Tag: horror

The Quiet Ones

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It’s the quiet ones that kill.
Just sitting there, watching you from across the coffee shop.
“What a beautiful cat,” says a customer.
The owner nods, hands over the mug.
Those eyes follow you everywhere: you walk into the shop, over to the counter, back to your favorite table.
What is it about you that’s so interesting?
“Sasha likes you,” says the shop owner, smiling. “Would you like to pet him?”
You think about it, wondering what that deep orange fur will feel like, so soft, so rich.
“I’m allergic,” you say, leave a tip, and walk out the door.

The Feeding

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With horror bubbling in her throat, Lisa ran a finger along the last wrinkle in her face.
“One more child should do it,” she told her servants. “Not too young. I do not want to overfeed.”
That night, in a burlap sack, they dragged a peasant boy up from the village into Blackmoor Manor.
“Still alive. Good,” said Lisa. “Lock the door. No visitors.”
As Lisa cleansed the ritual knife, the angry mob made its way up the stone path to the manor.
Looking at the pitchforks and torches, her servants decided they were no visitors, and made their escape.

Remix

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It’s fun to mess with memory tapes.
I reversed Johnny’s timestamps and he spent weeks sucking his thumb and shitting his pants while the reindex ran.
Dell hasn’t stopped speaking in French, despite restoring his mind from an old directory.
Tracy and Thomas woke up Thomas and Tracy. They didn’t know each other before I swapped their nodes. Now, well, a little better.
Oliver was supposed to be a remix. I had a great set of financials and old movies spliced into his mind. Instead, he became Corrupted.
This is a picture of Oliver. Find him.
Before he kills again.

The Peace Hunt

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It was an awesome peace concert in the park, and at the end, we opened the cages that released the doves.
Majestically flying into the air, a cloud of white wings upon the air.
That’s when the hawks came.
Doves became puffs of white feathers as the raptors hit them with their talons and flew off with their prey.
Bloody chunks falling on the crowd, the remnants of collisions raining down.
Everybody staring at the hunt, unable to move.
“This is a disaster,” whispered the concert promoter.
“No, it’s not. It’s totally natural,” said the lead singer. “It’s fuckin’ beautiful.”

The Lenses

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At the rank of Mage Ultimor, the wizard will grind a Diabolical Lens.
Infused with ancient spells, this looking-glass deciphers messages from The Beyond.
The messages are often mundane, but occasionally an interesting and useful command makes it through the torrent.
Most mages grow bored with the filtering process. Others remain at their scrying table, peering into the hazy glass circle, lips trembling.
When he was an apprentice, his duty was to smash his master’s lens.
Voltmaster never took on an apprentice, so he never escaped the lure of the lens.
Surging with power, his eyes glow with distant rage.

Fifteen Seconds

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Once you hear sirens, you have fifteen seconds to seek shelter.
Will the rocket land in the fields?
Will the rocket land in a school?
Will the rocket land in the streets?
Will the rocket land on you?
The shelter is across the street, you can get there quickly, but a child is standing there on the sidewalk, crying.
Run for the shelter now? Or cover the child with your body and close your eyes?
We watch the images on the television, and so many of us judge.
What would YOU do to protect that child from the deadly rain?

Sturgiss

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We followed Sturgiss the Necromancer, that demon graverobber criminal!
His destination? The accursed Voltmaster.
His watchtower rises from a clearing in Gloomwood.
We goblins know to give this abomination of stone a wide berth.
On the roof, Sturgiss arranges steel rods.
Clouds, ready for harvest.
I shout to the sky: “We demand the return of Lord Grondol’s body!”
Sturgiss screams his response: “You may fight the jackals for Grondol’s unused remains.”
Inside, Voltmaster throws a switch. The tower explodes with light and power.
“This is just trickery!” I shout, but my goblin soldiers run.
Grondol, your desecration is my dishonor.

There will be peace when the Gnomes love their children more than they hate us

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In the nursery, we keep it simple: babies coming in equals babies going out.
Come up short, and security checks the tapes before “Stolen Baby” makes the evening news.
But when we come up with extra, that’s worse.
“Damn those Gnomes,” said Nurse Riley. “They sneak their agents into nurseries to infiltrate our species.”
This giggling, squirming lump in a standard-issue diaper is no child.
Riley pointed out the beard-stubble and bright red shaving rash.
The look in her eyes: sadness and horror.
I signed the authorization. Quarantine, then furnace termination.
They don’t scream, even while burning.
Damn this war.

Quote

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They say the devil can quote scripture.
Of course he can. He wrote it. Every word of it.
Branded on the backs of the sinners with red hot pokers.
Skin torn from flesh, pressed into sheets, bound between brimstone covers, still dripping with their blood.
He was there at the Council of Nicea, making changes to his rough draft, whispering in old priests ears and making deals.
I’ll make you a saint.
I’ll make you a hero.
I’ll make you a prophet.
I’ll make you a god among men.
Every hotel room is his church, his word in the drawer.

Three Miles

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Ever walk a mile with a sword stuck through your chest?
I have. Three times.
The first time was when I got into a fight with The Ninja Master.
He was the best swordsman in all of Japan.
So how did I beat him?
I’m not from Japan.
I’m the best in the world.
Not by much – his head flew off as his sword struck home.
Missed every vital organ.
I walked the mile to my master’s house.
“I told you: bring me his head,” he growled.
I had to walk back to get it.
And then, back again.