Nightmare Fuel: The Ultimate Collection of Short Horror Tales Page 5

  Out of the chaos dominating my cognitions I saw a young girl standing a few feet in front of me, scared. She wore a pair of light blue pyjamas and had golden hair that hung at her shoulders.

  “Come quick, he will kill you if you don't follow me, hurry,” she told me with a hushed voice.

  John 7:20

  "You are demon-possessed," the crowd answered. "Who is trying to kill you?"

  She twisted around and jogged forwards, and I began to follow her. She scuttled left down a corridor which lead towards the front of the building. I wondered where she was taking me, where could possibly be safe? Until she stopped at a window and turned around to face me.

  “Up there,” she pointed to an attic.

  I calculated numbers in my mathematical mind and after an enormously brief analysis I decided I didn't really have much of a choice. I reluctantly pulled down the steps and climbed them, with her leading the way. The second she was in the attic the blackness seemed to consume her entirely, a black void swallowing her youth. Thank god for this little girl, I remember thinking. The drop down stairs came up gradually with a boisterous creak that made me erupt in shivers. I then noticed a small glow of light from the corner of the attic, I couldn't distinguish its origin, but I noticed a cardboard box below this brightness. I crawled over caught up in a web of curiosity, and on temporary leave from my trepidation. I reached into the box to uncover a stack of newspapers, a bible, crayons, and a few toys. I began reading the headline of the first paper, 'man kills himself, and family, dressed as clown'. Below this was a picture of an elderly couple and their daughter, the girl was the very same girl that had brought me up into the attic.

  The horrifying reports continued with creepy gallant headlines. 'Killer Clown Murderer', 'Haunted Clown House'. All this had taken place in my current residence, that realisation petrified me and I experienced a new lease of terror, knowing I was in an attic of a house that had bared witness to such butchery. But yet again my meddlesome nature challenged my abhorrence for attention of my thoughts. I continued to read one article detailing the chilling entropy that had played out in this dwelling. It no longer felt like my home, but a place stained with death and anarchy. Questions dropped into my mind like fish falling into a shark's mouth. Were the man and the clown that I had seen, the same person? Did this man just snap? Or did something happen? Out of my several enigmas an icy hand grabbed me. I again felt a breath on my neck. I spotted the clown in the gloom holding a balloon animal immersed in blood, sniggering. Someone then knocked at the attic hatch and with a husky voice uttered, “I'm coming for you.”

  The clown had vanished. Just before a crimson covered knife poked through a gap in the attic door.

  As this happened I was enveloped in a whiteness and then a flash of scenes played before me.

  The elderly couple at the hospital thankful to have finally been blessed with a baby, the parents a few years later playing with their child on an evening, the mother smiling and she wore plain but colourful clothes with a large golden cross necklace, and a cross stud in her ear, I guess that explains why I am writing in this. The father was dressed as a clown making the girl laugh, when they hear a bang at the door. They open it to a man gripping a long sharp knife, who plunges it into the clown's stomach, screaming ensues until the man has sliced and diced everyone. Splashes of blood oozing from every surface. Then the intruder took the clown costume from the dead man and changed into it. He used some paints that were in the living room for his face. Then he crept down to the basement, wedged into the ceiling, and hid above wooden boards. That clown in the cellar wasn't a dead body or a ghost, it was the man who annihilated the previous residents. It was the man who was trying to break into the attic right this second.

  Psalm 55:5

  'Fear and trembling have beset me; horror has overwhelmed me'

  I began to cry and shake ferociously. Then I heard the girls voice, “My daddy wants you to leave this house.” I either stayed in the attic with an old man disguised as a clown, knife-happy senior citizen and odd little girl, all of which I assume are ghosts. Or I open the attic hatch and unleash a living, breathing, murderous man, dressed in the clown costume of a man he'd slaughtered.

  “My daddy is angry with you now,” the little girl

  announced, appearing scared herself.

  Then the rapping of the attic door continued

  and the man's voice calmly but eerily spoke through the gap. “I know you're in there, come out and play.”

