Tag: horror

The Good Dishes

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We keep the good dishes in a cupboard, only taking them out for special occasions.
On the other hand, we keep the evil dishes in an iron-bound wooden chest in the basement.
They rattle and clatter angrily in their prison, demanding to be set free.
Not a chance. The last time we let them out, they gave the mayor and his wife food poisoning.
We’ve tried to destroy them, but every time we break a plate or a dish, the pieces reassemble themselves the next morning.
It’s best to keep them locked up, no matter how pretty they are.

Did we deserve that, Gus?

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Gus is the Punishment Officer in our neighborhood.
Every neighborhood has a punishment officer. Ours is Gus.
Do something bad, and Gus will punish you.
He enjoys punishing people.
He has keys to every door in every house so you can’t keep him out.
He has night-vision goggles so you can’t hide from him.
His dog Wilbur can sniff you out from a block away.
But he can’t get to us here, in my treehouse fortress.
We’re sealed in from the outside world.
There’s nothing he can do but…
What’s that noise? Do you hear a chainsaw?
Damn that Gus!

Imperfection

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Try as you might, perfection never lasts.
The moment you come close to perfection, the imperfections stand out in contrast so clearly.
That makes it easier to find and remove them, and makes the remaining imperfections stand out even more clearly.
The knife is steady, but the flesh resists. One final flaw, and this girl will be the pinnacle of existence.
I put the knife down. I will not cut.
No, there will be no scar. I don’t need lasers like others do, but my work is always perfect.
Perfection, averted twice, laughs and hides in the shadows once again.

Crime In E Minor

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The detective looks at the body and says “Round up every violinist.”
He is holding a smashed instrument, and his conclusions would be sound if he were correct about one thing: that is a viola, not a violin.
They dust it for fingerprints… none at all.
I wore gloves, you see.
Yes, it was me, dear reader. I am the murderer.
And that is my viola.
The violinists come in, one after the other, but each has an alibi.
It is a year later, he is no closer to solving the case.
Good.
Because my new viola thirsts for blood.

Cough And Dagger

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The Dark Days are here.
I see their faces in the shadows, handing cough drops to each other.
There’s something in them. I just know there is.
No, I don’t know what it is. They won’t let me in the lab anymore.
I hear whispers: “Keep them medicated, keep them under control.”
I am offered the coughdrops at every corner, and I palm them to fool the others.
But now, their eyes are starting to glow green.
I can’t fake that, so I’m fleeing the city.
And then… I cough a single cough.
They hear it, growling, and I run.

Tell Me A Story

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“Tell me a story,” says the ghost in my bed.
I’m used to it.
So, I pull a book from the shelf, open the pages, and begin to read.
“I’ve heard this before,” says the ghost.
The ghost has heard them all.
I close the book and make up a story about dragons, castles, maidens, and knights.
But this time, the maidens ate dragons and the castles floated in the air.
“What about the knights?” asked the ghost.
“They lived happily ever after,” I said.
The ghost smiled, faded into nothing, and I was finally able to go to sleep.

The Waxlings

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Come here, Waxlings.
The sun is too bright. Our world is melting.
The great mountains of the west are hills now, flowing in all directions.
The oceans are too hot to live near. Our great bridges have fallen and turned to goo.
As has nearly everything else.
Our only solace is that we are of stronger waxes. We sweat and drip, but maintain our lives by eating and finding what little shelter that remains.
One day, the heat will be too great even for us, and we will melt into the core.
Forgive me, my children, but you are delicious.

The Locksmith

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It’s midnight, and I’ve locked myself out of my house.
I take a pen-knife out of my pocket, cut my palms, and rub my hands together while reciting the chant of The Locksmith.
From the shadows, a robed figure emerges, reaching into a large burlap sack.
His pale hand pokes from the sleeve of his robe, a shiny key in its fingers.
The Locksmith nods and unlocks the door.
“Thank you,” I say, reaching for my wallet.
The Locksmith shakes his head, holds my wrist, and his tongue licks my bloody palm.
“Delicious,” it croaks, and returns to the shadows.

The Leaking Pen

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Freitag’s pen drips and leaks on the paper, making it useless as a writing device.
But if you hold it over the paper and gently dangle it, the droplets of ink spell out messages we believe are from Old Lord Freitag himself.
“I was brutally murdered with my own pen, driven into my heart,” says his spirit through the cursed writing device.
We already know that. His butler confessed to the crime, Freitag’s blood and the pen’s ink fresh on his hands.
That was over two hundred years ago, but Freitag’s ghost hasn’t stopped since.
Here. Have a pencil instead.

Van Helsing

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Van Helsing delivered the fatal stake to Dracula’s heart and laughed.
As he boasted at the local pub, the townsfolk reacted not in gratitude, but in shock.
“Are you saying you killed that nice old Count?” the barkeep asked.
“He paid my son’s way through college,” said an old woman. “And had the hunch in his back fixed, too.”
Before he could respond, Val Helsing’s wrists were locked in irons.
“What for?” he said.
“Murder,” said the constable.
“But Dracula was already dead!” said Van Helsing.
The excuse didn’t work with the judge either.
Van Helsing was hung at dawn.