| Horror and Thriller Flash Fiction posted July 31, 2016 |
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Guilty until proven innocent.
Hello
by Ric Myworld
The author has placed a warning on this post for violence.
The author has placed a warning on this post for language.
"Hello, out there . . . I’m Bobby Brainchild, exposed. And thanks to all of you creepy-crawler night-owl types, masters and madams of the night for joining us. Put down your pitchforks and knives, and spit out that soured vagrant’s blood. Thanks for tuning in to witness a first-hand look at the soon dying and dead. You can bloody well bet you will never be the same. So, sit back, relax, and SCR-E-E-EAM!"
<><><><><>
Tom watched his family splash in the waves, sipping his scotch, enjoying the balcony’s breeze.
Quite a sight below, hundreds of luscious, bubble-butt cheeks strolling the beach, twisting up and down, more hanging out than in those skimpy bikinis.
His phone rang, and no sooner had it stopped than it would ring again. Tom’s patience exhausted, he finally answered. “Hello.”
“Three Blind Mice” played in the background, until a deep, garbled voice echoed with static from a tunnel. “Hello, Tom . . . I trust Dorothy and the children are enjoying the vacation? Oh, don’t bother yourself with who I am . . . just know that your neighbors, the Stewart family . . . will die tonight.”
“Who the HELL is this?” Tom shouted, slamming down the phone. Immediately, questioning his move. However, no sick-minded asshole’s prank-call was going to ruin everyone’s excitement.
Figuring the sick bastard’s main intention was to upset everyone. Tom pondered all afternoon, before deciding on nothing.
Famished by the hot sun, everyone showered and dressed within minutes. Ready for some mouth-watering seafood at Willie’s Café.
<><><><><>
Tom arose in a panic to a cacophony of sirens melding into the turmoil.
Flashing lights reflecting off sliding-glass doors and windows, he ran to the front door and stepped out to see streets lined with emergency personnel.
Cops surrounded him and bustled him back into the room.
He peeked through the blinds every few minutes, then four covered bodies wheeled out on stretchers.
Trembling and shaking, tears streamed down Tom’s cheeks. Entirely my fault, he thought, if only I had warned the authorities.
A knock at the door, three detectives nodded, tipped and removed their hats. Dorothy invited them in.
They declined seats and refreshments and began a cordial routine.
Tom squirmed, the officers knowing answers before asking the questions.
Friends since childhood, Tom and Jerry bought the side-by-side condominiums to spend vacations together. Now they were gone.
When the detectives left, Dorothy and the kids ventured out to occupy their minds.
No sooner had they gone, than the phone rang.
Tom refused to answer, at first. Then, snatched it up, answering in a vexed tone, “Hello.”
The same rumbling voice said, “Hello, Tom.” Tom tried to speak, but words wouldn’t come. The caller’s deep, throaty laugh was pure, chilling evil. “Answer me!” he yelled.
“Ye . . . ye . . . yes, I am . . . .” Tom struggled.
“You better listen . . . tonight, in tower three, room 3663 . . . the Graves family will die” click.
Blood on Tom’s hands, he paced the floor for hours, but couldn’t bring himself to call the police.
<><><><><>
The headline read “Family Butchered at the Beach, in the Most Grisly of Crime Scenes.”
Horrific details pushed the Hensons near hysteria.
The males’ private parts and eyeballs surgically removed with precision.
The females’ vaginas, breasts, and eye sockets hollowed-out. Procedures executed by a talented professional or team.
The body parts removed with sizzling-hot scalpels, cauterizing the wounds as they cut.
A caustic substance presumed to have melted and sealed-over the blackened cavities of burnt scar tissue, leaving a forever stench of burnt flesh in the rooms.
Tom and his family spent the night huddled and afraid to sleep.
<><><><><>
The following morning, Tom Jr. ran downstairs to buy the morning paper.
The front-page headline read, “Another Family of Mutilated Members, Found by the Beach.”
A similar horrendous murder scene, with a few varying details other than the number killed.
Tom had to make a decision and quickly decided to start packing.
<><><><><>
Home, and thirteen-hundred miles from the revulsion, Tom searched for his wallet, razor, toothbrush, and flip-flops, undoubtedly packed in the wrong suitcase.
He walked outside to retrieve his pistol from the car’s glove box, obviously misplaced.
Nerves shot, Tom walked over, grabbed the newspaper and flipped it open. “Family of Six, Two Infants, Shot Pointblank in the Head and Sliced to Pieces.”
As he stood, cop cars came to a screeching halt and the officers jump out with pistols in hand, yelling, “Get on the ground.”
Evidence linked Tom to every crime scene, a toothbrush, flip-flops, razor, and yes, his pistol.
Tom, a loving family man and faithful friend, innocent of all charges, but it's unlikely he will ever be able to prove it.
