Nightmare Fuel: The Ultimate Collection of Short Horror Tales Read online

  Ezekiel 9

  'Show no mercy; have no pity! Kill them all - old and young, girls and women and little children'

  This was a high pitched loud scream, as if a witch were trapped in an upstairs bedroom or was stood on my roof all decrepit, with a heart lusting for pig’s feet or eye of newt. I instantly jerked, knocking the last few slices of pizza on the floor, and stood paralysed. Upside down pizza lay at my feet, meaty toppings scattered about and tomato sauce spattering the wood. My entire body was humming with nervousness, like a car's engine sending subtle vibrations through the metal carcass.

  My breathing stopped as I looked at the stairwell through an open living room door. I half expected someone or something to come running down: a person, entity, mischievous animal, but nothing. I was convinced I'd heard something, and I knew I had to check. This was very frustrating to me as I was one of those people that on the rare occasion watched a horror flick, and would be yelling repeatedly at the utter lack of common sense being portrayed by the dumb characters going to investigate strange sounds. But in this moment, I felt I was stuck in a horror movie myself, and I knew I couldn't rest or even set myself at ease until I knew for sure what that sound was, and where it had come from.

  I remember ascending the wide wooden steps clutching a kitchen knife and trembling more than a child dreading a beating from his father after misbehaving. A tiny pin-prick sensation pierced every pore around my chest. At one point I thought I was having a heart attack, but as breathing was not a problem I surpassed this and carried on. I anxiously tread the two flights of stairs and entered the first bedroom on the left, opposite the stairwell. All the bedrooms were plotted on one side of the house with all their doors along one wall. Whilst the recreational rooms took you on a maze of corridors and hallways. But I wanted to check the bedrooms before anything else. The first appeared normal, fine furniture, polished and tidy from the début visit of the cleaning lady a couple of days prior to this incident. Each bedroom after that was the same: unperturbed, nothing moved, destroyed, or soiled. Until I got to the last bedroom: my bedroom.

  I opened the door and darkness dominated this vast space, and my eyes instantly fell on the window, and the silhouette of a man stood next to it. My heart stopped and I almost yelled, once again the goosebumps had spread on the surface of my skin, hairs standing stiff and rigid. I then closed my eyes, hoping my optics were playing tricks. When I raised my eyelids slowly and cautiously I knew my eyes had adjusted to the blackness. So I followed them to the same spot, and the man's feet were not there. Phew! I was relieved and ready to retire downstairs when a creak came from behind me. I turned and glared down the hall to see a man dressed as a clown clenching a bloody knife, and wearing a hideous smile.

  Jeremiah 48:10

  'Cursed be he who does the Lord's work remissly, cursed he who holds back his sword from blood'

  It had an electric blue wig, white painted face, sinister red smear of a grin streaked across his mouth, and yellow eyes with vertical black slits for pupils. The eyes were more alike to cat eyes than a human's. The clown was giggling, and the laugh was comparable to the scratching of chalk on a classroom board. I hollered and dropped my own knife. It somersaulted to the wooden boards at my feet and the blade ripped a faint pale line across the veneer. He continued to chuckle hysterically and move closer to me; it was as if he was floating in an air of grace and horror.

  As if a thick cloud was moving him towards me like a demented magic carpet. The high pitched echo of his hysteria was the most petrifying sound I had ever witnessed, a continuous shriek that echoed down the hallway, tainting every surface with a deafening shrillness. As he advanced even closer, I began to steadily shuffle backwards. My legs trembling and overwhelmed with a numbness, it felt as if an IV drip had been jabbed into my calves. I felt as if I were having to force my legs through a thick sloppy consistency that would hinder a person's movements. Until a hand touched my shoulder.

