They’re Coming For You 6
Scary Stories that Scream to be Read
by
O. Penn-Coughin
Published by You Come Too Publishing at Smashwords
Copyright © 2011 O. Penn-Coughin
YOU COME TOO Publishing
Introduction
As always, these stories are meant to be read out loud. [Instructions are included where necessary—mostly in the form of a good “AAAH!”]
Also, as always, most of these tales are very short. Sometimes this is referred to as flash or sudden fiction. In this case, we might call it fright fiction or sudden death fiction.
And finally, as always, it’s all for fun and it’s all for you.
Sweet screams!
O. Penn-Coughin
The Neighbor
Their neighbor was kind of strange.
They had moved in almost six months ago but the skinny old man still got their names wrong.
“Hello, Wendy,” he would say to Ruth. “Wait, you’re not Wendy.”
Ruth didn’t know who Wendy was.
Hello, Edward,” he would say to Mark. “Wait, you’re not Edward.”
Mark didn’t know who Edward was.
“Wendy and Edward,” he said one day. “I’d like to invite you over for dinner.”
“That’s very nice of you,” Mark said. “But—”
“We’d love to,” Ruth said.
“Tomorrow night then,” the old man said.
“Why did you say yes?” Mark said when they were back inside their house.
“Oh, he just looks so lonely,” she said. “And he seems to have gotten paler and skinnier since we last saw him. Having company might help his appetite.”
“All right,” Mark said. “But there’s something about him that gives me the creeps.”
They brought over a bottle of wine and dessert. Good thing too, because the old man’s idea of dinner was a foul-tasting, watery broth.
“I’ll get dessert,” Ruth said after they ate, heading toward the kitchen.
“Good,” Mark slurred, slumping in his chair. “I could uze zome.”
Ruth wondered what was wrong with him. He had only had a few sips of the wine. But she felt strangely dizzy too.
She sliced the apple pie and looked for the ice cream in the large freezer. There were some strange-looking large bones inside.
No, it can’t be, Ruth thought. That one looks like a human skull.
“I’m afraid that’s what’s left of Wendy and Edward,” the old man said, walking in on her. “They were my neighbors before you came along. Only good for soup now.”
“Why?” Ruth said, leaning against the counter.
“Man’s gotta eat,” he said. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t accepted by invitation.”
“You put something in that broth,” she said, sliding down to the floor.
“It’s best that way,” he said. “I promise you won’t feel a thing.”
She was already sleeping. The old man began to drool. He put on his apron and thick rubber gloves and began working.
Dead Children’s Hospital
“It hurts,” the ghostly child cries. “It huuuuurts!”
“Do try to be brave,” the nurse says. “It’s not that bad.”
“But it hurts. Wait. What was that?”
“That’s not going to work. Close your eyes and count to ten.”
“No, really, I think someone else is here.”
“You’re right. What do we have here? I think you might have a visitor.”
“A visitor! A visitor! I do so love visitors.”
[Now turn to someone and, using an evil nurse voice, say:]
“Wait, it’s not a visitor, it’s [insert person’s name]. Where have you been? Oh, never mind. You’re back just in time for your shot. I promise it will only hurt… while you’re alive.”
AAAH!
Johnny Wrote a Monster
“I’m gonna win that contest,” John Fontaine said.
“No doubt that’s a sweet prize,” Donald said. “But there are more than 100 kids in the fourth grade. Way more. Those aren’t good odds.”
“I don’t care,” John said. “I’m gonna write the scariest story and I’m gonna win that prize.”
The new principal had announced earlier that day that each upper grade was having a writing contest. The top story from each class would be read during a special assembly and a group of parents and teachers would vote on first place. First prize was $100.
The theme was horror, but the story wasn’t supposed to be gory.
“A minimum of blood and no slasher stuff,” the principal had said during morning announcements. “Points will be deducted for gore. Lots of points.”
There was a loud moan from a lot of the boys in John’s class. But not John. He just wanted to win. If a bloodless story was going to get it done, that was fine by him. Just as long as he won.
John hurried home and started working on his story.
He paced around the room, working out the details out loud.
“Okay, there’s this guy and he turns into a monster. He’s got fire pouring out of his eyes. And he burns up everyone he sees. No. Too violent.
“Okay, there’s this guy and he can make people’s heads burst like pumpkins on the pavement just by thinking about it. No, too brainy and bloody. Can’t have brain goop flying through the air. That would probably qualify as gore in the judge’s eyes.