  I am writing this in the tattered and ripped bible I found in the box, with a colouring crayon, on any blank page or big enough space to mark my words that I could find. I figure that most people, even the most non-religious and unbelieving, would reach for any semblance of faith in times of abhorrence. So this is why I chose to write my message in a bible, to future householders. The murderer is still trying to get into the attic, shouldering the door and jutting the knife through. The girl is still warning me of her father's inhospitableness. Hopefully you will read this before it is too late. I still have to get out of here yet. So who knows, if I don't make it and someone moves into this house, and is now reading this, I may see you very soon. My massacred corpse could be in this house, not far from my ghost. Who could be stood behind you right now. Or even the clown.

  Itch

  Will was laid under the roasting sun, slathered in sunscreen, feeling the warm glow on his glossy skin. He wore nothing but a small pair of blue shorts, lying on the smooth wood of the back porch. Music played quietly from his mp3 as he enjoyed the tweeting of birds and the soothing breeze tickling his flesh. A wind chime from a neighbour's house provided a calming atmosphere. That he could still hear over the pop music pumping from tiny, white earphones.

  The heat, becoming a little too much, made Will grab his iced tea. Ice cubes clinked together as he reached for it and greedily gulped down the sweet refreshment. The ice numbed his lips with each glug, throat swelling with each swallow. Until the drink had served its purpose and cooled him down. Now resting on freckly elbows, he took a moment to enjoy the scenery. Acres of grass of both from his house, and the neighbours, grass that stretched into the entrance of the mystifying forest. A baby blue sky overhead, children frolicking with their parents as they ran around without a care in the world. This is perfect, he smiled to himself.

  That was until he noticed several small mountains of dry dirt at the porch's side, hundreds of annoying ants scurrying in and around them. His nostrils flared. Will despised ants in the worst way; pointless creatures whose only purpose was to destroy picnics and ruin nice lawns. Annoyed and irritated, he snatched his iced tea from the porch and reached over the edge. Will watched brown liquid stream from the glass as it was tipped it over and pillaged the ant hills. He morbidly watched the ants scuttling helplessly, drowning, being washed away from their homes and some even killed. Will grinned. He knew there would be more lurking among the green, but he would take a drive to the store later and grab some ant spray to terminate the little critters.

  ***

  After a lazy but glorious day in the sun, Will retired to bed. But not before taking a cold shower and glazing himself in aloe vera gel to sooth his reddened flesh. Despite using a high factor SPF the sun's kiss had left a tinge of amber in its wake. But aloe vera worked like a charm. It eased the hotness, soaking in quickly, allowing him to curl in bed with a good book. As he pulled open his fictional hardback and began soaking in the words, a small black speck broke his focus. Initially he thought it nothing more than a floater. Small, harmless but annoying dark masses that occasionally get caught in the eye. They easily wash away and are more of a nuisance than anything else. But that wasn't it. Will saw an ant running along his white bedroom wall.

  “Damn it!” he spouted, through gritted teeth.

  He placed the book aside and hammered his fist into the ant from the comfort of his mattress. Will took a peek at the crushed body of the uninvited visitor flat at the bottom of his hand, then quickly scraped
it off, letting it plummet into the fluffy carpet.

  “Bloody pests,” he tutted.

  Luckily there were no more interruptions that evening. He lay in bed and read to his heart's content. Eyes flickering across the words and fingers flicking the pages. That was until his vision become blurry as he became sleepy. So Will folded a corner, shut the book and placed it on his mahogany night stand aside his tissues, hand sanitiser and alarm clock.

  At 2 am Will awoke, hot and stuffy, skin itching like crazy. After looking at the clock and being displeased to have woken up at such an hour, he huffed. He reached under the covers and rather aggressively clawed at his legs and lower stomach, eager to get some relief and fall back asleep. But, as if having been bitten, the sensation to itch only grew. The more he scratched the more he wanted to itch. Curious, he flung the quilt away and stopped cold when he saw thousands of ants covering every inch of his flesh. His belly and legs were black, covered in a thriving black mass. Will screamed into the night, terrified. He jumped from bed and began swatting and swiping, relentlessly trying to get the ants off him. But there were several layers of the black pests running up and down his body. The mob now began to crawl up towards his face, running along his chest and climbing his neck. He shrieked again, which only gave the ants an easy entrance into his mouth. Realising his mistake, he stuck out his tongue and ran his fingers along it, trying to rid them from his mouth. But whilst he was distracted doing that, more ants scampered inside his ears, dashed into his eyes and swarmed into his nostrils. His throat felt dry and sand-like as he began coughing. But no amount of coughing would expel the cause of this dryness, as Will began to choke. Figuring there was nothing left to lose he ran from the bedroom and into the kitchen. But on the way, as soon as the bedroom door was opened, hundreds of thousands of ants came barging in. With the force of a gang of adults, they pushed in, knocking Will onto the ground.

