Ghosts carved messages on my arms at night.
Only when I showered off the blood did I see the messages clearly.
I ignored them, bandaged my arms, and went about my day.
So, the ghosts carved messages on to my legs… my chest… my back… my face…
More bandages.
I used up all my vacation time… should I call a priest… watching television… drinking… drinking…
Then, I realized… I don’t believe in ghosts.
I hired a nurse to tie me to the bed at night.
After that, the ghosts left me alone.
(But the nurse beat me with a hammer.)
Tag: horror
Beautiful
Why did I do that?
Because The Devil made me do it.
The Devil doesn’t look like some horned monster with hoofs and a barbed tail.
He’s beautiful. Sounds beautiful.
Like an angel.
Because that’s what he is… was…
That’s why so many people fall for his tricks.
If an angel told you to do something, you wouldn’t ask for ID.
You’d do it.
Besides, even if you ask for his name, he’d just lie.
He’s Gabriel, just left his horn at home.
He’s Michael, didn’t bring his sword.
He smiles, tells you to shove someone into traffic.
And vanishes.
Shovel Brothers
Fred is wearing the same shirt as I am today.
We are shirt-brothers.
Fred also drives the same car as I do. Same make, model, and color.
Which makes us car-brothers.
Toasters? Well, I don’t see how that’s important, but they’re also the same.
So we’re also toaster-brothers.
I’ve even gotten Fred’s signature down cold, too.
I show it to Fred.
His eyes get wide, and he tries to scream through the gag.
I toss two shovels into the trunk with him (we’re shovel-brothers, too!) and slam the lid.
Shallow grave brothers?
Nah. I’ll let Fred have that to himself.
Checksum
Back in the day of videotapes, each generation of duplication created worse signal until you ended up with nothing but static.
Nowadays, digital encoding allows perfect duplication of content, and any errors are caught and fixed using mathematical tests called checksums which add up the ones and zeroes, then compares the copies to ensure they’re identical.
The same applies for the doppelgangers of important people we copy for various purposes. Quantum checksum comparisons ensure we’ll get the right information out of a clone we’re torturing.
Oh, did we kill the clone?
Copy another, and try the knotted whip this time.
While drinking a glass of water…
Marley and Tosh grew up best friends on Jamaica, learning ventriloquism from an old comedian who had retired to the island.
Marley had a dummy that resembled Tosh, and Tosh had one similar to Marley.
But each wanted the old man’s dummy, and when he died, things got ugly.
Marley took out a pin and stabbed it into his dummy’s arm, and Tosh cried out in pain.
Tosh responded with his own voodoo attack, stabbing Marley’s twin in the heart.
Tosh laughed, then felt… warm… burning…
Marley’s cigarette had fallen out of his mouth, setting his dummy aflame.
Tosh screamed.
The Shrine of the Bloody Flower
The Shrine Of The Bloody Flower features a blood-soaked flower, taken from a girl who was shot during the uprising.
What the shrine doesn’t say is that the girl wasn’t shot by the soldiers.
She was shot by the rebels.
“Carry these flowers to that checkpoint,” they said. “Or we kill your parents.”
So, she did, but when she reached the checkpoint, she dropped the flowers and began screaming.
That’s when the shooting began.
How did they preserve the flower?
It was plastic. Because they needed it for the shrine they were planning.
Just needed the blood.
Sick, bloody bastards.
Wander
We put WANDER INDIANA on the license plates as a warning.
That place… there’s no describing it.
It’s a gateway to Hell, the purest evil.
But some people never listen.
Another stack of battered license plates arrives at the office.
I look them up in the system, checking Missing Persons reports.
Damned.
We tried to call Washington, but they said “We tore up the roads and fenced it off for a reason. Stay away from there” and hung up.
Google blanked out the area on their maps, but it just tempts the curious.
Damn fools, wandering Hell for all eternity.
This Is
The hospital room has yellow notes on everything. I read them as I drag the drip stand around.
This is a chair.
This is a door.
This is a mirror.
I stare at the bandaged and bloody figure in the mirror.
A horror movie monster, putrid and burned. It shocks me when it moves.
This is a nightmare.
This is an abomination.
I read the bag on the drip stand:
This is retromutagen.
The door opens; This is a robot enters.
The staff cannot risk exposure.
Again.
I wasn’t careful. One bit me.
Now, I understand why.
This is… hunger.
The Dust
We hide down in the dusty catacombs of the old city, huddling tighter with every thud and shudder when the bombs fall.
The museums… the palaces…
They are all empty, and I look around at the few treasures we managed to rescue.
And then, a loud blast, and part of the ceiling caves in.
Screaming. Shouting.
People yelling ARE YOU ALIVE IN THERE and HELP, but it’s just too heavy to move.
More screaming.
I try to dig, and I pull out an arm.
It is from one of the catacomb’s ancient residents.
More thuds. More dust falls.
More screams.
Mummy’s Curse
Despite what they tell you at the tavern, there is no Mummy’s Curse.
Maybe there’s the risk of exposure to deadly mold, but you just wore a breathing mask to avoid that particular hazard.
Simple.
The bodies are long dead, and their spirits have moved on.
Your only concern should be the authorities. They look unkindly upon grave robbers and have been known to torture then to death.
Thank goodness I found you.
I’ll just steal it from you, but contrary to popular wisdom, I do have honor.
You can cut through your bonds in an hour with your knife.