“Focus, John. Okay, there’s a thing that crawls out of a circus tent. It’s a cross between a lion and clown. A Clion. No, too stupid.
“Okay, there’s a spaceship from another world and in this world the people have two heads, one on each knee and up above their necks there’s a piñata. No, no, no.”
He let out a long sigh. This was going nowhere. And then he got an idea. A real idea.
“Okay, there’s a bloodless ghoul going around sucking the blood out of anyone he comes near. Except there’s not a drop of blood in the whole story. Okay, what happens to the blood? It dries up in the atmosphere. No. Okay, it gets sucked into the ghoul. The ghoul’s like a black hole and the blood is just gone, leaving behind shriveled-up corpses. So maybe he’s a red hole. Yeah, that’s it. ‘A minimum of blood.’ That’s it!”
He pumped his fist in the air.
“I’ll call it The Red Hole or The Bloodless Ghoul. Yes, yes, yes! I believe we have our winner.”
John paused and looked out at the crowd. They were eating out of his hand like they were zombies and he was feeding them fresh brains. Then he hit them with the big finish.
“James knew there was nothing he could do. The bloodless ghoul closed in, its eyes red and evil. James felt the blood leaving his body, like air leaving a balloon. One drop at a time. James crumbled to the ground, pale and lifeless and dead. Dead, dead, dead. The end.”
There were some oohs followed by wild clapping and cheering.
I’ve done it, John thought. I’ve won.
But John didn’t win. First place went to MacKenzie Dewitt, a girl, for something she called “The Shroud of Farmer Gwynn.”
The Shroud of Farmer Gwynn? Who talks like that? What’s a shroud anyway? John said as he kicked a can down the sidewalk. That story was so not scary. I was robbed.
“I couldn’t agree more,” a voice suddenly said. “You had my vote.”
John turned and looked around. His eyes just about popped out of his head. Standing there right next to him was the ghoul from his story.
“Hold on now,” it said. “I know what you’re thinking. And you’re wrong. You didn’t create me. I’m not really a bloodless ghoul. Okay, technically I’m somewhat of a bloodless ghoul. At least I’m bloodless. Ghoul is a more difficult term to pin down. If by ghoul you mean demon, I suppose I could loosely be called a bloodless ghoul. In any case, I enjoyed your story. I mean, it wasn’t that scary, but it did give me an idea of what to be for Halloween.”
“But it’s not Ha-Ha-Ha-Halloween,” John stammered.
“I was just taking it out for a test drive. Demons need practice too, you know. But I can tell you right now that I’m not going to stick with that one drop at a time business,” the demon said. “I don’t have to play by those rules.”
Then he smiled, holding out his hand and bringing his fingers together in a turning motion.
John felt a strange pressure building inside him.
A moment later all the blood in his body exploded out of him.
The Blue Boy
The lake was supposed to be haunted. Over the years, several people had died there under unexplained circumstances. Some had gone mad.
They said the L-shaped body of water was cursed by the ghost of a boy who had drowned while ice fishing more than 50 years earlier. It was early spring when the thin ice had cracked under his feet.
They never found the body.
“Where you headed?” the old man at the general store asked.
“Up to the lake,” Mano said, signaling with his chin.
“Dead Boy Lake?”
“Yep.”
“Wouldn’t advise it,” the man said, putting the container of worms into a brown paper bag. “It’s haunted, haven’t ya heard?”
“As long as it’s haunted by fish,” Mano said.
“I knew him. Back when he was a boy, I mean. Name was Dave. Nice kid. These days they call him Blue Boy. Hear he’s not so nice anymore.”
Mano nodded and took his worms and his change.
“Watch yourself now,” the old man said, lighting a cigarette and squinting out the window.
Half an hour later Mano was sitting in his canoe, casting his line into the water. He had the place to himself.
Mano never had a better day. It was as if the trout had been waiting for him all their lives. They went for the worms like flies on molasses, impaling themselves on the hook. Mano wanted to stop—he had more fish than he could eat in a month—but he couldn’t. And neither it seemed could the trout.
So there he sat, casting and reeling, casting and reeling, until his ice chest was overflowing with the flapping fish. Then the breeze started to pick up. And then between the sound of his reel and the wind, Mano thought he heard something else.
“Save soooome for meeee,” a far off voice called.