  He began wheezing, gasping for breath, lungs ablaze, body quivering. Until Will took his last ant-filled breath, and fell victim to the hoard of critters. He couldn't be certain, but Will swore that the sound of their tiny legs scooting along flesh sounded like “You shouldn't have killed our homes outside, then we wouldn't have had to seek other places to inhabit. Now we will live in you.”

  And they did, until his parents came for a visit and saw the pale, veiny corpse of their son overrun with ants.

  MISSING

  Rachel stood perusing the bulletin board, worried and nervous. Half of the rotting wood was covered in white sheets. Missing Persons reports. No longer was it a board to ask for study buddies or community gatherings on campus. It was a warning. Dozens of students are going missing every month, you could be next. This had been an ongoing issue that the authorities hadn't been able to solve for quite some time. The whole student populace were thinking the same thing: what is happening to all these students? With nothing in common besides their age and that they attended Ponte College. There were photos of stunning women, Gothic men, overweight ladies, dorky guys; it was a wash of diversity. There was no pattern to these disappearances other than age, and that scared Rachel more than she cared to admit. This problem affected Rachel more as one of the most recent victims had been her best friend Sandra. Bubbly, fun, but not overly so. When she was sad, she would express it. Sandra wasn't one of those hyper-perky individuals who clouded fear with smiles and exaggerated friendliness. Sandra was happy for the most part. But Rachel knew her well enough to know she wouldn't run away, and suicide was the farthest thing from being the answer. So she'd decided to keep her ear to the ground and see if she could find out just what was happening.

  Since the beginning of the year, the atmosphere had gone from happy, excitable and giddy, to miserable and fearful as to the unknown predator, kidnapping or possibly killing people. All the lecturers would say when asked by news reporters was that, 'It is mysterious, but college is very difficult and some just can't handle the pressure.' What a crock of shit! Rachel thought as she made her way through an eerily desolate campus and headed for the cafeteria. But it wasn't just the bulletin board tainted by this rash of vanishing acts, it was the entire educational facility. Lamp posts, benches, walls, doors, windows, each covered in missing person’s flyers. It was a viral infection spreading like a zombie outbreak. You couldn't escape it. Each class had been whittled down by this issue. Once a full classes accommodated every seat available, but now each lesson had dozens of empty chairs strewn around. Acting as a constant reminder that someone's friend's whereabouts was unknown. Rachel walked into the scarce food hall and bought a cheese and tomato sandwich and can of lemonade. The tomato was fresh and earthy, combining perfectly with the tangy cheese. Both of which washed down with gulp after gulp of fizzy, ice cold lemonade. But these tastes and textures were lost on Rachel as she struggled to focus. She could hardly concentrate on moving in a straight line let alone eat or listen to a lecture. Thank God for recorders. The depressed student finished her meal and went back to her dorm, feeling even more defeated than before she'd eaten.

  Rachel sat at her desk trying to study but all she could think about was Sandra. Claire, her room mate, a superficial whore, was in the bathroom piling on makeup in preparation for another night out. The string of unexplained absences didn't dent her spirits whatsoever. Determined to wear hooker heels and dance the night away, getting bought drinks by brain-dead jocks who just wanted to get laid. Rachel had warned Claire time and time again just how dangerous it was to frequent clubs and bars with men she hardly knows, but Claire wouldn't have any of it. After Claire had called Rachel a geeky, friendless lesbian, Rachel had quit caring. Which understandably made things very awkward in the dorm room. Fortunately, Claire was always out. It wasn't that Rachel was a loner, but given the circumstances it wasn't at all safe. Not to mention most human beings endowed with emotion have been hit with pangs of depression, anxiety and even guilt. But not Claire, what a trooper!

