Tag Archives: horror

310. Cancer for sale

‘Cancer for sale’.

The sign on the lawn was written in crude, childish letters, which puzzled me even more than the message itself. As my next client had cancelled, leaving me with an idle hour, I decided to walk up to the door, knock, and ask what the sign meant.

It took a while for someone to arrive. Some cluttering and muttering was audible, followed by a slow shuffle, as of someone dragging a bag of sand behind them, before the door was opened and a small girl came peeking through the askew door with big, inquisitive eyes.

“Mummy and daddy aren’t home,” she said off the bat.

“Did you write that?” I asked.

She nodded.

“What does it mean?”

“It means what it means.”

“It says you sell cancer.”

“Then that’s what it means. You interested, mister?”

I was, I suppose, if only to quell the nagging enigma.

She flung open the door completely.

“You can park your keester on the couch. I’ll be right back.”

Though her face had not been different from that of any other girl, her body showed a wear and tear uncommon at her age. The dragging sound, heard before, came from her club foot. It wasn’t yet prevalent on the quaint picture that hung on the living room wall however, that saw her posing with a thirty-something couple, feigning a smile.

“Head’s up, mister.”

I turned around and in a reflex caught the green, glowing rod. Its radioactive energy soared through me like instant lightning.

“What have you done?” I yelled in agony, as I sunk to my knees and caught the pungent odour emanating from under the floorboards.

“I gave you what you wanted,” she said, her gloved hand picking up the rod.

“That’ll be 50 bucks.”

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290. The eyes followed Cordelia around the room

The eyes followed Cordelia around the room. They were stacked in little jam jars, on dozens of shelves in the small backroom of the university auditorium. It was a creepy experience, being ogled by the peepers of the dead, but Cordelia was desperate to find out why professor Argos had summoned her – as the rarest of treats – to his inner sanctum.

“Miss Beckerman, come in,” the professor gestured from behind his desk. “Impressive collection, isn’t it?”

Cordelia nodded.

“The eyes are the windows of the soul, they say.”

“Yes! Yes!”

He poured another drop of formaldehyde in the jar on his desk.

“Take for example this couple. Belonged to a great writer. Would you say these belonged to a dramatist or a humourist?”

Though she wasn’t sure why, Cordelia seemed to recognise some melancholy in the green irises.

“A dramatist?”

“The windows of the soul, as you so astutely said.”

“These are all from famous people?”

“No, dear Lord. Most of them belonged to ordinary people like you and me.”

“I’m not sure I’d call you ordinary, professor. Not with this hobby.”

“It’s no mere hobby, miss Beckerman,” professor Argos assured her. “It’s a life’s work. These eyes represent a perfect cross section of society. Young, old. Black, white. Naughty, nice. In fact, that is why I invited you over. You go out, don’t you miss Beckerman? On dates with boys?”

Cordelia nodded.

“Quite a few of them, your fellow students tell me.”

Cordelia was flustered by his frankness.

“Why exactly did you want to speak me, professor?”

Professor Argos wrote something on the label of the jar he’d just filled with formaldehyde.

“I bet you take them home before they can even tell you how beautiful your eyes are.”

And he dotted down the Y in ‘naughty’.

 

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213. Her insomnia

Her insomnia threatened to undermine the entire operation, despite the fact the stake-out had been meticulously planned.

The police had rented an apartment right across from the non-suspect building she had hid out in for seven years. The place might have contained dozens of getaway doors, but there was no way she was going to escape from sleep. So the plan was to storm the hide-out when she’d gone to bed. That would take 24 hours at the most, chief detective Calloway had estimated. But now three days had passed and she was still walking about.

 

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210. For centuries man had prayed for their Gods to descend. And now they had

For centuries man had prayed for their Gods to descend. And now they had: winged giants with fierce tentacles, ready to devour every sinner in their path, and in their eyes the world contained quite a few.

 

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177. Lately, I recall my dreams again

Lately, I recall my dreams again. That hasn’t happened for a decade.

The dreams are vivid in their detail, more alive than they were before it seems. As though there is no waking up any more, only an instant jump from one realm of reality to another. Others tell me the same is happening to them. They too at midnight are thrust into another world they cannot seem to shake when dawn comes knocking.