  The next thing I could recall was awaking on the upstairs hallway. This had not been a nightmare; it was real. I could sense it in my marrow. Although part of me did blame the pizza, ordering from a new pizza joint, maybe it was made using dirty ingredients? Or one of the chefs was ill. I always have nightmares if I eat just before bed. My mother had told me that from a very infantile age, so she would never let me eat after six o'clock. Which possibly credits the reason why I eat so late, both on a weekend, and during the week. A way of rebelling against my mother, as an adult, my way of proving I am a big boy now. Even though that sounded incredibly juvenile. But last night I did not have this level of arrogance, I didn't even have a sprinkling of confidence against a vague figure by a window, and then a God damn clown! It was utterly terrifying. I then realised I had no idea what time it was. I trudged into one of the guest rooms and looked at the clock showing 4:02am Monday morning. What the? Holy crap! I have to start getting ready for work in two hours.

  I will always remember that Monday, that will now be referred to as 'The Monday'. The day that I forced myself to explain the previous night's events and tried to streak a line of rationalization through it, like a pen checking a multiple choice box. But I couldn't shake the feeling that this was just the beginning of a long line of disturbances that would test my heart's endurance and tolerance of the several creatures that go bump in the night. At this point I just assumed I was going crazy, my sanity dwindling like a candle in the wind, or my brain rotting prematurely. A zombie-like infection ravaging my anatomy. I wish to God that had been the reason, but God must have been strapped for mercy that day, or it was the devil that took hold of my fate and decided to entertain himself at my misfortune.

  I found a local therapist who administered a drug called 'zotepine'. He suggested it was just moving jitters, my sub-conscious self adapting to a new environment. But to send me on my way to slumber and feel more relaxed, he gave me a small dosage of this medicine to block my brain's demonic projections. Which he told me were due to stress, and I believed him, what a chump!

  Exodus 29:16

  'Slaughter it and take the blood and sprinkle it against the altar on all sides'

  That night I endured a combination of dread, rage, and breathless suspense. I felt like an illegal immigrant who worried someone had told the authorities of his non-existent visa to live in this country, and was constantly on edge, drenched in guilty sweat.

  I ordered Chinese. I was not in the right frame of mind to cook that night, work had been stressful, then there had been the therapist, which made me arrive home later than usual. So I felt I'd earned another take out.

  That night I sat in my room and enjoyed a crime movie starring a beautiful red haired youthful lady whose pale but luminous skin was covered in tiny freckles. I couldn't not admire her remarkable acting ability. I was nibbling away at egg fried rice and soaking in her excellent portrayal of a female investigator, when I picked up a whisper.

  This hushing appeared to come from behind me on the bed. I felt a hot breath on my neck and spun around to see the face of an old man. His skin all wrinkled and saggy with murky evil eyes, and blood stained teeth. His eyes were wide, and an insidious grin engulfed half his face. “NAUGHTY BOY,” he yelled.

  I launched my food in his direction, rice raining on everything, and rushed into the hall barely managing to control my limbs for a swift, speedy exit. I leant against the wall concentrating on my breathing, with tears actually dripping down my face. Then I realised I had forgot to take the medication. It was on one of my bedside tables, and per instructions from the expert I was going to take with food. But I'd been distracted by the delicious food, and riveting story unfolding on screen.

  I had to go back into that room.

  A few minutes later my head became more lucid and my heart danced more mildly, to a gentle jazz tune rather than hardcore rock. The fabrication of the old man would surely have disintegrated into nothingness. So I sheepishly sauntered in, still cautious and aware that the phantom could very well be lurking insi
de waiting for me. I turned into the room and it was empty. Furniture still in place, but the old man had vanished. I wasn't sure how much more I could bend before I broke. Eager to swallow one of these pills and see if they benefited me, I guardedly paced to the bedside table. The pills weren't there.

  After briefly scanning the room for the tiny plastic bottle full of hope I noticed they were on the bed powdered with rice. I had definitely not put them on the bed; they had been moved. But at this point I was more concerned about getting the stuff into my system as quick as possible to banish these horrid creations of my apparently sick and alarmingly morbidly mind. I reached over the bed and in my peripheral vision I spotted dusk through the window, but with something blurred also in sight.