  Soon enough the heartless slut had rushed from the room to hitch a ride from some dumb football player. With a skirt riding high and vest reaching low, Rachel questioned Claire's very own intelligence, or lack thereof. But in the midst of her judgemental thoughts, Rachel was hit with an idea. Claire was prime bait. Given, it wasn't only women that were going missing. But a stupid, defenceless, intoxicated college girl was surely the perfect target. If this person or persons was out on the prowl tonight, Claire was sure to get some attention. Maybe tonight was the night that Rachel put an end to this madness. She knew the usual haunts Claire would visit. Cheap admission and cheap drinks. Not that Claire ever paid for a drink when all it took was a flash of her tits and teeth to get a freebie. But Rachel could quickly freshen up, and stalk her room mate, hoping that the kidnapper or killer would strike. Broken by impatience and sorrow Rachel threw caution to the wind and made the brave decision to do exactly that. She changed into a navy dress, black heels and ran a comb through her unkempt hair. She wanted to look presentable, but not attract any attention. One thing Rachel hadn't considered when debating this scheme, was the weather. The night was a cold one, a bitter wind biting any exposed skin. This should be fun!

  ***

  Street lights dimly lit the roads and alleys. The majority of the town was scarce of people, except outside club entrances. Clubbers stood in clumps queuing to gain entry into clubs of all sorts. Hot new trends with a delectable list of cocktails and brand new furniture, or tacky bars that stunk of mouldy ale and boasted sticky floors. One club in particular, The Watering Hole, was located on the edge of town. Its regulars consisted of perverts, alcoholics, pensioners with nothing else better to do, and the scum of society. But somehow the manager Rick had managed to attract a young clientèle due to the bargain priced drinks and modern music with a reasonably sized dance floor. Which led to charging a small admission several times a week to make extra cash. It was 11:00pm and the place was already packed. Drunk clubbers crammed inside like sardines in a tin. But as long as the liquor flowed freely and music blasted through t
he speakers, they were happy. In the alley down the side of the club was an unofficial smoking area. Due to new laws and regulations smoking inside was prohibited. Rick was at first incredibly nervous this would affect business, until he came up with the idea to have a little smoking area. An invaluable roof, old table and some plastic chairs, and presto. Even in this era there were still a few smokers lingering in society, cancer or not. Among the smokers, was Rachel. Now she didn't smoke, but needed some fresh air. The club was tainted with sweat and the stench of hormones. She hated to think it, but she preferred clubs when smoking was allowed. The only downside back then was the occasional burn from a lit smoke. But that was nothing compared to strong body odours and other ghastly stenches. Fortunately, she had found Claire and been keeping tabs on her for just under an hour, from a sensible distance of course. Claire was such a cliché, dancing flirtatiously, rubbing and grinding, showing more skin than a stripper. Taking the female population back at least a hundred years, erasing the feminist movement. All the while Rachel stood in dark corners, holding a drink to avoid suspicious glares.

  But 60 minutes of observation and annoyingly drunken fools barging into her forced a retreat outside. Even if that meant being surrounding by tobacco smoke, holding back coughs and gags. So there Rachel was. Young people were kissing and groping against walls, groups were laughing hysterically at insignificant things, and perverts clung to the shadows ogling scantly dressed young ladies. Rachel wasn't against going out, it was more of a treat for her, to let loose and blow off some steam. Whereas some of these people made it a weekly, sometimes nightly ritual. But being sober made the whole prospect of clubbing very unappealing while observing a bunch of buffoons. She only prayed that she didn't look as ridiculous when drunk. Bored, Rachel pulled a phone from her purse and checked the time, 11:10pm. Time was dragging. But luckily patience was one of her strong suits, taught by her grandfather. Just as Rachel was priding herself in a strong will, Claire stumbled into the crowd. There was a six foot hunk of meat attached to her. They wobbled into the crowd hazy eyed and slurring their speech.