By Dean Kuch
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
I desperately struggled to move any part of my drugged, paralytic body to signal the doctors that I was conscious. They were scrubbed and ready, their conversation animated. I knew I had to alert them somehow before they made that first incision.
I was relieved when I saw one of the nurses had noticed my pupils were dilated from the bright lights overhead. She leaned in close to me — intimately close. With a whisper which tickled my ear, she hissed,
"Don't you think we've always known you were awake?"
Soon after, the cutting began...
| Author Notes |
I hope you enjoyed this latest installment. The book is now a multi-authored book which any premium FanStory member can contribute to. I only ask that the stories be 500 words or less, and horror themed.
As always...Pleasant Screams...heh-heh-heh. |
By Dean Kuch
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
The Pumpkin Batch
This was Jeanie's first time taking the shortcut through the woods past Briarwood's Cemetery. She was a stranger in town, her family having moved to Briarwood the previous week. A large, odd looking hunchbacked fellow assured her it was the quickest way from school to her family's quaint little home on Elm Street.
A graveyard seemed a peculiar place for a pumpkin patch. Amidst tombstones, fresh mounds of dirt, and wilting flowers, Jeanie noticed a collection of orange orbs which stood out from the otherwise drab, dismal landscape. Even from a distance she couldn’t help but notice they were nearly the same size. Average shaped — none puny or gigantic — just right.
Inching closer, Jeanie noticed the dripping orange paint, the stumps still bleeding into the earth, and staring faces which needed no carving. Before she could run, she spied a pair of sinister eyes shimmering within a crumbling crypt. Waning sunlight glinted from a bloodied ax grasped in a meaty fist — the last vestiges of sunlight refracting from the metal blade.
Light faded quickly, as the winter sun dipped below the horizon.
Jeanie shivered. It had little to do with the chill in the air.
| Author Notes |
Since I'm receiving so few submissions for this book -- just one from another member (thanks, Bill!) -- I've decided to add another 200 word story of my own. I hope you don't mind... ~Dean Kuch
|
By Dean Kuch
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
The Fruits of Her Labor
The door slammed, echoing down the long hall. Their apartment building had become a furious flurry of activity, as caterers, ice sculptors and their assistants applied the finishing touches to the ornate milieu.
Alanna lay nude, exposed upon the banquet table. She thought of the expense that would've been required to present such an extravagant feast, as caterers and florists fretted over glorious arrangements of fruit and flowers all around her. Thank heavens their new neighbors all pitched in to pay for the ceremonies. A baby shower and welcome wagon gift all rolled neatly into one extravagant package, they'd said. She and her husband, George, would never have been able to afford something as lavish as this on their meager salaries.
This new birthing experience certainly felt bizarre, but she trusted her husband with all of her heart. George was actually excited about the entire affair.
The costume party guests soon began to arrive, as witches, vampires, goblins and ghouls – presenting themselves in spectacular get-ups – began filing into the couple's apartment. Alanna hid her embarrassment as the fruit was gradually consumed, exposing her bulging belly and nakedness. Father Tàe Moore, the communities new parish priest, offered a toast to the newborn child about to make its way into the world. The first pangs of labor took hold, engrossing Alanna's bulging belly in a vice-like grip.
“Here, drink this, Alanna, dear. It will help with the... process,” he offered.
Grapes were crushed over her bare breasts as the guests began to run their tongues around the darkened areolas of her ample bosom.
After several hours of intensive contractions and pushing, Alanna and George's newborn baby entered the world.
"Aw, good... it's a boy!" one of the female guests dressed as Cleopatra shrieked excitedly. Mrs. Wilkins, an elderly woman from an apartment across the hall, gently took the shivering child, toweled him off, then handed him to Father Moore.
The aged holy man held the baby aloft, as all in attendance grew silent, bowing their heads in reverence.
"We give thanks to you, oh Dark Lord, for this fabulous bounty we are about to so gratefully receive."
Drugged and powerless, she could neither move nor cry out now, even as a mouthful of flesh was torn away from her newborn son. The feast began at midnight’s first chime.
After the child was devoured, George proposed a toast to his wife, the guest of honor.
With a sinister wink in his horrified wife's direction, George proclaimed to the bloodied throng; "To my darling wife, Alanna, who made this delectable feast possible. And now...let's have that dessert.”
| Author Notes | 469 words... |
By Dean Kuch
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
The voices whisper to me whenever I shut my eyes.
Juliette...Juliette... J-u-l-i-e-t-t-e...
Day and night, they sigh my name in soft, sing-song choruses. At first, they seemed related to my dreams, but gradually became more detached, brutal — vulgar and gruesomely bloody.
The whispers were never kind. They demanded I slaughter my family. Oh, I tried my best to ignore them, I truly did. But as their urgency increased, I knew I'd eventually give in.
When the cops arrived, I was awash in the blood of my family, surrounded by their mutilated, carved-up corpses. I told them God had been whispering to me.
At my trial, the jury agreed.
Juliette had not been herself when the murders took place, they determined – which was fine by me. I'd already known that.
I was committed for psychiatric evaluation and treatment. However, I soon began using sex to woo a young orderly to plot my escape. After promising him yet another sexual rendevous one night, I took him to my bed, strangled him, then took his uniform and keys. All I had to do afterward was stroll calmly out the front door. It wasn't until I was long gone that one of the hospital's nursing staff found my grisly stash.
They'd been tucked neatly away in a small drawstring bag covered in rust-colored splotches. I'd shoved my ghastly collection into an inconspicuous hole I carved out in the wall beneath my bed.
Inside, I'd placed several of their teeth, along with the ring fingers of my dearly departed parents — wedding bands and all. I always enjoyed how they stank of earth, rot and decay. Besides, it's all I had left of my happy little family.
How could I know they'd been found after leaving the hospital? Well, come a bit closer and I'll tell you.
S-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h ...
God told me so.
| Author Notes |
Now, kiddies, that's a story that gives a whole new meaning to giving someone the finger, heh-heh.
In any event, thanks for reading and as always... pleasant screams! Heh-heh-heh... |
By Dean Kuch
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
~The Unfortunate Mr. Watson~
Aeon Cryogenics Corporation's employees celebrated their first-ever successful cryogenic freezing. After a myriad of miserably failed attempts—some with horrific consequences—all the current client's vital signs were completely normal...except one.
“Dr. Pascow. Watson's blood pressure is increasing at a rather alarming rate. Should we...”
“Balderdash, Parsons, my good woman.”
The jovial doctor—and founder of Aeon Corp.—playfully slapped his assistant on the shoulder.
“We're going to observe spikes in Mr. Watson's vitals initially. They'll soon return to normal levels, you'll see.”
He screamed, he begged—he pleaded with them—Please, stop this madness! But, it was much too late for pleas, as only he could hear them.
The unfortunate Mr. Watson had no way of letting them know he was still very much awake.
| Author Notes |
Well, boils and ghouls... It looks like the unfortunate Mr. Watson will be giving the good doctors a cold shoulder for a long, long time...along with everything else on his body. It just goes to show ya--living forever ain't always what it's... cracked up to be...heh-heh-heh
As always, thanks for reading, and pleasant screams! ~DK |
By Dean Kuch
His fangs drizzled a mix of saliva and blood. It flicked around like bloody rain as he pounded after me.
Snarling, his ferocious growl exploding around me as the ground beneath shuddered.
He bounded towards me.
His hot breath, his saliva oozing, slimy, it was all over me.
I could smell blood.
Bathed in perspiration, I fought for breath.
He leapt, and his claws, his huge claws…......
I woke terrorized. Sheets tangled around me, wet with my perspiration.
Blood dripped.
Large welts on my legs bled.
I could smell blood, it dripped onto the stark white sheet.
Each night he was getting closer.
| Author Notes |
Many thanks to Dean Kuch for the great artwork and his help.
Had fun with this one. |
By Dean Kuch
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
You've broken that oath. You... and him.
You betrayed my trust, despoiled our love. My wife — my best friend. I couldn't believe it at first. What was once joy soon fueled a blinding hatred. It burned brightly, providing the only light in the darkness of my otherwise abysmal existence.
So, here I am... digging a grave for you in soft soil.
Too bad you're both still breathing. Your eyes...pleading.
I toss in another shovelful of dirt.
I'll keep my solemn oath...
...“till death do us part.”
| Author Notes |
Hand counted, 100 words...
|
By Dean Kuch
| Author Note: | Another in the series of tiny terror tales. |
Jimmy ducked into Our Lady of Mercy.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."
