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

  “Steve?” she asked, becoming nervous.

  He didn't so much as flinch. Not a blink or grin or inhalation of breath.

  “Steve, come on, stop being stupid, I am not in the mood!”

  Sometimes Steve did like to play the occasional prank from what she'd heard. In fact, that was what he was known for. With the exception of being a surprisingly great artist and constantly being praised for his lifelike sketches and paintings.

  “Steve I can't be on long I am babysitting, I need to keep an eye on the twins,” she scowled.

  But still, nothing she said provoked a sliver of emotion. No reaction whatsoever. She had half a mind to shout out, 'Oh by the way I am into girls.' But that news would spread around school like wildfire, which she didn't need.

  “Okay, I'm going, I'll speak to you Monday,” Neve went to disconnect the call when the face moved. Finally! But it became apparent that the head was being lowered. A hand holding Steve's hair came into shot. Neve was disconcerted at this. Limbs seamed to be floating around eerily. Until clarity shed a light on the situation when another man's face appeared above Steve's. But this belonged to a man considerably older, grey tufts of hair atop an almost bald head. Deep wrinkles creased the skin and uneven stubble dotted the lower face and neck. Neve stopped breathing at that instance, overtaken by fear at this unknown man in Steve's bedroom. It wasn't his dad, and both grandfathers had passed, that was someone she had never seen before. It then dawned on Neve that this stranger was smiling at the camera. A set of yellow, crooked teeth were being displayed, with the odd black tooth almost invisible in the darkness. Then the mystery man spoke.

  “Not if I see you first my dear,” he winked, then the camera shut off.

  Neve sat for a collection of seconds, unsure what to do next. She was horrified. For a moment she considered the possibility that the encounter hadn't just happened and it had been imagined. But Neve was too smart for that. The question remained: does she call the police? Call Steve's house to confirm if it was a prank or deadly real. Dead being the operative word as Steve had looked too still to be of the living, which tugged on her heart strings. The twin's giggling brought her away from the laptop and the devastating webcam session. She put it aside on the sofa and looked over at the kids, still playing gleefully, happy as can be, blissfully unaware. She envied them. Neve sat drowning in a pool of worry and dread. But choosing to be safe rather than sorry she paced to the end of the living room and grabbed the phone. A mahogany table was nestled into the corner holding the phone, aside the bay window which exposed the front lawn and the mess of toys tangled on the turf. The weather had started to change with the drizzle of rain dampening the grass. Neve dialled in the number of Steve's house phone and let it ring. She twiddled her thumbs as the ring went on and on. Either way someone should pick up. She figured. But hoped it was Steve confessing a very realistic and startling prank, and not a homicidal mad man. She would be justifiably furious at him, but that would be highly desirable to him being dead. Then the ringing stopped and a voice appeared on the other end.

  “Hello?” Oh thank God!

  Neve wasn't sure why, but the voice didn't sound familiar. The tone was relaxed and calm, but she didn't recognise it. Was it Steve's father? Just as she was about to ask about Steve's whereabouts the man cut her off.

  “Ahh, this is Neve I see? The pretty young girl from the camera?”

  Neve almost collapsed, legs turning into jelly.

  “Not getting shy are you?” he teased.

  Each word he uttered Neve pictured the vile decrepit man, which made the conversation that more frightening.

  “Is this a joke?” Neve burst out, without even thinking, impulsively asking what she wanted answering.

  A slight chuckle echoed down the line. “A joke? Well Steve's life was a joke if that's what you mean?” The laughing continued.

  Then it hit her like a freight train. The man used the past tense word 'was'. His life 'was' a joke. Her worst fears had been realised and were happening. Steve was dead.

  “Come on, you were doing so well. Any more questions? Like do I know the house where you're babysitting?” he sniggered.

  Now Neve was beyond terrified. The wind rattled the window and the picket fence out front shook slightly, with the addition of wind adding to the rain. Neve noticed this amidst the horrifying chat.

  “It's the Butterfield's right?” he asked.

  Oh my god! How the hell does he know that? Not wasting any time she slammed the phone down and moved away from the window, feeling vulnerable. Neve dimmed the lights and ran to the children, kneeling with them both.

  “Okay, I think we need to go....” she spoke aloud, alerting the attention of the twins. Each had been playing, bashing toys against toys, oblivious to the danger they may be faced with. Neve wasn't sure what her next move would be, but she knew one thing. The old man knew she was at that house, so fleeing the building was a must in order to survive.

