These are a bit longer, but are still very short stories that manage to paint sinister and unnerving sensations within the reader’s mind…
As struggling desperately to move any part of his paralytic body just to alert the doctors that he was still conscious before they made the first incision, he was relieved to see that one of the nurses had noticed his pupils dilating from the bright light. She leaned in close and, in a whisper that tickled his ear, said “You think we don’t know you’re awake?”
The last thing I saw was my alarm clock flashing 12:07am before she pushed her long rotting nails through my chest, her other hand muffling my screams. I sat bolt upright, relieved it was only a dream, but as I saw my alarm clock read 12:06am I heard my closet door slowly creak open.
My daughter woke me up around 11:50pm. My wife and I had picked her up from her friend Sally’s birthday party, brought her home, and put her to bed earlier that evening. My wife went into the bedroom to read while I fell asleep watching the game on TV. “Daddy” she whispered, tugging on my shirt sleeve. “Guess how old I’m going to be next month”. I smiled down at her “I don’t know, beauty”, as I slipped on my glasses, “How old?” She smiled and held up four fingers. It’s 7:30am now. My wife and I have been up with her for almost 8 hours. She still refuses to tell us where she got them.
I begin to tuck my kid into bed when he says “Daddy, check for monsters under my bed”. I humor him, kneeling down to look underneath. I see him, another him, staring back at me and quivering as he whispers “Daddy, there’s somebody on my bed”
I hate when my brother Charlie has to go away. My parents constantly try to explain to me how sick he is; that I’m lucky for having a brain where all the chemicals flow properly to their destinations. When I complain about how bored I am without a little brother to play with, they try to make me feel bad by pointing out that his boredom likely far surpasses mine, considering his confinement to a dark room in an institution. I always beg for them to give him one last chance. Of course they did at first. Charlie has been back home several times, each shorter in duration than the last. Every time, without fail, it all starts again. The neighborhood cats with gouged out eyes showing up in his toy chest, my daddy’s razors found dropped on the baby slide in the park across the street, my mommy’s vitamins replaced by bits of dishwasher tablets. My parents are hesitant now, using “last chances” sparingly. They say his disorder makes him ‘unique’; makes it easy for him to fake normalcy and trick the doctors who care for him into thinking he’s ready for rehabilitation and that I will just have to put up with my boredom if that means staying safe from him while he gets better. I hate it when Charlie has to go away. It makes me have to pretend to be good until he’s back.
There was no pearly gate. The only reason I knew I was in a cave was because I had just passed the entrance. The rock wall rose behind me with no ceiling in sight. I knew this was it, this was what religion talked about, what man feared. I had just entered the gate to Hell. I felt the presence of the cave as if it was a living, breathing creature. The stench of rotting flesh overwhelmed me. Then there was a voice. It came from inside and all around. “Welcome”. “Who are you?” I replied, trying to keep my composure. “You know” the voice answered. I did know. “You are the devil” I stuttered, quickly losing my composure. “Why me? I lived as good as I could!” The silence took over the space as my words died out. It seemed like an hour went by before the response came. “What did you expect?” The voice was penetrating but patient. “I don’t know… I never believed in any of this,” I uttered “Is that why I’m here?” Silence. I continued, undaunted “They say the greatest trick you ever pulled was convincing the world you don’t exist.” “No,” came the reply “the greatest trick I ever pulled was convincing the world that there was an alternative.” “There is no God?” I stammered out. The cave trembled with the reply “I am God”.
I don’t know why I looked up, but when I did I saw him there. He stood against my window. His forehead rested against the glass and his eyes were still and light as he smiled a lipstick-red cartoonish grin. He just stood there in my window. My wife was downstairs sleeping, my son was in his crib, and I couldn’t move. I was frozen with fear as I watched him looking past me through the glass. Oh, please no. His smile never moved but he put a hand up and slid it down the glass, watching me. With matted hair and yellow skin and face, he continued to stare at me through the window. I couldn’t do anything. I just stayed there, frozen, feet still in the bushes I was pruning looking into my own home. He stood against my window…
Last night a friend rushed me out of the house to catch the opening act at a local bar’s music night. After a few drinks I realized my phone wasn’t in my pocket. I checked the table we were sitting at, the bar, the bathrooms, and after no luck I used my friend’s phone to call mine hoping to hear the ring. After two rings, someone answered, gave out a raspy giggle, and hung up. They didn’t answer again. Eventually I gave it up as a stolen phone and headed home. My phone was laying on my night stand right where I left it.
To celebrate their first year in University, six friends went camping in the wilderness. After driving for several hours from the nearest town, they discovered a lagoon, nestled beside a cliff ideal for diving. They set up camp nearby and spent the evening swimming in the warm, clear water. As the sun sunk below the trees, one of the friends went to the highest point on the cliff and jumped off while the other five watched. Their laughter slowly subsided as they waited for him to surface. It only took a few more seconds for them to dive into the water after their friend. Struggling and sputtering among the reeds of the lagoon, they searched hopelessly for him. Finally they disentangled themselves and came up, unable to find their friend. Heartbroken, they returned to the city and passed a strange and lonely year in which their only solace was the knowledge that they would return to the lagoon to honor the anniversary of their friend’s death. A year passed and they returned to the same spot as a memorial, but as they approached they saw their friend standing on the banks of the lagoon, head bowed. Excited, they called to him and began running towards him, but he didn’t respond or move. As they got closer they called to him more desperately, but still to no avail. They stopped dead in their tracks, however, when they saw not one but five crosses on the bank of the lagoon.
My wife was shaking me quietly. I looked around the cabin. The girls must have gone to bed. The fire had burned down to embers. My glass of scotch was still in my hand. “Something is tapping on the porch” she said. I heard it too. I grabbed my ax and lit the lantern. I opened the door expecting to see a raccoon or a skunk, but instead I found a boy of about 10 years old. He stared at me, petrified for a moment, then bolted down the path through the woods. I gave chase. He was losing me, but I heard him tumble to the ground. I leapt on top of him, furious for scaring my wife and I. “Why were you knocking on my porch?” I yelled. “My uncles told me to!” the boy stammered back. I was no longer angry, but confused. “But why?” I asked. “To get you out of the cabin”