"How long since your last confession?"
"Three years."
"What's troubling you?"
"I want a priest dead."
"Have you... acted on this?"
"No, but he's been screwing — my wife."
Gulping, the priest mumbled, "All's forgiven."
Jimmy exposed handcuffs... a pistol.
“Shoot yourself... or burn to death, priest. It's your choice.”
Billowing smoke was soon seen from miles away.
No gunshots were ever forthcoming.
Jimmy calmly stared out of his apartment window, observing all of the commotion taking place in the street below.
He smiled, imagining the priest's anguish as the fires he'd set took hold.
Fondling the bullets in the pocket of his jeans, Jimmy couldn't help but grin.
| Author Notes |
Hand counted 100 words
Many thanks to tfawcus for the title... |
By Dean Kuch
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
If you are easily offended please do not read any further.
BILLY SMART'S FUNFAIR
†
Luca's lecherous eyes search the crowds... Moving to the loud rock music, his hands open and close in frustration; as skin tight jeans emphasise his showing. Oh! What havoc he could wreak again. Thoughts feed his perverted pride like Satan's whisper.
"There's one," he mutters to himself. Their eyes meet. He knows instinctively.
"Do I know you? I'm sure we meet before," his fake pidgin English, well rehearsed spiel and charming smile rarely fails with young girls.
Her name Succ, stiffens him.
"Succ is not a—how do you say? Usual name," his smirk is noticed.
"Not common, yet not unique," her snake eyes—those black holes, reveal nothing.
"A surprise, I show you my horse, she is beautiful. You want-a-to see it—Yes? Come, come," he leads her to his caravan.
"Please, you go first," A baseball bat stands by the door.
"You were, weren't you?" her accusing eyes drill into his evil consciousness.
The bat is in her hands.
"How did--?"
Whoosh—his head rings; blackness.
♦♦♦
SLAP, SLAP...His eyes open to a new nightmare.
"Someone wants to talk to you."
"What?" Unable to comprehend, fear grips him with the realisation that he lies naked on his bed, "How...?"
A voice drifts out of the darkness, "I'm Kim Tyler—you remember me don't you? In that field you raped, then strangled me...You bastard you took my liiiifffffffeeeee aaawwwaaayyyyyyy."
Sobbing, "It was an accident—I—I couldn't help it, I swear."
"Not the big boy now, eh?" Succ's laughing voice at odds with her hard face, "Let's see how long this old succubus can make you. Hah, Hah, Hah."
She lowers herself down onto his manhood and gets to work.
In no time at all, she has Luca almost to the point of no return, "Oh!—Oh!—Oh!—Oh!—Oh!... "
Her body changes; a strength emerges that no human ever owned. His moans change to screams. "Noooo, Noooo Arghhhh!"
Her vagina pulls and pulls, stretching him. Unable to move, his feeble struggles make it worse. The Succubus pressing hard against his body, sucks away, pulling, pulling. His muscles stretch to their limit and start to tear.
His screams are in tune with the Black Sabbath's song 'Die Young' blasting across the fairground.
'Tomorrow will never come.
You'll never get old.'
Pulling, pulling, amid gushing blood, first his cock is torn away disappearing like a rabbit up a burrow; trailing connective tissue. This rips out his inner scrotum. Her vagina like a starving mouth, tugs and sucks eager to miss nothing. Slurping the spurting blood like a greedy pig at a trough.
At long last the screaming and bleeding comes to a stop.
Luca is dead.
'Die young, someone stopped the fair.'
Her work done she rises. It's back to her friends, for an enjoyable night out. And Kim is following Succ's instructions in her next meeting with Luca...
♦~♦~♦
| Author Notes |
I would like to express my thanks to Dean Kuch for his first class artwork and help.
A succubus is a female demon or supernatural entity in folklore (traced back to medieval legend) that appears in dreams and takes the form of a woman in order to seduce men, usually through sexual activity. I thank you for reading this experimental write... |
By Dean Kuch
Winds, like Screaming Banshees, howled through the pine trees surrounding the cottage.
Selina loved the winter, loved everything about it.
She didn’t go inside, into the warmth until way past dark.
Today she had walked for miles collecting another wheelbarrow of logs from the nearby forest.
She tossed a couple into the fireplace, and served herself a large ramekin of soup, then sat in her rocking chair.
Selina stretched out her feet to warm her wet socks, her boots were drying nearby.
Logs crackled. Opalescent shapes, shadows slid into the room. Consuming all.
Sleeping, Selina coughed, spluttered, took her last breath.
The rocking chair kept on, to and fro, to and fro.
Selina's bones eventually turned to dust, and still the logs kept burning.
Opalescent shapes, shadows slithered throughout the cottage.
| Author Notes |
Many, many thanks to Dean Kuch for the fabulous artwork and all his help.
It was needed and appreciated. |
By Dean Kuch
Ivor ran into Georgia's bedroom at the first hint of a scream. She hadn't slept well since her mum's funeral. Neither had Ivor. Little Georgia was sitting up in bed, clammy and frightened. Eyes wide, mouth open, screaming.
"It's all right, darling. Daddy's here now."
Georgia held her arms out like a marionette, and Ivor gathered her into his, and held her tight. He stroked her wet hair, whispering platitudes into her little ears. She clung to him like ivy on a wall.
"Daddy, I'm scared."
"I know, darling, I know. It'll be okay."
"When?"
Ivor held his daughter all the closer. It was the one question he couldn't answer. But how do you tell a four year old when the pain will go away?
"Can I sleep beside you Daddy?"
Ivor responded by standing up and carrying Georgia across the hall to his room. He set her down on the undisturbed side of the bed and tucked her in. Her head fell back, her blonde hair cascading over the pillow that still smelt of her mum. Ivor sat beside her until she fell asleep. Then the tears started to flow.
As Georgia settled in for the night, Ivor walked back across the hall and into her room. The room was hot but Georgia's bed was cold as he re-made it. He tucked her sheets and placed her 'My Little Pony' pillow at the foot of the bed.
It was then, he heard the shuffling noises. The small hairs on his closely cropped head seemed to stand on end, matching those on his neck and arms. Ivor slowly knelt down and peered under the bed. It was very dark underneath. The shuffling ceased. Ivor extended his arm into the space beneath the bed, sweeping it back and forth. He withdrew it quickly, as a sharp pain stung the back of his hand. He looked again, noticing the splintered wood of the bed base he was sure had not been there before.. He licked the blood spots off and stood up.
"Daddy? What are you doing?"
The sound of Georgia's voice startled Ivor and he stumbled back against the wall, hitting his head.
"I was... just tidying up, honey. Go back to bed."
"On my own?"
"I'll come too, honey."
Georgia reached up and took Ivor's hand. Her hand felt icy to the touch, despite the warmth in the house. Ivor bent down and placed a hand on her forehead. He caught a brief glimpse of something in Georgia's eyes before she reached up with both hands and pushed him down the wooden staircase. His head striking several steps on the way down. Georgia watched.
Ivor managed to gasp out, "Why?"
Georgia stared at Ivor a moment and then spoke, "Mommy was lonely," as she looked upwards and raised her little hand, "weren't you?"
Ivor stared disbelieving as a shape took form beside his little girl, taking her hand and leading her into the bedroom.
Before he faded away, Ivor managed a terrified whisper, "That's not Mommy."
| Author Notes | Art work by Dean Kuch. |
By Dean Kuch
| Author Note: | My thanks to all of the great authors who have contributed. Heres...LOOKING... at you, kiddies. |
Well Hello, Dolly
No...no one has seen my collection before. I've spent quite a few years assembling it. I designed and built all of these display cases myself — perfect for showcasing my masterpieces, don't you agree?
Oh, that's right, I apologize. I imagine it's quite hard to reply with wads of bloodied gauze shoved down your throat. Please, forgive my foolish indiscretion.
No, no, please — eyes front. Don't look over there. Those were some of my very early attempts. Miserable failures compared to my most recent endeavors. Again, I do not expect a response, so please, don't expend any energies in trying. You're going to need your strength. I'm merely making an observation.
It's not as easy as you might think, however. Lots of practice went in before I ... perfected my technique.
Hold still, now. This is really going... to hurt...
...first, a delicate slice along your jawline, then up, past the ear. Next, a clean cut along your temple... gently peeling back the skin and scalp... Please, stop squirming! While I prefer doing this while my subjects are still breathing, I'm not beyond...