<><><><><>
"Hey, hey, hey . . . this is Badrow Bobby Brainchild, again. So tell me, was he framed . . . Come on, rack your brain! Or maybe he's a psycho bastard. But either way, there's blood and gore wherever he goes.
Now you see me . . . now, you don't. Signing off, again . . . I'm Badrow Bobby." [screen to black]
Dr. Terry Fying's Crumbling Crypt 3 contest entry
"Hello, out there . . . I’m Bobby Brainchild, exposed. And thanks to all of you creepy-crawler night-owl types, masters and madams of the night for joining us. Put down your pitchforks and knives, and spit out that soured vagrant’s blood. Thanks for tuning in to witness a first-hand look at the soon dying and dead. You can bloody well bet you will never be the same. So, sit back, relax, and SCR-E-E-EAM!"
<><><><><>
Tom watched his family splash in the waves, sipping his scotch, enjoying the balcony’s breeze.
Quite a sight below, hundreds of luscious, bubble-butt cheeks strolling the beach, twisting up and down, more hanging out than in those skimpy bikinis.
His phone rang, and no sooner had it stopped than it would ring again. Tom’s patience exhausted, he finally answered. “Hello.”
“Three Blind Mice” played in the background, until a deep, garbled voice echoed with static from a tunnel. “Hello, Tom . . . I trust Dorothy and the children are enjoying the vacation? Oh, don’t bother yourself with who I am . . . just know that your neighbors, the Stewart family . . . will die tonight.”
“Who the HELL is this?” Tom shouted, slamming down the phone. Immediately, questioning his move. However, no sick-minded asshole’s prank-call was going to ruin everyone’s excitement.
Figuring the sick bastard’s main intention was to upset everyone. Tom pondered all afternoon, before deciding on nothing.
Famished by the hot sun, everyone showered and dressed within minutes. Ready for some mouth-watering seafood at Willie’s Café.
<><><><><>
Tom arose in a panic to a cacophony of sirens melding into the turmoil.
Flashing lights reflecting off sliding-glass doors and windows, he ran to the front door and stepped out to see streets lined with emergency personnel.
Cops surrounded him and bustled him back into the room.
He peeked through the blinds every few minutes, then four covered bodies wheeled out on stretchers.
Trembling and shaking, tears streamed down Tom’s cheeks. Entirely my fault, he thought, if only I had warned the authorities.
A knock at the door, three detectives nodded, tipped and removed their hats. Dorothy invited them in.
They declined seats and refreshments and began a cordial routine.
Tom squirmed, the officers knowing answers before asking the questions.
Friends since childhood, Tom and Jerry bought the side-by-side condominiums to spend vacations together. Now they were gone.
When the detectives left, Dorothy and the kids ventured out to occupy their minds.
No sooner had they gone, than the phone rang.
Tom refused to answer, at first. Then, snatched it up, answering in a vexed tone, “Hello.”
The same rumbling voice said, “Hello, Tom.” Tom tried to speak, but words wouldn’t come. The caller’s deep, throaty laugh was pure, chilling evil. “Answer me!” he yelled.
“Ye . . . ye . . . yes, I am . . . .” Tom struggled.
“You better listen . . . tonight, in tower three, room 3663 . . . the Graves family will die” click.
Blood on Tom’s hands, he paced the floor for hours, but couldn’t bring himself to call the police.
<><><><><>
The headline read “Family Butchered at the Beach, in the Most Grisly of Crime Scenes.”
Horrific details pushed the Hensons near hysteria.
The males’ private parts and eyeballs surgically removed with precision.
The females’ vaginas, breasts, and eye sockets hollowed-out. Procedures executed by a talented professional or team.
The body parts removed with sizzling-hot scalpels, cauterizing the wounds as they cut.
A caustic substance presumed to have melted and sealed-over the blackened cavities of burnt scar tissue, leaving a forever stench of burnt flesh in the rooms.
Tom and his family spent the night huddled and afraid to sleep.
<><><><><>
The following morning, Tom Jr. ran downstairs to buy the morning paper.
The front-page headline read, “Another Family of Mutilated Members, Found by the Beach.”
A similar horrendous murder scene, with a few varying details other than the number killed.
Tom had to make a decision and quickly decided to start packing.
<><><><><>
Home, and thirteen-hundred miles from the revulsion, Tom searched for his wallet, razor, toothbrush, and flip-flops, undoubtedly packed in the wrong suitcase.
He walked outside to retrieve his pistol from the car’s glove box, obviously misplaced.
Nerves shot, Tom walked over, grabbed the newspaper and flipped it open. “Family of Six, Two Infants, Shot Pointblank in the Head and Sliced to Pieces.”
As he stood, cop cars came to a screeching halt and the officers jump out with pistols in hand, yelling, “Get on the ground.”
Evidence linked Tom to every crime scene, a toothbrush, flip-flops, razor, and yes, his pistol.
