LATE NIGHT HORRORS PRESENTS:
IN 666 WORDS
TALES OF FLASH-FRIGHT
MICHAEL E. GRANT
Copyright © 2011 Michael E. Grant
Cover copyright © 2011 Derek Chiodo, http://www.ecovermakers.com
Copy editing by: http://www.ebookeditingpro.com
ebook design by: http://www.52novels.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.
Smashwords Edition: February 2012
No notice is taken of a little evil,
but when it increases it strikes the eye.
-Aristotle
Just what I saw, in my old dreams, were they reflections of my warped mind staring back at me.
-Iron Maiden, The Number of the Beast
Your mother’s in here, Karras. Would you like to leave a message? I’ll see that she gets it.
-Linda Blair, The Exorcist
TABLE OF CONTENTS
A SIMPLE PICNIC | FLAT | ADJUSTED | SKETCHES | ONE PIN | THE COPIER FROM HELL | GOOD NEIGHBORS | BLEMISHED | FIRST KILL OF THE NIGHT | UNDER THE CARPET | CLOSED SUNDAY | TWO LANE ROAD | STRUMMING ALONG | ONE HANDED | THE HIT | ARMY ANTS | SMALL STEP BACK | IT STAYS WITH YOU | STALLED | FAMILY DINNER | THE CREATURE CLUB | FLIGHT 78 | WHOLE | LEASHED | STILL RUNNING | MY SHADOW | PAPER DOLLS | RIGHTFUL OWNER | TRAIN CROSSING | HEAD UP | BBQ FANS | 7:15PM | IN 666 WORDS
STORY SELECTION: LATE NIGHT HORRORS
INTRODUCTION:
GET IT DONE IN 500 WORDS…PLUS 166 MORE
The number 666 terrifies me. It springs from a night in childhood when my friend James first told me that “666 is the number of the Devil.” I still recall the goose bumps that erupted on my arms while spending the night in his basement listening to numerous scary “it really happened” stories. These are the sort of tales that hold a great deal of gravity during the early AM hours, and the next morning you find yourself saying, “What was I so frightened of?” The humorous part is when I followed up our discussion the next morning (666 didn’t seem as scary in the sunlight) by asking him, “So which number does God get?”
It’s hardly original to confine a story into a specified number of words. Drabbles, micro-fiction, and short-shorts have been popular in magazines and newspapers long before eBooks gave them a larger spotlight. As I worked on my first collection of short stories, Late Night Horrors (out in 2012), one of the more fun tales I penned was titled In 500 Words. It centered on a man, the devil, and a piece of paper. Sometimes those are the only components needed for a truly evil tale. The story ended up being too brutal to fit into the restricted word limit.
That night, while I lay in bed attempting to go to sleep, I remembered that childhood talk with James. Naturally, I thought if a story was going to center around Satan, the perfect length should be 666 words. Things fell into place with that tale. Then, as writers tend to do, I felt the need to continue my flash-fiction experiment. Lots of vicious little ideas were floating around my mind, note pads, index cards, napkins, and Word documents. They all screamed out to be given life as a story. However, did they need three thousand words?
In any slasher movie there’s a great body count before the audience travels with the hero (usually heroine) in a race with the killer spiraling headlong towards the film’s finale. But what about all those poor friends, co-workers, and family members who died earlier? Don’t each of them have a story to tell? The answer of course is YES. Sadly, their story is usually: try to get laid…and then die brutally—the cinematic equivalent of flash-fiction. When you’re introduced to these characters, you want them to be happy, have sex, and survive the weekend camping expedition…but it’s probably not going to work out that way.
The phrase, “Hit them hard! Hit them fast!” came to mind and I decided upon my word count goal for each of these horrific tales. For me, 666 is no longer solely about the Devil and religion. It’s a number that represents scares. Short, vicious, in-your-face horror. And if we’re all honest with ourselves, that’s how fear tends to hit us in reality. We’re never subjected to long torments that stretch on for days or weeks. It’s usually a split second decision thrown brutally at us and it’s all over before we even know what occurred. With such a brief glimpse into the life of a character in flash-fiction, it’s safe to assume that we’ll be visiting a dark moment…perhaps their final moment. And we should never expect a happy ending.
I certainly mean no religious connotations when I use 666 to confine each of these morbid stories. It’s a cheesy gimmick, but I like to think it works. When you’re reading a short-short it helps to start each tale knowing what you’re getting into. If the number bothers you, then you have two options. You can do what I did when I explained this book’s concept to my wife: “They’re short stories of 500 words…plus 166 additional words.” Or you can take the approach I used as a child. Wait for the sun to come up and pretend that nothing scares you.
I recommend the first method, because if you’re relying on the second one…the sun doesn’t stay around forever.
Michael E. Grant
A SIMPLE PICNIC
I find my spot on the soft, green grass. The summer breeze drifts through the air as the blanket swings outward and gently settles to the ground. As a young girl, some thirty years ago, I remember my family going on picnics every Sunday in the summer. Mother always said it was never a true picnic unless you could kick off your shoes and rest upon a nice blanket in the sun.
Next I unpack the basket with all the accoutrements needed for a successful picnic. There are sandwiches, pasta salad, lemonade, cookies, and a surprise for Jon, if he can behave himself.
Of course, that’s the problem. Jon, my husband, has yet to arrive. How typical. I can only think of one time he was ever prompt for anything, and it certainly wasn’t our wedding. But if this picnic is going to work, I need to focus on happy thoughts. I look to the sky, the white clouds in the distance, and the inspiring beauty of the setting sun.