...okay, that's much better. Now, allow me to heat up this tablespoon for a moment. It makes removal of the eyes so much easier. Okay...hold..it... steady now...and, 'POP!' — out they come. It's as easy as that, you see?
Oh, no...no. I suppose you can't see, can you?
Now... for the coup de grace. Glass eyes are inserted into the sockets. I took the liberty of selecting a pale blue rather than the hazel you're probably accustomed to. I hope you won't mind?
Now, just another... stitch...or...two... here...
Voilá...you're a living doll!
So, what do you think?
Miss?
Hello... miss?
Dammit.
| Author Notes |
Well, boils and ghouls. It appears that one really can go...looking...for love in all the wrong places, heh-heh-heh.
As always, thanks for taking an interest in these Tiny Tales of twisted Terror. Pleasant Screams! |
By Dean Kuch
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
PRESENTS
SNAKE'S BREATH
"I hope it doesn't happen again," Donald Wells grits his teeth. Gingerly, he rides his Triumph motorbike into the bend. The front wheel jerks as the bike launches him.
Flying into a solitary tree, his anguished screaming can be heard for miles.
The impact pulverising his body produces facial disintegration, and the showering of brain matter.
Donald's body splays out like a detestable kebab, bloody, --smelly--steaming,--slides to devil's earth. Entrails, like obscene octopus tentacles, drape around the narrow tree trunk.
Sounds,--splodge, slurp and other slipping, gurgling, noises--a demon's banquet revealed. Veins leaking,--blood from the formless cranial remains, spurt as if to fill a demonic chalice.
Trailing pretty sparks, the machine comes to rest.
A grr-ating, blood chilling, voice. Evil, like the smell of snake's breath, rasps forth.
"Heh! Heh! Donald Wells, well mashed up. A joke in the best of taste, my sweeties. He was an old fart.--Nice butt though."
♦♦♦
Local man Jack Harding sees the advert.
Damaged Triumph Bonneville, two years old, low mileage. Offers...
He buys a bargain.
♦♦♦
Jack looks at brother Pete.
"Yesterday, a strange voice said, 'Yummy butt.' "
"You're haunted," jokes Pete.
"And, the bike nearly trapped my hand. I was too quick... "I'm reluctant to start her. I meant to say IT."
"Not, IT... 'QUEEN! QUEEN!... dear."
"Did you hear that, Pete?"
"I'm going--see you next week."
"Thanks a lot, coward!"
♦♦♦
After testing, he rides the bike without a problem. Then one morning at five thirty, he leaves for work. Turning a left--he finds himself on the ground nursing some bruises. The motorbike is on its side.
"Right, I'll sort you out after work!" wagging his finger at it.
♦♦♦
His mind made up, he confronts the entity.
"Well?"
"Come on! Why throw me off?"
"Dddon't like--!"
Fighting his terror, he shouts, "Don't like bloody what!"
(grr-ating) "Getting up early, darling."
"I don't believe it, a lazy ghost."
(grr-ating) "Oh DUCKY-- I'm more than that. I'm the sun in the sky. The arrow of Harold's eye, the apple of William's... ten sixty six... Meddled with history... jokes before time. My sweetie pie. I'M A FUCKING DEMON!"
Blasted backwards under the emotional shock, Jack carries on.
"You're a puff, aren't you?"
"Been called worse...sodomite usually."
"What a load of bollocks you are."
(grr-ating) "Careful mortal, soon you will have baleful cause to mourn. Comprehend, ducky?"
"Can you comprehend this?"
Swinging a two pound hammer; he proceeds to smash up the motorbike. "You'll not kill anyone else."
"Hah! Hah! How's the little one--dear?"
Seeing red, Jack grabs a hacksaw; in his fury the Triumph is soon reduced to small pieces, a pile of scrap.
His disbelieving, heavily pregnant wife, goes ballistic.
"We can't afford another motorbike. Tomorrow I need to buy that baby cart (pram) I saw, reduced on offer..."
PS.
In a Mothercare showroom nearby--the atmosphere chills,--a baby cart moves slightly and...
♦~♦~♦
| Author Notes |
I would like to thank Dean once again for the excellent artwork and his constant help in this multi-author book.
This fiction story is based on an actual set of circumstances. I wish to thank you for reading this. Always much appreciated... :) Mel. |
By Dean Kuch
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
~The Cellar Stares~"
†
A Tiny Tale of Terror
“Don't go down there, Bobby, pwe-e-e-eeeeease! A ugwy monster man wive down there who stare at you. He say he gonna get us.”
Jenny raised a tiny, shaking finger, then pointed at the cellar door.
Bloodbath in Paradise by Ozzy Osborne jangled from the single speaker of a cheap transistor radio perched on the kitchen counter.
“Him's name is Cewar Stares!”
“Jenny, hush up and gimme' that darn flashlight. Stop your whining. We all done told ya', there ain't no such thing as monsters.”
Bobby switched on the light while slowly opening the door.
“Whew...what died down here?”
The flashlight beam cut sharply into the darkness, casting elongated shadows upon the rickety wooden steps. They creaked and groaned in protest under Bobby's weight.
As Bobby ended his descent, the last thing he saw in his short, young life were a pair of white, maniacal eyes staring back at him.
Before long, agonizing screams of a terrified four-year-old girl echoed across acres of barren farmland—trailing off into ebony nothingness beyond.
A shoddy transistor radio sat unattended in the kitchen, playing to an audience of none...
"We interupt our broadcast to bring you this
special bulletin...
Be on the look-out for Keller Shares. Shares escaped this morning from the Monroe Psychiatric Institute for the criminally insane. He is armed and considered to be extremely dangerous..."
| Author Notes |
Well, boils and ghouls. I guess kids are right more times than we give them credit for. Too bad the ghastly ghoul of our little tale, Kellar Shares, wasn't suffering from a cold or the flu. Maybe then, Bobby would have heard him...coffin.
Thanks for reading, and... ...pleasant screams, heh-heh-heh... |
By Dean Kuch
~ The Demise of Billy No Pals.~
~♦~
~~~~~~~Possessed~~~~~~~
Homeless Billy no pals, lies in a small maintenance room hidden away on the Chester bridge.
Vomiting foam, a snotty, stinking sea of green... Creeping, creeping up the walls... Deafened and blinded, foam now up to his head.
Choking, gurgling, " Helppp Meeoooossssh."
"You stupid man! Sign here with a spot of blood. Your last chance," it waves the paper.
♦♦♦
Gasping and waiting to sign.
The level rises over his nose.
Convulsing—soon dead—beyond all harm.
His hearing aid out of reach...
Hah Hah! Hah! Hah! Hah! Hah! Hah!.....
~♦~
| Author Notes |
This is one of three works written originally for Dean's competition.
Written as Micro Horror Fiction with a one hundred word limit. As always many thanks for taking the time to read it. |
By Dean Kuch
“John? Thank you for answering my call.” Willow said. “Were you sleeping?”
Walter answered. “No, I was watching a movie but I paused. What’s up?”
“I can’t go to sleep. I keep thinking about the model I will use for my portrait.”
Walter noticed the panic in Willow’s voice. “Don’t worry, I found the perfect girl for you. I didn’t even have to look hard. She was the first one to answer my ad. I made an appointment for Tuesday at 10 am, is that good for you?
“Yes, that's great!”
“Her name is Susan. I was going to call you in the morning, but you beat me to it.”
“Oh, thank you, I can’t wait to meet her.”
The model rang the doorbell and Willow answered. “Hello” Willow smiled at the pretty brunet standing in front of her. “Please, come in.”
“Am I too early?” Susan said.
“No, not at all, I was expecting you.” Willow was pleased with the way Susan looked. She was a gorgeous woman of medium height and slender figure. Her eyes were dark brown, very dark brown, they were striking.
Willow said, “Would you like some water, coffee, tea?”
“No, I am good, thank you.”
Willow had placed a tall stool in front of a large canvas and asked Susan to undress and sit on it.
By the bright light in the room, Willow saw Susan’s eyes better and she noticed they were not dark brown, they were pure black, they didn’t look human and they scared her a little.
Susan sat on the stool and Willow asked, “Are you comfortable?” Susan nodded as Willow continued to relay instructions to her, “I want you to sit with your back to me and turn a little bit to your left, but don’t show me your face.”