  Exodus 20:13 NIV

  'You shall not murder'

  I whirled towards the window to see the old man again, this time angered, “NO” he shouted.

  I scooped up the bottle, stumbled out of the room, raced downstairs and threw myself outside the house onto the lawn where I was bound in bitter winds.

  Normally I had to take any capsules with water as I had trouble swallowing. But I frantically popped the cap and emptied out the contents into the palm of my hand and conveniently only one came out. I harpooned this into my mouth and it hit the back of my throat, quickly tumbling down my gullet as if the pill itself was fearful of this malevolent presence. I instantly became serene, not as a result of the superhuman rate of the medicine working its wizardry on my despair, but relief at being outside and having taken some 'zotepine'. This annoyed me, how did I feel more relaxed in the garden, than in my own home, MY OWN HOME. Those three words lingered in my mind like swilling a person's palate with a fine wine. Enough was enough. I stomped back inside riding high on testosterone and bubbling over with vengeance. Angst was now a distant memory. Shockingly, that night, I slept like a baby.

  The next morning, I awoke brave and proud of myself for having overcome my abhorrence. I brewed some intense coffee, took a sip, then retreated back upstairs to shower. As I washed away sweat and grime I felt as if today was going to be a good day. I couldn't have been more wrong.

  I went about my Tuesday advising on sale tactics, attending meetings, producing power-point presentations and gulping down caffeine-crammed beverages by the gallon. By the end of the day I was shaking as if my whole body had been overcome by Parkinson's decease. I drove home and decided to stop off at a local book store, which I hadn't had the pleasure of visiting yet. I was desperate for a new crime novel, and today I had closed a deal worth millions, so I had most certainly merited some reward. I entered the traditional and quaint little book store, where hundreds upon hundreds of crafted bindings were encompassing me. Thick oak wood held this impressive collection of novels and autobiographies, but my focus was to locate the crime section and delve deep to discover my latest thrilling conundrum. There was a mix of people in various clumps of the store, stood in the genre they felt most comfortable in. Some brave individuals craving horror, others hungered for distraction in the fantasy corner, a few students in the education area, then I sighted it. CRIME. Crying out to my obsession like a bag of cocaine to a drug addict. In bold letters, calling to me like a seductress beckoning with a mystical voice. After an hour of exploring a variety of covers and intriguing blurbs I decided on 'Pin Drop'. A crime/thriller about a rash of teenage girls that keep going missing under very unusual circumstances.

  I rushed home eager to eat, jump in the shower, and hunker down with 'Pin Drop'. There is nothing like the excitement of beginning a new book, falling in love with some characters, and detesting others, becoming completely captivated in a fantastic journey.

  Leviticus 3:2

  'You are to lay your hand on the head of your offering and slaughter it'

  As I was quite warm and my bedroom was too stuffy, I sat in the conservatory. I grabbed a mug of coffee to ward off fatigue. I didn't want to sleep for a while yet, not until I had enjoyed at least the first quarter of the novel. There I was, happy, content, enthralled in a fictional world where my brain was painting the words that my eyes were decoding, and my speedy fingers were flipping the pages, keeping the story going, continuing the pursuit of suspects, with protagonists throwing themselves in life or death crises. When a tapping broke my focus. My heart thundered, which was quite dramatic for just a subtle sound. But given my recent troubles and the large volume of caffeine spiking its way into my system, I began to predict the worst. Foreseeing an abundance of hellish apparitions.

  The tapping was continuous, and not only unnerving, but distracting. There was no hope of rejoining the fictitious world with the annoying and simultaneously chilling noise breaking air molecules. I got up and began a search of the grounds. I checked downstairs, and zilch.