More curious still is that our dreams are starting to intertwine. Our dream-worlds, as vastly different as an alien planet and a Sunday church picnic, are merging. It is getting harder and harder to define who is dreaming what: our vantage points remain our own but the situations we face and the characters we encounter appear to be alike.

We all fear the same: that the spillage will not contain itself to our dreams. Reality appears ripe to be warped, with rumours of strange happenings already emerging from the East.

But we try to keep that fear at bay.

Otherwise the nightmares may start spilling over as well.

 

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160. It was a dark and stormy night

It was a dark and stormy night and the scholar was perusing old manuscripts in the old wing of the university abbey, where hideous stone gargoyles with their hollow demon eyes looked down on you from every angle.

Professor Maudlin wouldn’t have it any other way. She revelled in the old, the horrific, the obscure.

 

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100. She disembowelled the priest on the altar

She disembowelled the priest on the altar he had once christened her on and then feasted on his intestines, slurping his guts like they were al dente linguini. It was her first real meal in more than a week and boy did it taste great.

Humans were hard to come by these days – the tasty, fresh, breathing kind, not the stinking mucus moochers. Of those there were plenty, roaming the streets of New Orleans.

Lukewarm blood sputtered from the priest’s aorta as she sank her teeth in into his heart. The cartilage was a bit bothersome but the juiciness compensated plenty. The altar by now had more of a surgical table after a messy operation. The House of God now a theatre of blood.

Not an edible part did she leave untouched. After scooping out the priest’s innards she moved onto the crunchy ears. She nibbled the flesh of his fingers and savoured the fatty goodness of his beer belly. By the time she was through with the priest only his gnawed carcass remained.

Satisfied she left the church through the sacristy were the priest had been watching his favourite movie in an effort to forget the horrors on the outside.

Edward G. Robinson could be heard snickering loudly.

“Where’s your Messiah now?”

 

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84. This be the account of my untimely death

This be the account of my untimely death and the ungodly acts that follow’d.

‘t was the year of our Lord 1666 and being 66 of age on the sixth day of the sixth month the cabin crew became convinc’d the Devil now walked among them, a grotesque delusion fuel’d by the demise of two powder monkeys and our vessel’s surgeon, disembowell’d, all three, their half-eaten hearts purloin’d.

Under the veil of night they attack’d. Still under Hypnos’ spell I had to wrestle the slumber before I could fight my assailants: a battle Hercules himself could not win.

I received no respite for my supposed villainy. Under a blood-red moon thick cords soon tied figures of eights round my joints as I was strung upside down from the mizzen-mast. The ship’s pastor mutter’d saintly incantations as each crewmember carved a pound of flesh from my shiv’ring body.

After they tarr’d me a torch set me alight, condemning me to a death so gruesome no description could do its horror justice. Yet the cheers sound’d louder than my excruciating screams as the crew celebrated Light’s victory over Darkness. A victory prematurely proclaim’d.

For in the fortnight since my charr’d remains blew across deck terror ruled the vessel. The boatswain excreted insects from all orifices before he ripp’d his innards out. The master carpenter flung his boil-riddl’d body from the stern and the quartermaster gauged out his eyes after feeding his manhood to the sharks that circled the ship. The most horrific demise was reserved for the captain. He was slowly pecked to death, bound to the same mast that had before held my body, his organs eaten by crows and seagulls.

They might have exorcis’d the Devil during that dark night but they did not escape his eternal wrath.

 

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51. Floppy shoes, a squirting flower and an assortment of red noses

Floppy shoes, a squirting flower and an assortment of red noses: his bedroom closet contained everything you’d expect from a clown, down to the traditional orange wig.

As usual August had trouble picking the right ensemble. He was a perfectionist and wanted to give the kid he had lined up for today’s gig to have the ultimate clown experience. Whether you wore a common red bow-tie or a novelty spinning one could make all the difference.

 

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50. Do not draw their attention

Do not draw their attention. If you run, they will notice you. If you move too slowly they will grab you. And you don’t want them to grab you.

Jennifer had been through this for five years now. Ever since the tragedy struck, what used to be a straight-forward walk from the train station to the subway had turned into an ordeal. Twice a day through the dimly lit tunnel, with them waiting in the wings, ready to pounce.

 

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