Willow wanted to see Susan’s long hair cascading down over her shoulders.
Willow painted Susan’s portrait fast, as if she had to finish in hurry but it looked perfect and she was very pleased with her work.
When Susan turned around Willow was horrified to see the distorted face looking back at her. Susan’s eyes were gone and in their place were two pools of black onyx staring back at her. Her nose was gone too and all that was left was a dark cavity. Where her beautiful mouth had been was a large grin, from ear to ear, it was filled with long sharp teeth. The skin over her face was gone and in its place was a cluster of raw tendons and blood veins covered in yellow pus.
Susan quickly pounced on Willow and devoured her face.
Willow screamed and fell over her own pool of blood and gore.
The last sound Willow made was a horrible scream and she had enough time to feel Susan’s sharp teeth on her face and to think, no, please no!!!!
| Author Notes |
*478 words/The Tiny Tale of Terror has to be less than 500 words.
~I like to thank Dean Kuch for creating a collection of Tiny Tales of Terror and for allowing me to contribute.~ |
By Dean Kuch
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
Popcorn Horror
Every night for the past week, I've been peepin' at the new babe across the alley, watchin' her through my bedroom window. Hell, it ain't like I'm doin' nothin' wrong. She flashes me that toothy smile of hers then shoots me a wink to let me know she knows. She puts on one helluva show, too–just for me.
First, she gets completely naked—oh, jumpin Jeezus, what a body she has! She always undresses before her latest victims do. Sometimes, it's a gorgeous gal, like herself. Most times, it's a guy. I like the nights she has her gal friends over best of all.
She dims the lights then sets a match to a couple a' black candles she keeps on her bureau... now that's when the party really kicks into high gear.
I make my favorite microwave popcorn, sit back, and start enjoyin' the screams.
Oh, I ain't talkin' about screams of pleasure or ecstasy here—no siree. These are screams of agony and terror while she rips 'em to shreds. They never see it comin' neither... not until it's too late. She transforms so damn fast.
Whoa, hold up a sec... stow the chatter. The lights are dimmin'— that means the show's about to begin. I need some popcorn, and I got some all ready to go right... huh? Hold up. Where the hell's she goin' with them candles?
Shit, she's grabbin' her coat and leavin! Tonight of all nights. And I bought Orville Redenbacher, too!
Fuck it all, now someone's beatin' at my door.
Just my dumb luck.
| Author Notes |
Well, boils and ghouls. I guess the poor fella could'a saved himself some dough and bought the cheaper microwave popcorn for this particular show. I doubt he's going to get much of a chance to...savor the flavor. It sounds to me like he's going to get an up close and personal showing of his own.
You know, it would do my blackened heart good if someone came banging at your own door right about now, just after you've finished reading this twisted tiny tale of terror. Now that's what I call... entertainment, heh-heh-heh... As always, thanks for reading, and pleasant screams. |
By Dean Kuch
| Author Notes |
<><><><><><><><>
I like to thank Dean Kuch for providing the great opportunity to contribute to The Tine Tales of Terror, and for sharing his expertise with me. <><><><><><><><> Self-rescuer = a portable respirator Ram-Car = a low, long, wide-bodied vehicle used to haul coal Man-trip = a vehicle used for transporting workers |
By Dean Kuch
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
The Attic Door
I can hear someone—or something—moving around on the other side of the door that goes up to the attic from my bedroom. It's happened every night since we moved into this house a week ago.
I turn off my lamp. My night light makes everything a weird blue color, like those glowing necklaces you get at the fair or carnivals. The scary whispering noises and crying sounds start almost right away.
I jump out of bed. I have to turn on the lamp sitting on my night stand a bunch of times before I can finally go back to sleep.
Tonight, the door flew open hitting the wall so hard it woke me up. A really wicked storm was brewing outside. Through the skylight in the roof I see lightning flash. The elongated, finger-like shadows of trees dance across my wall, creep across the floor, then perch like hungry vultures above me. The storm gets worse as the trees are rocked by really strong winds.
My night light's gone out.
In the flashes of lightning I watch horrified as an old standing mirror slides out of the darkness from the open door, then stops in the middle of my room.
I scream like a sissy, waking my parents. Dad comes flying up the steps three at a time thinking something's terribly wrong. Hurriedly, he throws open the door to my room. Just knowing he's there calms me down right away.
“Jeezus, Jerry. You scared the life outta me! It's just the wind, buddy. It must have come in through the gable vent—caused the attic door to come open. I'll make certain I close that vent off before winter. Just leave the door open for now. I'll put a latch on it later.”
Dad smiles, nodding toward the mirror. “Where'd this old thing come from? Must've been up there in the attic, huh? We'll clean it up together tomorrow. Don't go hauling any more junk from that attic into your room though, you hear? I haven't had a chance to check it out."
I can't speak or respond—I'm too horrified. Dad reckons I've accepted his explanation of the situation based on my silence. What he never notices is the girl in the mirror behind him.
The one in the bloodied, tattered white dress.
The one wearing a smile on her creepy, crying face.
The one reaching for his neck.
| Author Notes |
Well, kiddies. I'm sure Jerry's dad meant well. Poor kid... Well, look on the bright side, boils and ghouls. Jerry may be losing a father, but he's gaining a...ghoulfriend...heh-heh-heh. Now that's what I call a tiny twisted tale of terror that really reaches out and...grabs ya.
To FanStory's own G.E, Parsons, thanks for relaying your real life spooky story which inspired this write. Hey, Jerry--here's...looking at you, kid, heh-heh! Thanks for reading, fright fans, and as always...pleasant screams! |
By Dean Kuch
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
It was dark except for the blue glow of the television. Dena hadn’t heard the door open, but distinctly heard footsteps in the adjacent room. Terror gripped her, but she managed to open her eyes ever so slightly. Against a bit of light coming through the window was a silhouette, completely dressed in black.
Dena felt beside her pillow, but… no cell phone. She pulled the blanket over her head. If she didn’t see him, maybe he wouldn’t see her.
The footsteps came closer. A deep voice said her name.
As fear gripped her, flight or fight kicked in. Instinctively, her arm moved over to the nightstand. A skilled softball player, Dena stood up giving the hammer her hardest swing.
The first thing she noticed was the smell of blood. He screamed as he crumpled to the floor. She felt the warm, wet stickiness of blood on her face, hands, and arms.
He wasn’t moving. No, not at all. She turned on the light... that’s when she saw it, his badge.
Pleasant screams. He-he- he. Hope you like it, Dean.
| Author Notes | A true story up to the claw hammer. There really was a police officer wandering around my house looking for me. I don't know why he didn't use his flashlight. I apparently rolled over on my lifeline pendent. Since I didn't respond when they asked if I needed help, the police came to check on me. I was terrified. He's lucky I didn't have a claw hammer. |
By Dean Kuch
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
Darkly Through the Glass
Home alone recovering from the flu, Jeanie sat transfixed listening to the news anchorwoman recount the latest information about the profile of a murderer who was on the loose in the vicinity.
An uneasy feeling began to wash over her—like a malignant, oily fog. It caused her to shift her glance towards the sliding glass doors, out beyond her kitchen into the backyard.
A man was standing outside in the snow. He remained motionless, leering back at her across the sparkling, snow-covered lawn. The illumination of the full moon cast an eerie pallor across his face. His deep-set eyes were hidden in shadows.
His description matched perfectly with the one the news anchor gave earlier in her report.
Terrified, gasping for precious air—Jeanie snatched her cell from the coffee table to dial 9-1-1. Daring a quick peek once more towards the glass door leading to her backyard, she suddenly froze. Overcome with terror, she was unable to hit “send” to call out for help.
He was much closer now than he'd been before.
With horrifying, sudden clarity, the realization of what she'd just seen hit her like a sledgehammer blow to the gut.
There were no footprints in the snow.
Shock took hold, squeezing the breath out of her lungs. She shook uncontrollably, like leaves in a stiff fall breeze. The phone fell from her hand, tumbling to the floor.
Jeanie tried to scream. However, it caught in her throat, choking off her air supply like a piece of half-chewed steak that simply wouldn't go down.
The reflection in the glass—his reflection— was coming from inside her home.
| Author Notes |
Well, fright fans. It seems poor Jeanie has a bit of reflecting to do of her own. Either that, or she'll die trying. It's always nice for a woman to meet the man of her screams...e-r-r-r, heh-heh, dreams, that is. In Jeanie's case, I have a feeling their relationship is gonna be a killer, heh-heh-heh...