  After wrapping the twins in countless blankets and padded winter outerwear, she fled outside. The rain hit Neve as she stepped onto the lawn holding both children in a double carrier. For some strange reason their combined weight was lighter than she would have expected, or maybe she was getting stronger from intense gym sessions? Either way, she was grateful. She lugged the kids to the next door neighbour who she knew to be a young couple. Upon the occasional wave Neve thought they were friendly people, and would be the best candidates to help her and the infants, avoid death. Neve rushed up their drive and stepped onto their front porch. There was a morning paper that was still rolled and wrapped in plastic, sitting at the front door. Were they away? Neve prayed they were home watching movies and not out drinking or dining. Knock, knock, knock. She rapped on the door firmly. But after a few freezing minutes, it was clear no one was home. No lights were on, no sounds came from the house, and the paper still sat on the porch. She brayed at the door one more time, and nothing. That was when Neve decided to try the other neighbour's further along. Just as the young girl turned she saw a hooded man in the street. This individual was stood across the road, seemingly staring at Neve. Why would anyone be out at this time? Not even dog walkers would come out in this! Just as she debated the common sense of the stranger, he withdrew something from his pocket. It glimmered as he retrieved it. All that could be seen in the dim street lights was a piece of wood. Long and thin. But as this man continued to pull, something shone light at Neve. An axe head bounced moonlight in the gloom, dripping in crimson. Blood. Just as Neve was weighing up the little choices left, he came striding at her. That was when Neve lost her manners and tried the front door. Fortunately, it was open. She barged in and bolted the door shut behind her, not sure whether to scream or cry. The man was approaching the driveway, swinging the hatchet and humming a chilling tune.

  “No, no, no....” Neve mumbled.

  Being reminded of her responsibility as the weight of the twins seemingly came from nowhere, she raced up stairs. To her surprise, both children began to laugh, enjoying the bouncy ride as Neve shot upstairs. If only they knew. There was little that could be seen in the house as darkness consumed it. Apart from the occasional window, shadows were everywhere. It was luckily the same layout as the Butterfield's. Neve squinted in the dimness and gently crept to the end of the hallway. Upon reaching the largest room upstairs, it had been used in the same way as the Butterfield's: a master bedroom. Chocolate furnishings and a cream wall, stylishly decorated. But what Neve was looking for was the en-suite. It was situated at the end of the room. No windows, and a heavy, thick door. Just like next door. In a house unfamiliar, she decided it was the best place to hide. Neve closed the bedroom door and locked it, then shot into the bathroom and performed the same action. A large lime bathroom that had a foulness lingering in the air. Then again, what did she expect? It was a bathroom. Neve crouched down slowly, bracing the children and praying to God that he couldn't get inside. Then came a knock. A loud clout hitting the front door. Speech followe
d, a muffled blur of a man's voice. Neve's embrace on the kids only tightened. Then sound seemed to stop. No more talking or banging. The rain was the only audible noise, along with the strong wind moaning into the night. But it didn't take long for a ruckus to disrupt the brief peace. The destruction of glass. He was breaking in.

  Neve exhaled deeply but silently, growing increasingly scared with every second that passed. Fortunately the twins were being quiet, and even better, they looked tired. With any luck they would fall asleep. Neve could only hope that noise didn't make them start to cry. But minutes had passed since the tinkling of glass on wooden beams and no other sound had surfaced from the gloom. With the house in pitch blackness it made the suspense and terror even worse. Anything could be lurking. Then Neve heard muttering. She assumed it was the mad man talking to himself or humming another song like a true psychopath. That was unsettling, but it was the subtle creak of the stairs that sent shivers down her spine. She pressed both hands against her mouth in an attempt to muffle any traces of breathing or total shock. Each hand was cold and shaky but seemed to block out any sound of breathing. The only downside to being hidden in a bathroom was the acoustics. Each and every sound was doubled, bouncing off the tiles and veneer. Then she noticed the groans of floorboards had stopped, which meant he had reached the top of the stairs.

