Tag: horror

She, Wired

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They found the girl in the last room, wires running from the console to a halo connector on her forehead.
Her once-white robes were caked with grime and dried blood.
A bony arm reached towards the console, her hand on a large red button.
Pressing… pressing…
Once every second, she tapped that button.
Aside from a dull green glow in her eyes, no other sign of life.
They couldn’t even feel her breathe.
“We need the machine,” said a technician.
“It can wait,” said the administrator. “Let her finish.”
They watched, until the girl finally stopped.
The green glow faded.

Passing The Rose

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In a land without tears, the tearmaster goes from home to home, selling his sadness.
“What good is joy without its opposite?” he tells everyone. “If you cannot feel the deep lows, what will you feel of the highs? Nothing!”
The people stood and stared, confused.
“You cannot feel good without at some point feeling bad!” he shouted.
A child picked up a rock and threw it at the tearmaster, who yelped at the pain.
His hand came away from his forehead bloody.
More townspeople threw rocks. The blood flowed down the tearmaster’s face.
“Are those tears?” asked a child.

To The Orcs

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John’s house had a storm drain in the back yard.
To Billy, it was a tunnel to the great underground orc kingdom.
“They made it look like a storm drain to fool the surface-dwellers,” he said.
One day, Billy took a butcher’s knife and a flashlight down the drain.
“To glory and treasure,” read the note he left on the refrigerator.
He never came back.
The police asked questions, and John kept saying “The orcs got him.”
John spent a lot of time in therapy after that.
To this day, he’s always watchful, and he never goes near storm drains.

Martians vs. Robots

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Martians? Robots?
You wouldn’t think they’d be at war, but they are, and the world is at stake.
The robots want to exterminate all human life.
The Martians just want to enslave them all.
You might think “At least we’d be alive and we’d have jobs” but you’d be generally miserable about it and have no freedom.
Kinda like things are now.
But then, they’re Martians. Foreigners. Invaders.
Sure, the Martians have robots, but they left them at home.
You know, to keep the confusion to a minimum.
Martians? Robots?
We’d better hurry up with destroying ourselves on our own.

And Then What

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Bobby was the one who pounded the stake through the vampire’s heart.
The vampire had gasped, clutched the stake, and died.
“Isn’t he supposed to turn into dust?” said Bobby. “Or burst into flames?”
The Vampire just sat there. Dead.
“I dunno,” I said. “What else are we supposed to do?”
We stuffed his mouth with holy wafers and garlic.
Turned the hose on him.
“Running water,” said Bobby. “And sunlight.”
Crosses, holy water, and even six silver bullets didn’t seem to do anything.
I checked the address.
“Isn’t 37 next door?” I asked.
The sun was setting.
We ran.

Random Dave

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Every fifteen seconds, Dave hits the Random link in Wikipedia and learns something new.
Hypotrichosis is when you have less than normal amounts of hair, for instance. Dave looked in the mirror and smirked… he might have that.
He kept clicking until he found an article about himself.
He read it from top to bottom.
Everything… his birth, his school days, his career.
It was all there. Boring as hell.
So, he changed it.
He added a wife and kids. Made himself a retired football star.
Everything was great.
Until, of course, someone deleted the page by accident.
Bye, Dave.

The Bunny Mafia

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You want to know? Well, I’m dead either way, I might as well talk.
You want to hear about The Bunny Mafia?
I’ll tell you about it.
Yeah, I ran with the rabbits. Cooked books for the Five Hutches, trafficked in hookers.
You know. Because they screw like rabbits.
No drugs. Only carrots, lettuce, cabbage – they like vegetables. The fresher, the better.
Then, one day, a package arrives. It’s a bloody foot on a chain, wrapped in newspaper.
“Little Bunny Fufu sleeps with the Easter Eggs,” said The Harefather.
Yeah, he got whacked on the head, alright.
He got whacked.

Calling Myself

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I know it sounds weird, but I put myself on speed dial.
That way, when I don’t know what to do, I can always call myself.
Sometimes, I’m the one calling myself. And other times, my phone rings and it’s me.
Usually, it’s nothing important, like directions somewhere.
But the other day, I swear, I heard crying in the background.
“I can’t find the chainsaw,” said my voice over the phone.
“It’s in the shed,” I said. “What do I need it for?”
“Thank you,” I said, and I hung up.
I took myself off of speed-dial and blocked myself.

Belt Loop

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When I’m having a bad day, I’ll take off my belt and reverse it through the loops.
Instead of feeding it around to the right, I’ll feed it to the left.
Does it change anything?
No. But it gives me a moment to breathe and think.
Now, if someone gets me so riled up that I take my belt off a second time, I take it off and beat them with it.
When I’m done, I thread it back the right way.
Get up. Go to the bathroom and clean yourself up.
And don’t piss me off a third time.

Telegraph

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Somewhere in the basement of the records office, I swear, you could hear clicking.
I dug around, opened up an old wooden crate, and found a telegraph key.
As I held it up to the light, looking for some kind or label, the switch clacked.
I nearly dropped it.
Maybe it just… you know…
It clacked again. And again.
Pretty soon, it was tapping a sequence. I put it on the crate’s lid, pulled out a notebook, and wrote it down.
I’m not good with Morse Code, but I swear it said: “Get me out of here.”
Where?
And who?