Slay me down soft and slowly...and as always...pleasant screams! |
By Dean Kuch
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
Returning home from school, Melissa was greeted by a delicious aroma.
“Something smells great! What's for supper, Ma... Mom?
Melissa's mother appeared—an apparition materializing suddenly out of aromatic air. Her stare was cold, vacant.
“Mom...you okay?"
“S-h-h-h-h-h-h. You'll wake the baby,” She stroked the form lovingly cradled in her arms. Gently, Melissa's mother pulled back a pink afghan revealing a raw chicken. Several feathers still clung to the pimpled skin.
“Mom. Where's the baby?”
“Baby...yes-s-s-ssss. We mustn't wake...”
“The baby! Oh God, Mom...”
Melissa darted for the kitchen, while something unspeakable popped and sizzled in the oven.
| Author Notes |
Contrary to what some believe, grandparents do sometimes have a wonderfully morbid sense of humor. They'll ask you, "Do you know what day Army Drill Day falls on? March Forth!" When you cry "foul" and yell, "Hey!" they smirk, replying, "Hay is for horses! Oh, and by the way, check out the duct tape I put over the baby's mouth! Ha-Ha-Ha-Ha-Ha-a-a-a-aaaa!"
Wait...that last one doesn't sound quite right, does it? That's the sort of humor that Ohio grandmother Jackie Sheaks of West Columbus loves, anyway. She posted two images on Facebook that landed her in a bit of... hot water herself. One was of her granddaughter with a pacifier taped to her mouth (it looked as if there are air holes, but I'm sure), and another where the baby was in a pot with vegetables as if she were about to be roasted in the oven. "It started out as just a joke; we put a little tape on the pacifier because we were being silly," Sheaks (which incidentally rhymes with "Freaks") explained to WBNS-10TV, "we wanted to share it with friends because everybody that knows us, knows we play around like that." Child Protective Services and the police did not "Like" her photo, however, and soon showed up on her doorstep. No formal charges have been made, because, in the end, they were just photos. The girl's mother said she has no problem with the pictures, but it made her feel good that CPS and the cops showed up to investigate. As for granny Jackie, she insists "We're not the horrible people they're making us out to be....We would never harm our children, ever." I'll say this about the baby. She is indeed so cute, you just want to eat her up. Y-U-M-M-M-M! |
By Dean Kuch
The cuckoo clocks sounded out the hour with shrill clangs, each one louder than the one before. The first clock finished and another started up.
My passion, my obsession.
I bought Big Daddy online. He was the piece-de-resistance of my collection. Reaching floor to 12-foot ceiling height, with a large ornately carved door to the inner workings.
This clock was unique. With each peal, the axeman came out brandishing a blood-spattered, axe. Each chime was a blood-curdling scream reverberating around the room and throughout my upstairs apartment.
Big Daddy had given me no rest since I’d set him up. He’d become the conductor of a corrupted orchestra. The floors rumbled, the noise echoed throughout. I had no respite, he had to be shut down, tonight.
Bounding down the stairs I opened the door and flicked on the light.
Sparks flew from the switch, I saw Big Daddy, his axeman was watching me.
Then absolute quiet. No clocks ticked.
I stood quite still before a crescendo erupted around the room. Each clock began. Cuckoo, cuckoo. The noise pounded into my body. It was a vortex of sound and I got sucked into it.
The door to the room slammed behind me. I tried to get out, then Big Daddy’s door flew open. Like a vacuum, I was sucked in.
My screams meld with each chime.
| Author Notes |
There's a lovely little shop in Handorf, in the Adelaide Hills that is full of gorgeous Cuckoo clocks, not like Big Daddy at all.
Many thanks once again to Dean Kuch for the creepy cuckoo clock. |
By Dean Kuch
“Don’t leave your food out. Be sure it is safely secured in your car, we’ve had a problem with bears this summer. They shouldn’t bother you as long as there isn’t anything left out to attract them. They tend to be like Yogi Bear, they’re only after your picnic basket. Of course, our bears aren’t as cute as Yogi when they tear up a campground,” said the ranger, smiling.
Sue found the idea of seeing a real bear exciting. If she could only get a picture to show her city friends back home…
After a long hike, she returned to her tent, dog-tired. She took a sandwich out of the car and ate it before climbing into her sleeping bag for the night.
She woke to find it was still dark. Needing to urinate, she weighed the options; the dark bathrooms by the garbage versus squatting where she was. She opted to squat before crawling back into the sleeping bag to catch a couple more hours of sleep.
When she woke up again, the sun was shining through the walls of her tent. She planned to look at the map and select a different hiking trail today.
After opening the tent flap, she saw them--bear paw prints all around her tent. She grabbed her camera to get a picture.
Wow, an honest to goodness bear and the pictures to prove it. Her friends would be impressed.
She felt pain before feeling the blood run down her legs...
| Author Notes | A true story until the very last line. |
By Dean Kuch
Darkness had descended hours before Julie stepped inside her front door. The door slammed shut. 'Must have been the wind', she thought, as she fumbled for the light. The room felt familiar, but it wasn't home... It looked like an old house, and smelled like one too.
This was her home ... thirty years ago.
Julie walked into the next room, yes, her childhood bedroom. The blue glow attracted her. She was greeted by a thirteen inch, 1960's, black and white television. It sported rabbit ears with tin foil, as did all TV's prior to cable.
The only sound was the loud buzz of static. As she turned the dial, the first 'click' made her jump.
She clicked through the thirteen channels, only three displayed so much as a test pattern, which used to grace the television screen between the hours of midnight and 6 AM, when stations were, 'off the air'.
As she made a final click, she heard, 'Julie Clarke, this is your life'. She watched while every mistake she'd made in life played out on the screen.
She was horrified that someone had recorded her indiscretions, from coloring on the wall when she was five, to that party in her, not-so-savory, teen years ... and then ... fear gripped her.
She vomited on the floor before running toward the door.
This time, it opened easily.
She ran down the steps ...
and into ...
his knife ...
| Author Notes |
For you young'ins, The TV will probably give you nightmares, that was how TV was so many years ago. "This is Your Life" was a show popular at the time.
He-he- he. Hope you like this, Dean. |
By Dean Kuch
Manhunt
Fifteen-year-old Jimmy Moreland's parents were out of town for the weekend. He and Frankie, his best friend, had the whole house to themselves.
Bored after reading many of Jimmy's vast collection of comic books, an idea came over Frankie like divine revelation upon a sinner during a church revival meeting.
“Hey, I got it. Let's play a game of manhunt!”
Manhunt was the boys' more sinister, modernized name for the centuries old game of Hide and Seek.
The setting sun sent hues of fiery red, pink-tipped fingers reaching out across darkening summer skies. Frankie knew this was a time when kids could pull off their best hiding.
The boys took turns back and forth, until finally it was Frankie's turn to go on the“hunt.” After peeking into every corner and closet in the house, Frankie realized his best friend was nowhere to be found.
Giving up on the indoor search, he rushed outside.
Creeping along a hedgerow, Frankie stopped, watched, then kept very still. Movement! Now he had Jimmy, dead-to-rights.
A faint whispering greeted him as he rounded the corner from a few feet away. It sounded like Jimmy, trying to disguise his voice.
Frankie wondered, Why would he give up his position, the big dufus?
“Come on over,” Jimmy coaxed. “Hurry...I want to play.”
Cold chills raced up the boy's spine at the sound of that voice. He was already a little spooked from being outside in the darkness. It usually only added to the fun.
Not tonight.
“No, you come over here, Jimmy, so's I can see ya',” Frankie shot back. “Quit goofin' off, will ya'? It ain't funny.”
The warm night air grew extremely cold—the darkness deepened.
“Come, Frankie. I want to play-y-y-y-y-y-y...”
Several times, Jimmy repeated his invitation from the shadowy corner.
“No! Quit tryin' to scare me, you lunkhead. It ain't gonna work.”
Jimmy's voice grew increasingly scratchier... screechy. It grated at Frankie's eardrums like fingernails being dragged across a blackboard. Low–growling–it continued from somewhere deep within the inky blackness.
“Co-o-o-o-o-m-m-m-m-e ...to... me, Frankie! I... need... to play-y-y-y-y-y-y.”
More than a little frightened, Frankie raced back inside the house as fast as his Converse All-Star-clad feet could carry him.
