stan Swanson
HEADSHOT
JON ERBAR
The pistol quavered in Richard’s slick palms as he edged slowly backward until his ass bumped into the brick wall.
Dead end.
Dead right, he thought sourly. He grimaced, wondering again how he’d possibly allowed himself to be chased into a blind alley.
Stupid, stupid, stupid!
Now, everything rode upon this final shot. There was zero room for error.
A headshot.
Nothing else would suffice. Even if he managed to wing the goddamned thing, he’d never get past it and make it back out onto the street.
Hell, he didn’t think he’d be able to take another step without collapsing, let alone manage to keep running.
He was scared shitless. Sweat stung his eyes, blurring his vision. His exhausted legs trembled, threatening to cave from fatigue. But he couldn’t afford to lose focus—not now. Not when concentration and that final bullet were all that stood between him and . . .
The infected barreled into sight, and Richard found himself staring down a giant. Decked in combat boots, urban camouflage, and utility webbing, the thing was clearly a member of the U.S. military.
Strike that, Richard thought. Former U.S. military.
Gore caked its maw, chest and shoulders, while drool sprayed past its bared teeth like streamers. Its left leg was a jumble of savaged flesh and fractured bone. Its right arm had been severed at the elbow. The bloody stump hemorrhaged freely, a macabre Jackson Pollock spraying the asphalt in its wake.
There was no hesitation, no stutter in the thing’s gait . . . and why would there be? The son of a bitch knew Richard had bumbled down this passageway. It charged forward, devouring the distance at a lope.
Richard fought to steady the gun. He forced his breathing to slow down, narrowing his eyes at its approach. Mere yards separated him from death, but he had to be patient. He had to delay pulling the trigger until the last possible second.
The infected’s hunched posture made a headshot problematic. Its awkward stride made such a shot even more difficult. The fact the fucking thing was sprinting made the task all but impossible.
He inhaled deeply.
Closed his eyes.
Thought of mother.
Bit down on the cold steel of the barrel and pulled the trigger.
The gun jammed.
Jon Erbar lives in Oklahoma City. He is currently a senior at the University of Oklahoma, working toward a bachelor’s degree in professional writing. When not writing horror stories he enjoys reading, going to the movies, and playing with his dachshund, Pubba.
STRANGLERS IN THE NIGHT
JEFF CARTER
I hate hospitals. I’ve been waiting amongst a herd of coughing, vomiting, bleeding people at County General for two hours. The stab wounds, burned flesh and bullet holes . . . it’s the mess that really gets to me.
A pair of cops roll in and out, chatting with E.M.Ts, flirting with nurses. If they find out who I am, a heart attack will be the least of my problems. I keep my head down and wait.
Finally, a nurse waves me into a small room. A junkie writhes in the other bed, babbling nonsense, twisting in his restraints. The nurse loops a blood pressure cuff around my arm, glancing curiously at the thick braids of veins and muscle in my forearms. She sets up a heart monitor then slides out of the room.
I watch my heartbeat flailing around on the monitor while the junkie struggles. He’s emaciated, yellow, arms cratered with track marks. Just the thought of sticking a needle into one of my beautifully sculpted arms makes the heart monitor yelp.
The doctor strides into the room and plucks up my chart.
He peers over the clipboard, focuses on my muscular arms. Extending a hand, he looks into my eyes, shakes my hand with bone crushing pressure.
“So, you must be the St. Louis Strangler.” My heart rate spikes. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m the Atlanta Strangler.”
“Never heard of no Atlanta Strangler,”
The Doctor chuckles. “Of course not. People die in hospitals all the time. It’s very tidy. I transferred here last week.”
“But . . . but there can’t be two Stranglers in one city . . . it’s against the code!”
The doctor raises his hands in deference. “Hey, you don’t have to tell me the code. Nobody wants a repeat of that Hillside Strangler business.”
The junkie starts screaming. “Nurse! Help! They crazy! They gonna get me!”
“I got it,” says the doctor. He snatches the blue privacy curtain, slicing the room in half. I hear the familiar sounds of spit gurgling and cartilage crunching on the other side.
The doctor continues: “Headquarters says one of us has to relocate. Unless you’d be willing to commute.”
“No way,” I wheeze. “The nearest place worth strangling is two hours away. I know this city. Where to find people, where to dump them.”
The doctor grabs the junkie’s chart and glances at his watch. “Time of death: 1:47 a.m. Look, you’re a great strangler, everyone says so. But you’ve got a heart condition. What if you had a heart attack during a strangle and the victim got away? They get the cops, the cops get you; you roll over on the organization. It’s too risky.”
“I love my job, and I ain’t quitting. You know Stranglers don’t retire.”
“Yes . . .” says the doctor.
He switches off my heart monitor and flexes his powerful hands. “That’s why I’m here.”
Jeff C. Carter lives in Venice, CA with two cats, a dog and a human. He is a writer of science fiction, horror and graphic novels. He is currently developing a steampunk RPG called “Mecha West�
�� for Heroic Journey Publishing. To find more of his stories head to http://jeffccarter.wordpress.com/.
THE DEAL
MIKE WILSON
Tim sat at his desk and shook his head in disbelief.
Drastic action was needed. The pile of bills on his desk demanded that.
“What do I do now?” he said.
“There is a solution, Tim,” a voice replied.
Tim looked around wildly, thinking he must really be losing it.
“I’m down here, dummy.”
Tim looked down.
“What are you?”
“I’m real, for starters.”
“Okay, I see that. Are you a genie?”
The creature chuckled. “I’m what you call a demon.”
Tim absorbed this, and rubbed his eyes. The creature was still there.
“So, about your little financial problem . . .”
“I can handle it myself,” Tim said.
“Yeah, like you have so far?”
“Okay, so what do you propose?”
“My price is not your soul, or any such malarkey. I’m not very expensive—and, I can wipe your debt clean.”
“So what do I have to give, then?”
“All you have to give up is something precious, like say, a friend, or a prized possession. It has to be something whose existence has gotten you through rough times just by thinking about it. It could be a cherished book, or a lover.”
“Why something like this?”
“Something precious enough to a human to help them to endure hardship has very real energy in its own right. The more value a human imparts to the object or person, the more ‘energy’ that object gains in other dimensions. It’s hard to explain. But trust me—these things have value.”
Tim thought a moment, and then said, “All right. I want to give up a friendship. Does this mean you would consume the person?”
“Haven’t you been listening? It means I consume the friendship, which has become an entity in its own right.”
“Okay,” said Tim. “I want to give up my friendship with Dan, a person with whom I have spent many happy times with over the last ten years or so. That won’t cost me anything.”
The demon took on the appearance of a face, and leered at Tim. “Hope this isn’t a friend with whom you are on the outs or anything.”