The blanket still holds some warmth from the final rays of the sun, so I lay my face against it as I stretch out and wait. The food looks delicious, and although I am tempted, I wait for my husband’s arrival. A wave of excitement fills me, almost like our first date so long ago.
With my ear pressed to the ground I hear the first sounds of his arrival. Apparently Father Bell was correct when he told me of the conditions that took Jonathan’s life. I was so distraught that the very notion of vampires seemed insulting. However, a widow spends a great deal of time being lonely and thinking of any possibility of reuniting with her one true love.
I sit up as the ground bulges close to me. The fresh dirt extends, and slowly I can see his black hair rising, dirt falling all around. Holding my breath I sit silently and wait to see his eyes. The pupils stare blankly for a moment and then soon focus towards our picnic spot.
There is a low moan as his mouth opens, as if for the first time. His tongue slides out, licking more dirt from his lips. In that moment I see the precision points of his new fangs.
Jon pulls his arms and chest up from the ground. His eyes see me for the first time and he hisses with anger. I am not afraid of him. I notice that he’s struggling to free himself from the soil around his tombstone so I use the time to my advantage.
“Jonathan, I brought this for you.” I produce the glass bottle from my picnic basket and pop the cork. I wave the end of the bottle in front of him until I am satisfied that he smells my blood inside it. His pawing at the ground halts, as does his hissing, and I know that I have his full attention.
“Do you want this?” I offer the bottle to him.
He nods his head and then begs with outstretched arms. Within a moment the bottle is in his hands and he drinks hungrily.
“Not too fast, dear,” I say as I finally begin eating my own food. “If you drink it too quickly we won’t be able to enjoy this wonderful picnic I have set up for us.”
Jon pauses in his slurps, a trickle of blood sliding down his chin.
I hand him a napkin and his dirty hand snatches it from my fingertips. For just a moment our hands touch.
“Please wipe your face off, dear.” There is a moment of pause and then, to my astonishment, he does as he’s told. In twenty years of marriage, I can’t think of any time that Jonathan has done that. I glance over my shoulder to the wooden stake and holy water lying in the bottom of the picnic basket. Perhaps I won’t need these. After all, it would ruin our wonderful picnic.
FLAT
Maggie loved the solitude of driving her car, singing with the radio, gathering thoughts for her book, or reflecting on memories in life. The trip from Boston to Las Vegas may have made other people consider booking an airline ticket, but she never gave it a second thought. She took the time off work, packed the car and was on her way to visit her best friend and see the sights.
Even the barren stretch of highway she had driven on for the past hours didn’t worry her. The mechanic inspected her car two days prior and gave it a perfect grade. The gas tank was full and the weather sunny and hot but not unbearable. Cruising along at fifty-five miles an hour with the window down and a stream of fresh air worked wonders on her stress.
As her black Ford Focus descended a hill she looked out at the expanse in front of her. Nothing to see except sand…and one lone car parked on the side of the road. By chance, the stranded car was also a Ford Focus. Maggie slowed down as she saw a woman leaning next to the vehicle. The woman smiled and waved to her so Maggie pulled over. She leaned out of the window. “Car trouble?”
The woman walked over. She was tall, well dressed, with a beautiful head of raven-black hair. “Actually my car is fine. I’m having tire trouble.”
“Flat?”
“Bingo!”
Maggie stopped the engine and stepped out. She stretched her back and legs. “Do you have a spare in the trunk?”
The woman’s eyes were nervous for a moment as she looked to her trunk. “Oh…um…no…my husband forgot to replace it.”
Maggie popped her trunk, handed the woman the wrench, and lifted out the spare tire. She rolled it along on the ground as the woman led the way to the rear of her car.
“I’m so glad you stopped. I’d been standing here for a few hours.” She bent down and started loosening the lug nuts.
Maggie leaned the tire against the car. Her hands were wet so she wiped them on her pants. That’s when she noticed the blood. At first she thought she’d cut herself, but the amount on her pants was considerable. For some reason she turned, not wanting the other woman to see the blood.
On the ground a few feet away, Maggie saw the puddle she missed the first time as she rolled the tire through. It was dark and fresh and most definitely blood.
The other woman was still talking as she worked at removing the flat. “So where are you heading?”
Then there was a slight thump. Was that the wrench hitting the car? Or was that something in the trunk?
Suddenly Maggie didn’t feel very safe. She also didn’t want to talk to the woman anymore.
“Are you going somewhere?” The woman looked suspiciously at Maggie.
Maggie looked over her shoulder, not revealing her bloody pants, and forced a smile. “We forgot to bring the jack. Don’t take that tire off until I bring it back.”
The other woman eased back but there was still a tension that had not been there before.
Maggie calmly walked towards her car, counting her steps as she moved, and listening for the sound of trailing footsteps. There was the jack in the trunk, but she didn’t bother with it and she didn’t bother to close the trunk. Speeding up she jumped into the seat and started the engine. The car sped away as Maggie looked into the rearview window. She could see the other woman running behind in a dust cloud and shouting something Maggie couldn’t understand. The woman quickly gave up pursuit on foot.
~ ~ ~
Hours later Maggie returned to the spot with the local police. The woman and her car were gone. However, she knew this was the right location because they found the puddle of blood on the ground and lying next to it a lone flat tire.
ADJUSTED