He collided with something solid, knocking him to the floor in a dizzying heap.
“Ouch...crap! Jumpin' Jeezus, Frankie, watch where yer goin', will ya'? I been lookin' all over the house for ya', dork breath.”
Jimmy stood in the living room hallway rubbing his shoulder after their head-on collision.
Despite the nasty bump swelling on his forehead, Frankie sprang up from the floor. His head swam faster than an Olympian perfecting the breaststroke.
“You dirty cheat! How'd you get inside so dang fast?”
Frankie felt the first faint trickles of urine run down his inner thigh at his friend's nonchalant reply.
“Whaddaya mean, idgit? I never went outside.”
| Author Notes |
Well, fright fans. Most parents say it's always good for kids to get outside once in awhile, get a little taste of fresh air and, the great outdoors. Frankie's best fiend wanted to get a taste of his own... of Frankie that is, heh-heh-heh. It just goes to show ya, friendship ain't always what it screams to be. Sometimes, it really bites! Aha-ha-ha-ha-a-a-aaaaaaaa...
Thanks for reading. Pleasant Screams! Heh-heh-heh... |
By Dean Kuch
An eerie whistling over the surface of the lake was the only sound on that crisp spring morning as Harold cast his line. This was the best time to fish. He only wished Gilbert hadn't decided to join him.
The water rippled gently as his line penetrated its surface. It wasn't long before he got a nibble and reeled in a tiddler. He expertly unhooked the small fish and was about to release it back into the lake when a grubby hand shot out and grasped the fish.
"I'll have that."
"Gilbert, man, come on. Just let it go."
Gilbert looked at Harold with that glint in his eye.
"Are you soft in the head? Where's the fun in that?" He giggled.
Gilbert took great pleasure in tormenting Harold, but that was nothing compared to his treatment of fish and other animals.
Harold tried to grab the floundering fish, but Gilbert pushed him over onto the large pebbles that made up the beach. Sometimes Harold hated his big brother.
"Watch this," instructed Gilbert as he laid the fish on a large flat stone.
He grinned as the fish flopped about, suffocating in the air. It flipped several times under Gilbert's gleeful gaze, before finally coming to rest, still and lifeless. Another pointless death.
"You can throw it back now. Too small to eat."
"Gil, you're an arsehole." Harold spat out at his brother.
"And you need to grow a set, pussy. You're a teenager now."
Harold sighed and packed up his gear. It just wasn't any fun with Gilbert around.
#
Gilbert lay in the bath, listening to some classic rock station on the radio. He had the place to himself. Mum and Dad had taken whiny little Harold out to get something to eat. Gil preferred to 'hang out' at the house. He had a great evening planned of masturbation courtesy of his hidden dirty magazine stash, and maybe he'd investigate the tropical fish Harold had in his room.
As the bath water cooled, Gil's feet began to itch. He bent his right leg up and managed to look at the sole of his foot.
What is that? Gil wondered as he ran a finger over a small protrusion on the pad of his big toe. Probably just a splinter.
Once out of the bath, he decided to air dry and waltzed through to his room buck naked.
Gil lay on his bed, looking at his magazines and rubbing himself. He suddenly felt a sharp pain, like a fingernail being jabbed into him. His penis was bleeding.
"Aw, fuck."
He rushed to the bathroom, panting as he arrived. He fought to catch his breath. Glancing in the mirror, his face contorted in horror at the grey pallor of his skin. He fell to the floor writhing as small, hard scales pierced his skin, refusing to let his body breathe.
Gilbert died on the bathroom floor, flipping and floundering like a fish.
By Dean Kuch
Sally was five and her sister, Tammy was four. As the oldest, Sally slept in the top bunk-bed in the little old, rented house in a very small town in Nebraska. She liked her top bunk—it was her space, hers alone. No one else climbed up the ladder, and she liked it that way.
One night, well after dark, Tammy shrieked hysterically. Their parents ran into the room. They were sure Sally was hurting Tammy. They thought Sally was evil.
Once Tammy calmed down enough to talk, she blurted out that the top bunk was going to fall on her. No reassurances worked, so in the middle of the night, their mom and dad took the bed apart, resulting in two twin beds, which pretty much left no space in the small room to walk.
Sally thought her sister was stupid and was upset that she no longer had ‘her space’. She was so upset that she couldn’t sleep. Tammy was sound asleep in no time.
Sally got out of bed and went into the bathroom. She smiled a wicked smile as she looked in the mirror.
Her eyes were glowing red as the bedroom ceiling came crashing down.
Tammy didn’t make so much as a whimper; she hadn’t even seen it coming.
Sally walked to the bedroom doorway and watched their mom and dad dig frantically through the rubble.
She smiled a knowing smile as they pulled her sister’s crushed, bloody body out of the debris …
He-he-he ...
Happy screams
Hope you like this one, Dean.
| Author Notes | The first part is a true story. I was the evil one, really. |
By Dean Kuch
The Dead of Night
by Dean Kuch
My daughter won't stop screaming or crying. I've done everything I can think of—everything I observed my wife doing before she decided to walk out on us.
It always worked for her.
She's constantly awakening me in the dead of night. I'm a security guard over at Macum's Mill—on the morning shift.
I gotta get some sleep.
I know what you're thinking. Hire some help so I get some much needed rest, right? How much money do you think I pull in a week?
I visited my daughter's grave today to ask her to stop.
It didn't help.
| Author Notes |
Poor kiddie. She really didn't stand a... ghost of a chance in life. I guess daddy needed a little closure himself. He certainly seemed to be losing a lot of sleep over it.
It's true what they say about baby boils and ghouls, you know. You can't live with 'em, and you can't kill 'em either. Because they're already dead, heh-heh-heh... Until next time, fright fans...pleasant screams... |
By Dean Kuch
Don't Feed the Animals
Sandra had just arrived home after a long day. There had been so much tension at the office lately, drama she could do without. Her cat, Whiskers, had passed away a couple weeks ago, and being all alone at home compounded her frustrations. Pets had always been a large part of her life.
She kicked her shoes off and turned on a lamp with a twenty-five watt bulb, which she used at night to find her way to the bathroom.
She went to the kitchen for a glass of wine to relieve the tension, then returned to sit in the recliner.
She thought she heard footsteps on the old wooden staircase. It was rumored her house was haunted, but Sandra hadn't had any supernatural experiences in the few months she had been there, so had written it off in her mind.
She heard footsteps again ... no, they weren't footsteps, but sounded more like the sound of paws with toenails on the old oak stairs. Thinking maybe a stray animal had followed her in, she went to investigate.
There were glowing eyes on each step. A cat meowed, and she knew it was Whiskers, her recently deceased cat. She listened as, one by one, her past pets greeted her. Yep, they were all there, but there remained one more set of glowing eyes.
Sandra heard the roar as she felt the claws sinking in. Then, she felt the warmth of her blood running down her legs ...
| Author Notes |
He-he-he
Dean, I think you have me hooked on this stuff. |
By Dean Kuch
Alice had been terrified of tornadoes since she watched the Wizard of Oz when she was eight. She watched the Weather Channel nearly all the time. If there was a slight hint of severe weather, she would retreat to the basement.
She often had dreams about being killed by a tornado. She would wake up screaming, heart racing and terrified.
Fascinated with the spiritual world, she saw the fortune teller every year when the fair came to town. This year was no exception, and in the middle of a sunny afternoon, she was gazing into the fortune teller’s crystal ball looking for answers to life’s ongoing questions.
As she looked, she saw herself directly in the path of an enormous funnel cloud. The wind was fierce and sounded like a freight train. She was a few yards from her front door, running as fast as she could, but getting nowhere as the wind kept pulling her backward.
She saw the neighbor girl’s tricycle, her potted plants, and her wicker lawn chair be picked up by the swirling wind. Then she saw herself being sucked up and dropped a mile away. Her limp, lifeless body dropped in a muddy cornfield.
She screamed in horror as she watched the crystal ball, wishing she hadn’t come. She wanted to know her fortune, her potential for romance, anything but what she'd seen.
She jumped up to run from the tent …
and ran …
right into …
the knife.
Hope you like this one, Dean.
He-he-he …
It might be better not to know …
| Author Notes |
For as long as I can remember, I have had nightmares about tornadoes.
|
By Dean Kuch
A Real Life Tiny Tale of Terror
Someone is trying to terrorize me. Three or so times a week for the past three weeks someone has knocked on my door between two and four in the morning. They don't just knock--they knock on the front door, then the back door, and again on the front door.