<><><><><>
Tom watched his family splash in the waves, sipping his scotch, enjoying the balcony’s breeze.
Quite a sight below, hundreds of luscious, bubble-butt cheeks strolling the beach, twisting up and down, more hanging out than in those skimpy bikinis.
His phone rang, and no sooner had it stopped than it would ring again. Tom’s patience exhausted, he finally answered. “Hello.”
“Three Blind Mice” played in the background, until a deep, garbled voice echoed with static from a tunnel. “Hello, Tom . . . I trust Dorothy and the children are enjoying the vacation? Oh, don’t bother yourself with who I am . . . just know that your neighbors, the Stewart family . . . will die tonight.”
“Who the HELL is this?” Tom shouted, slamming down the phone. Immediately, questioning his move. However, no sick-minded asshole’s prank-call was going to ruin everyone’s excitement.
Figuring the sick bastard’s main intention was to upset everyone. Tom pondered all afternoon, before deciding on nothing.
Famished by the hot sun, everyone showered and dressed within minutes. Ready for some mouth-watering seafood at Willie’s Café.
<><><><><>
Tom arose in a panic to a cacophony of sirens melding into the turmoil.
Flashing lights reflecting off sliding-glass doors and windows, he ran to the front door and stepped out to see streets lined with emergency personnel.
Cops surrounded him and bustled him back into the room.
He peeked through the blinds every few minutes, then four covered bodies wheeled out on stretchers.
Trembling and shaking, tears streamed down Tom’s cheeks. Entirely my fault, he thought, if only I had warned the authorities.
A knock at the door, three detectives nodded, tipped and removed their hats. Dorothy invited them in.
They declined seats and refreshments and began a cordial routine.
Tom squirmed, the officers knowing answers before asking the questions.
Friends since childhood, Tom and Jerry bought the side-by-side condominiums to spend vacations together. Now they were gone.
When the detectives left, Dorothy and the kids ventured out to occupy their minds.
No sooner had they gone, than the phone rang.
Tom refused to answer, at first. Then, snatched it up, answering in a vexed tone, “Hello.”
The same rumbling voice said, “Hello, Tom.” Tom tried to speak, but words wouldn’t come. The caller’s deep, throaty laugh was pure, chilling evil. “Answer me!” he yelled.
“Ye . . . ye . . . yes, I am . . . .” Tom struggled.
“You better listen . . . tonight, in tower three, room 3663 . . . the Graves family will die” click.
Blood on Tom’s hands, he paced the floor for hours, but couldn’t bring himself to call the police.
<><><><><>
The headline read “Family Butchered at the Beach, in the Most Grisly of Crime Scenes.”
Horrific details pushed the Hensons near hysteria.
The males’ private parts and eyeballs surgically removed with precision.
The females’ vaginas, breasts, and eye sockets hollowed-out. Procedures executed by a talented professional or team.
The body parts removed with sizzling-hot scalpels, cauterizing the wounds as they cut.
A caustic substance presumed to have melted and sealed-over the blackened cavities of burnt scar tissue, leaving a forever stench of burnt flesh in the rooms.
Tom and his family spent the night huddled and afraid to sleep.
<><><><><>
The following morning, Tom Jr. ran downstairs to buy the morning paper.
The front-page headline read, “Another Family of Mutilated Members, Found by the Beach.”
A similar horrendous murder scene, with a few varying details other than the number killed.
Tom had to make a decision and quickly decided to start packing.
<><><><><>
Home, and thirteen-hundred miles from the revulsion, Tom searched for his wallet, razor, toothbrush, and flip-flops, undoubtedly packed in the wrong suitcase.
He walked outside to retrieve his pistol from the car’s glove box, obviously misplaced.
Nerves shot, Tom walked over, grabbed the newspaper and flipped it open. “Family of Six, Two Infants, Shot Pointblank in the Head and Sliced to Pieces.”
As he stood, cop cars came to a screeching halt and the officers jump out with pistols in hand, yelling, “Get on the ground.”
Evidence linked Tom to every crime scene, a toothbrush, flip-flops, razor, and yes, his pistol.
Tom, a loving family man and faithful friend, innocent of all charges, but it's unlikely he will ever be able to prove it.
<><><><><>
"Hey, hey, hey . . . this is Badrow Bobby Brainchild, again. So tell me, was he framed . . . Come on, rack your brain! Or maybe he's a psycho bastard. But either way, there's blood and gore wherever he goes.
Now you see me . . . now, you don't. Signing off, again . . . I'm Badrow Bobby." [screen to black]
<><><><><>
"Hey, hey, hey . . . this is Badrow Bobby Brainchild, again. So tell me, was he framed . . . Come on, rack your brain! Or maybe he's a psycho bastard. But either way, there's blood and gore wherever he goes.
Now you see me . . . now, you don't. Signing off, again . . . I'm Badrow Bobby." [screen to black]
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