  I explored upstairs, and nada. But I hadn't explored the kitchen. Maybe it was just a leaky faucet after all this. That is what I prayed, but underneath my vain wishes I knew better. I wandered into the black marble tiles and granite worktops, where all surfaces appeared to be coated in a chunky layer of gloss, as I began listening intently. The drips must be coming from somewhere in or near the kitchen. I followed the dribble to the basement door. I knew the house had one but had avoided it like the plaque as I loathed cellars, and had even refused to enter with the agent at the initial viewing. But regardless, I was out of options. I creaked open the door to be faced with nothing but black. The light from the kitchen only very delicately exposed a wooden bannister leading downstairs with specks of dust swimming aimlessly in the air. I exhaled slowly, and readied myself. I eyed a piece of white string hanging in front of me, which I assumed was for a bulb. In a hurry to shed light on things, literally, to ease the fright darkness created, I yanked it then let the string wiggle for a few seconds. Only two bulbs came on, one in front of me, and one at the bottom of the stairs. They were both very dim, and flickered on and off.

  Each footfall seemed loud enough to wake the dead, an ear-piercing yawn that, well, was comparable to what you would imagine the resonance of the dead waking up would be. The stirring of ghouls, goblins and other manifestations of malevolence. That thought scared me so I shook it from my mind as if it were an aggravating wasp and concentrated on identifying the perpetrator of the tapping. I reached the bottom of the rotten steps and was faced with a concrete floor and poorly plastered walls. There was also a huge metal pipe overhead, travelling the breadth of the basement ceiling. I turned left then right to fully observe the huge space I was now in. The tapping was definitely coming from my right, so I turned and tentatively tiptoed onwards. After a minute of steady well balanced strides, I glimpsed liquid dripping from the ceiling. It was made from enormous planks of wood. After all this, it was a leakage. But after looking down on the solid wintry ground, I concurred the water was red.

  Matthew 10:28

  Do not be afraid of those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. Rather, be afraid of the One who can destroy both soul and body in hell.

  Blood was my instant speculation, but for whatever reason I chose to determine this. My skin once again awash with bumpy hairs, and hot blood rapidly circulating every inch of my fleshy form. I ordered my feet forward. But when I knelt to the red liquid it smelt of paint, not blood. Now I was befuddled. So I found some ladders and a torch. I climbed the metal steps up to the wooden ceiling and separated a couple of beams where the wetness was dropping from. My torches' ray shone over the dead body of a clown.

  I remember thinking I would rather be dead than in this poorly lit basement with a man's dead body attired as a clown crammed into a cellar ceiling. It appeared to be staring at me, it was the exact same clown that I had seen a few days ago, just with slightly different face paint. Had that been the ghost of the clown? I wasn't sure of any one thing anymore, but I knew one thing, I wanted out of this house immediately. I jumped from the ladder and dashed to the stairs to see an old man stood at the top of them.

  “NO,” he yelled, suffused with outrage.

  I
stumbled backwards, my butt hitting the ground agonisingly. It felt like I was swimming in ice cold water, Antarctic temperatures biting my rump. The old man looked infuriated, stomping his feet as he descended towards me, as if each stamp of his foot caused me pain. He was clearly trying to intimidate me. I closed my eyes and begged the lord for some charity, and when I peeled them up, to my amazement, the man was gone.

  I exploited this opportunity, jolted up and sprinted the staircase, careening through the threshold to the kitchen. I raced through the hall and to the house's entrance, but it was locked, so this provided no escape.

  I was stuck. I then thought of the conservatory in a frenzied panic, and was about to dart back down the hall but at the kitchen's entrance was the clown. “BOO,” he laughed hysterically.

  I wasted no time, turned around the stairway bannister and scrambled upstairs. I reached the top and racked my brain for some way out of this house. “Come here my dear,” a high pitched voice muttered, it was like the voice of the witch from 'The Wizard Of Oz'. I turned to my left to see an old woman cutting her face with a large knife, with a large golden cross dangling from her neck and laughing at her own self-mutilation. For a few seconds I felt as if I had left my body and was simply watching the madness ensue, experiencing an outer body phenomenon. I was surrounded by a hysterical clown, an angry old man, and an old woman slashing and shredding her flesh. Nightmares envied my turmoil.