I have always felt very safe in my small town and used to go for a walk about midnight or so when all was quiet. I pretty much have left my house unlocked so I don't have to transfer from the recliner to my wheelchair, and then back again. I have someone who comes almost every day--nurse, homemaker, social worker ... and so on. They knock on my inside door and I say, "Come in." At night, I have left the door unlocked in case the paramedics need to help me get up if I fall which I tend to do.
A couple months ago, I started locking up due to some family issues, and am glad I did now that I have this mystery knocker.
Am I afraid? ... yes. Do I think they would physically harm me? ... I hope not. I think it is just harassment.
I have a couple suspects in mind. They aren't jilted lovers or anything, but I won't post who they are.
Fortunately, I live within two blocks of the police station. I have been using my lifeline system to call for help because it makes a very loud beeping noise, which can be heard outside, hoping that gets them to leave. All I have to do is yell, "I need the police," and Lifeline calls 911 for me.
I know I am not imagining this, unless my beagle imagines it at exactly the same time.
The police arrive quickly, but not quickly enough to apprehend the knocker.
I don't mean to alarm anyone, but needed to share it with you, my supportive system. It happened once again at 3:00 am this morning. My already disturbed sleep is now nonexistent.
I hope they get bored with this, or that the police catch them soon.
If you read my first Tiny Tale of Terror, I truly do now stay close to my claw hammer after dark, just in case ...
This one isn't a he-he-he, but although a bit too long, seemed like it belongs in this book.
| Author Notes | See next post for the ending of this |
By Dean Kuch
| Author Note: | A Tiny Tale of Terror:Chritmas Edition |
| Author Notes |
Ho-ho-ho. Merry Christmas, Fright Fans. Seems like old Charlie was a bit scared...scared stiff, by stiffs, heh-heh-heh.
You gotta' admit, though, he sure knows how to light a fire under you to brighten your Christmas fear...u-h-h-h, heh-heh...cheer, that is. Let's look on the bright side, kiddies. If those mannequins get him, he won't have to deal with the muderous holiday crowds. Given the choice, I'd much rather deal with demonic reanimated mannequins any day, hee-hee. So, until next time, boils and ghouls...just remember to be careful what you ax for this Christmas. You just might get it! Pleasant Screams... Mulberry & Sons, Inc., Chalmer's Security, and Charlie Munchausen are complete works of fiction. Any resemblance to persons or entities living or dead is purely coincidental. |
By Dean Kuch
Alice loved sitting by the fireplace at night, reading. Romance was her genre of choice. She also enjoyed being out in the woods, especially now, during the first winter snow.
Her father had passed on last year. This was be the first year she could remember, without their annual first snow walk.
Her childhood home had a fireplace. Her family used to sit and read to each other in front of the fire. Wood was never in short supply. They hadn't tackled cutting down a whole tree but had enjoyed spitting logs together.
Today was the first snow. She walked in the woods alone, memories of her father in the forefront of her mind.
She had stayed until sunset, before walking the mile through semi-wilderness to her cabin, wanting to savor every minute.
Alice felt as though there was someone following her the last quarter of a mile and picked up her pace. She didn't see anyone, but it was getting dark.
As she walked across her two acres to the cabin, she was sure someone was behind her. She tried as best she could to sprint through the accumulating snow.
She fumbled for the keys. No luck.
She saw him now, just one hundred yards from the door she couldn't open.
Panicked, she ran across the backyard and hid behind her biggest tree.
She could hear his boots on the fresh snow.
As he ...
rounded the tree ...
Alice swung ...
the ax ...
He-he-he, he- he- he
| Author Notes |
And you thought the man was the ghost of her father, wrong.
I have had many nightmares about standing at the door, unable to find my keys. There's no ax, but if you remember my first story, there's always the claw hammer. He-he-he, he-he-he. |
By Dean Kuch
I'm awakened on the sofa to the hiss of static seeping from my surround sound stereo system. The latest blu-ray horror flick has long since finished, causing the player to shut off after an extended period of inactivity. The clock on the kitchen wall tells me I’ve slept a little over two hours—it’s 12:13 am.
My wife’s soft, sweet, melodic voice wafts gently from the baby monitor in the nursery as she sings our infant daughter a lullaby. Rock-a-bye-baby whispers gently from the speaker.
I smile, secure in the knowledge she’s made it back safely from her parent’s home upstate.
Her singing stops abruptly, followed by the tell-tale creak of the hinges on the nursery room door. They groan in protest as it's slowly opened.
"Rock-a-bye baby, in the tree top..."
I grin again, knowing my wife is coming to tell me it’s time for bed.
I rise quickly from the couch to greet her then spot a pair of headlights swerving into our driveway.
The lullaby resumes as the room turns icy-cold. The blood freezes like arctic water in my veins.
"When the wind blows the cradle will rock..."
I gaze outside, trying to suppress the violent shudders which wrack my body.
"When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall..."
How can this be possible?
"And down will come ba-by, cradle and al-l-l-l-l-l-l-l..."
The car pulling into the driveway...
It's my wife's.
| Author Notes |
Well, fright freaks, that's one lullaby that'll lull you to sleep...permantly, a-h-h-h, heh-heh-heh. Poor poppa. My guess is he won't make it out the door in time to warn his beloved of the cryptic crooner awaiting inside. But, that's okay, you know what they say. The family that's slayed together stays together...hee-hee!
Until next time, kiddies, pleasant screams, and nighty-night... |
By Dean Kuch
| Author Note: | Dedicated to all the horror aficonados on Fanstory |
I've been sitting in this damn waiting area forever after Kirsten's OBGYN forced me to leave the delivery room.
"Mr. Planck, leave—right now. I'm afraid there have been...complications"
Hah, complications? Just one more reason I need to be with my wife. You know... just in case she needs me for somethin'?
I despise hospitals. But I hate arrogant, know-it-all doctors and nurses even more. Always tryin' to tell us what's best for us. How the hell would they know how Kirsten feels?
Holy hell...what the ... there goes my wife's baby doctor now, spewin' blood and slobberin' all over the damn place. Just look at 'im, gibbering like a madman. Damn foreigners, I can't never understand a word they're sayin'.
But his hands... where the hell are his hands?
Oh, now that's definitely not sanitary... not sanitary at all!
Nurse's Note: Infant: Male, Born 7 pounds 10 ounces, 18 inches long, 32 fully formed teeth, razor sharp. Silent, always smiling--good appetite...very good appetite.
| Author Notes |
Well, fright fans. I guess no one told this terrible tyke about the golden rule. You should never bite the hand that feeds you... off, that is, A-h-h-ha-ha-haaaaaaa.
Kids these days...what's a mummy to do? If this icky infant's hungry now, what's he gonna be like five or six years from now? As for breast feeding, don't even think about it. Holding an infant with a mouthful of razor sharp teeth and a taste for human flesh to your breast is just askin' for trouble. I will admit, the idea is a bit...titillating, heh-heh... Until next time, boils and ghouls...sleep tight! Pleasant Screams. Heh-heh-heh... Happy Halloween! |
By Dean Kuch
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
| Author Notes |
A-h-h-h-h-h... poor little Marissa. Well, at least she'll be spared the horror of being eaten alive by ravenous zombie hordes with an insatiable appetite for human flesh.
Too bad dear old dad's only got one bullet left in the chamber. It could be said he needs another bullet like Marissa needs another hole in her head. Now that's what I call...Dead- I -cation... Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha-a-a-a-aaaaa! Until next time, Fright Fans. Sleep tight--and don't let the undead bite, heh-heh-heh! Pleasant Screams, and Happy Halloween! |
By Dean Kuch
| Author Note: | Deicated to Fright Fans everywhere... |
Whenever Timmy took the dusty pockmarked path through the cornfields, he peddled furiously past the scarecrow. The thing terrified the beejeezus outta him.
Last week it was nestled deep within the corn stalks. Yesterday, as Timmy made one of his frequent trips to his best friend Bobby's, the scarecrow loomed at him just above the pathway's entrance. The hollow eye holes stared down at him mockingly.
Today—Sunday— the wooden cross was empty.
Timmy stopped his bike, frightened by the sudden rustling of corn, then turned around.
A burlap face grinned, exposing rotted, yellow teeth.
Timmy’s screams were silenced as pitchfork tines punctured his tender throat, choking off his shrieks in a gurgling fountain of blood.
A smaller crucified body now hangs from the cross, eyeless face watching over the corn—head draped in bloody burlap.
| Author Notes |
Hell-low, boils and ghouls. Too bad for poor Timmy. His road through the cornfields sure cut out some time...and his throat, heh-heh-heh. You could say he got all choked up about it.
Well, they always say to look on the bright side, kiddies. At least he'll be hanging around awhile. Until next time, Fright Fans... ...Pleasant screams... |
By Dean Kuch
Bat Out of Hell?
Diane loved her old, supposedly haunted, Victorian home. One hundred and thirty years is a long time to have collected ghosts from the spirit world.
After ten years, she had not seen or heard ghosts, something she would welcome, but had been plagued by bats.
She had encountered them her first night there when she opened the attic door allowing one to swoop down at her. She no longer panicked and called her latest boyfriend, but had mastered swinging a three-foot fish net to catch and then toss the winged rodents out the back door.
She passed by the door to the attic each night on her way to the bedroom. Tuesday night, she felt the wind pulling her first toward, and then under the attic door. She found herself hanging upside down from the rafters.
She suddenly had the urge to squeeze out a small hole and fly around outdoors in the light of the moon. There was quite a feast to be eaten out there she found.
Sunrise led her back into the attic to spend the day hanging around. She saw several other bats, noting that they no longer frightened her. Some of them were even kind of cute. Maybe tonight …
The shadow made her jump and lose her grasp from the old wooden plank she was hanging from.
She was confused remembering bats no longer scared her.
Then she fell …
into the …
net ...
| Author Notes | Okay--It's only scary if you are a bat he-he-he. If you are though, beware the woman in the wheelchair with the fish net! She's out to get you. |
By Dean Kuch
Chantelle always had the aura of mystery around her. She claimed to have extra-sensory powers; fortune telling, being a medium, knowledge of magic, and so on.
Catherine, Chantelle’s older sister was doubtful such powers existed, and if they did, that Chantelle had special access to them.
Stunningly beautiful with long, flowing curls and a perfect figure, Catherine dated the most handsome boys at her junior college. She lived at home, although hated sharing a room with her sister, a high- schooler, and made no secret about it.
Chantelle was growing tired of her sister’s wrath. Why didn’t Catherine move out and leave her alone? The high school student vowed to make her older sister see the light.
One night, Chantelle lit her candles and incense, and played eerie music while her sister went to sleep. She then busied herself applying heavy actor’s make-up to Catherine’s face. Fortunately, Catherine slept deeply. Soon, the sleeping beauty sported warts, pimples, scars, and a jagged hairdo.
As Catherine stirred a bit, Chantelle began chanting some magic spells. She hadn’t been successful at getting them to work yet … but Catherine didn’t know that.
Catherine bolted upright upon hearing her sister, and saw her hovering by the bed.
After running to the bathroom, Catherine gave a blood-curdling scream when she looked in the mirror.
Chantelle ducked as Catherine picked up the gleaming knife.
Chantelle heard, “I must kill you.”
Then she felt the blood …
from Catherine’s self-inflicted wound …
spray her face.
| Author Notes | He-he-he. Hope you liked it. Pleasant screams ... |
By Dean Kuch
| Author Notes |
480 words.
Hell-oh, kiddies. It seems that all of this falling snow has gotten me in a bit of a fetid, melancholy funk. Or, perhaps the rank odor is just coming from me. So, you can blame this story on FanStory's own danpald, and his ever present, insidious Snow Queen - along with her frightful array of frigid, flittering faeries. Well, fright fans. It seems dad's cushy job may not have been all it was... cracked up to be, heh-heh-heh. At least his daughter didn't decide to have Roland over for dinner. That might have been a bit...messy. Talk about snow jobs - Nobody could pull the wool over the eyes of this gutty gal. It's nice to know that she was able to keep her guts in tact, at least for now, heh-heh. Don'cha just love a story with a happy ending? Until next time, boils and ghouls... Pleasant Screams! |
By Dean Kuch
The giant, copper skinned busdriver led the way. He swaggered down that sunbeaten southern freeway, laughing and joking with the motley crowd of students. They cursed and grab-assed, and made warm screwdrivers out ot their stash of Tropicana and Wolfschmidt. The broken down tour bus was out of sight behind them. The barren scrub of the wide median strip and rolling hills were empty but for the waves of dancing heat.
Nanci fell behind, like the skinny little GDI. Her face was too wide, her legs too thick, her good sound teeth less than gleaming white. No matter how she reined in her country tongue, the Greek crowd knew. New money. Boondocky. She was sweating, and tired of trying to fit in. So she dropped back to the rear, with the GDI.
"Well, Grit, tell your Jesus to move those clouds over this way a little," she said.
"They shade the just and the unjust. They look like Bode's Goddoom, marching across the skyline on some mission," he said, looking at the clouds passing them by to the north.
"I thought you had a dialog going with Him."
"When His love stoked the fires of Hell, and even the baby Amalekites had to die, I fell a-pouting at Him."
"Ialdabaoth, the demiurge. Who does he have to answer to, that made him butcher his own son cause he botched our creation?"
"If he's omnipotent, why not roar, 'Shape up, Beelzebub.' Lucifer would have to hit his knees howling, 'Yassuh, boss, yassuh.'"
"I dunno. My mom says he is working by some plan we'll never get." Nanci sighed. "She still goes to church. It still bothers me when we talk like this. She hammered it into me deeper than potty training. Maybe I'll shake it off someday."
"But the old Holy Ghost still haunts little Nanci." the GDI laughed a warm, musical laugh and slapped her shoulder.
"Hey, driver," he yelled.
The dark face, standing a head above even the basketball players, turned. The jet black brows lifted.
"See ya. We're going back to the bus," the GDI grinned.
The driver shot him a bird, turned and walked on.
Nanci knew there was nothing but hot empty road, far past the stalled bus, but she walked with the GDI. On the brow of a low hill, she glanced back at the group they had left..
The driver beckoned to the things that were short, gnarled, bronze-dark. They were frightfully quick as they arose from hiding in the weeds of the median strip. They bore fearful glittering weapons. The screaming began, thin, reedy, far away as they swarmed over the crowd of students. The southern sky darkened as with smoke.
The GDI pushed her. "Run. We win!"
Nanci lost him somehow, as she ran until she collapsed on the shoulder of the highway, above the ravine with the shattered bus and scattered bodies. In the distance she heard the sirens.
| Author Notes |
GDI-- non frat student
Greek-- of the frats Ialdabaoth the demiurge- Gnostic flawed creator of this universe |
By Dean Kuch
Upon moving to Paris, I received a new phone number. Almost immediately, I began receiving calls—whispered voices mostly—around 3:00 am.—asking for “Nina.”
Although the plumbing was advertised as “all new hardware,” every faucet in my recently rented flat has now developed a steady drip.
Tonight, I received yet another call.
“Hello, this is Nina. Have I any messages?”she murmured.
She sounded hoarse, very weak—like someone attempting to speak after being buried alive.
After contacting the police, I learned the woman who'd lived in my apartment drowned one year ago.
I hear my bath being drawn.
I live alone.
Nina wants company.
| Author Notes |
Hand Counted
100 words This was supposed to be for the 100 Word Horror contest. Unfortunately, the site wouldn't allow me to post it due to the 2 posts per 24 hour rules in place. Although I had already deleted one of the posts completely, I was still not permitted to post this, or enter the contest. Que sera, sera... Thanks for reading just the same, and Pleasant Screams, heh-heh! |
By Dean Kuch
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
Staring down in the sink at my bloody teeth after breakfast, I swore this would be the last time I experienced this wretched nightmare.
My demons are hungry--constantly craving human teeth.
Dr. Straub--my therapist? She calls them 'stress dreams'--suggesting I examine where these anxieties stem from.
I already know their source.
I glance at the clock; it's 9:00 am.
The phone rings, jarring me from my stupor. It's Dr. Pearson's receptionist suggesting I come in for my annual exam.
“Well...that's ironic,” I whisper.
I begin to rock slowly, back and forth.
Bright light from the sun is almost unbearable.
I'm constantly washing my hands, but soap and water won't cure corruption. My soul vacated this mortal husk long ago.
I must kill myself to end this.
Or kill someone else.
The good doctor will be the next victim to pay the price for my own cowardice.
Life bites.
| Author Notes | Thank you for reading. |
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