  Fright was reaching its climax, as Neve was reaching her breaking point. She began to cry. Not tears of sorrow or joy, but tears of pure fear coursing through her veins at the unknown location of a killer. Then doorknobs rang out. He was searching each room, upturning furniture by the sounds of smashes and bangs. Each handle being twisted got louder. He must have started at the far end of the house and was working his way around. Slowly but surely getting closer to Neve and the twins. In the peril something shocked her. Terror was still present, but joining that was bravery and a selflessness. Bravery to fight this man who was intentionally intimidating her, and selflessness to protect the children at whatever cost. But as the door to the master bedroom opened, Neve doubted she'd be able to act so courageously.

  The noises of scrapes, scratches, squeaks and thuds echoed through the en-suite door. Luckily the twins hadn't heard these, and were now asleep. But that wouldn't last long if the ruckus was to get any louder. Then their hiding place would be discovered. But a niggling thought told Neve that this man was going to discover their sanctuary without the aid of screaming infants. There was only so much furniture that Neve could have hid behind, which meant only a limited number of hiding places to uncover before he moved onto the bathroom. Neve, acting instinctively and recklessly, grabbed a razor off the bathroom counter and stood. A quick survey of the bathroom proved that the only item that would make a half decent weapon was the man's razor. It was black and plastic, with rubber for friction. But the blade was long and sharp. If she could pluck the gall to use it, Neve may take down this assailant and survive. Yet the question still remained, was she tough enough to battle this man and save herself and her young charges? And within a second that question would need to be answered as the bathroom door began to open. Slight light slivered through the darkness. In the face of total undiluted horror she thought of something. This monster had an axe, why hadn't he used it? From what Neve heard it sounded as if he was using his bare hands to move furniture. But that question was soon flung from her mind when the door edged open even further, bringing dim light closer and closer to the corner in which she hiding. Neve's refuge would soon be given away. It was now or never. Tensing every muscle and gritting her jaw she jumped and waved the razor around. It whooshed through the air as Neve advanced on the madman. It didn't take long for the razor to make contact with flesh, blood began to splash everywhere. Even in the little light, Neve could see specks of red hitting walls, mirrors, and bathroom furniture. A wet grinding sound was made with each swipe. Until the resistance between each slash grew considerably, until it could go no deeper. Either bone had been hit or the razor had reached its limit, blunting prematurely. In the violent haze Neve paused and looked at the man holding his neck and gargling blood with wide eyes almost jumping from their sockets. It was those wide eyes that made something painfully clear to the young babysitter. That wasn't the hooded old man with the axe, that was the owner of the house. Neve had killed an innocent man.

  Neve was a combination of emotions. She was scared, sad, angry and helpless. Heat rushed to her face as the razor fell from her hand and thumped onto the carpet. The razor was drenched in blood, redness dripping from it and staining the cream carpet of the bedroom. Neve was about to burst into tears when someone barged into the bedroom screaming bloody murder. Neve was about to reach for the razor but saw the intruder wasn't the hooded axe man, but the lady of the house. She immediately noticed her husband's body sprawled on the floor and the multiple red slashes at his neck and face. Not to mention the fountain of blood still pouring from his throat. The woman fell to him and broke down, wailing into the night, wheezing and trembling, begging him to wake up, but deep down knowing he was dead. She kept repeating his name hoping to arouse consciousness, shaking the body frantically. But both Neve and the man's wife knew her efforts were pointless. He was gone.

  The mourning lady continued to blubber as the hooded man ran into the room and grabbed her hair. The woman instantly stopped crying and now looked mortified. Without skipping a beat the killer grabbed the razor from the carpet and slit the lady's throat in one swift, almost professional movement. Was he a hit man? Or assassin? Neve stood in shock, heart racing but mind blurring. Everything felt surreal and nightmarish. The blood stained upholstery and furniture, the deaths, and the innocent babies. OH MY GOD THE TWINS! And that was Neve's last thought before collapsing.

  ***

  Mr and Mrs Butterfield were waiting patiently outside the interrogation room while Neve sat being ploughed with questions. Mrs Butterfield stood in her expensive jewellery and stylish silk black dress. If it wasn't for her face, anyone would think she was happy. Mascara streaks and blush smeared everywhere. Mr Butterfield portrayed a similar contradicting appearance. A nice black blazer and shirt, with a pair of dark jeans. But his face was red and creased from tears and anguish, huge bags like small hammocks under each eye. Neve had caught a glimpse of them very briefly and wondered why they were attired in such dark apparel. They could see the detective beginning to stand and leave the interrogation room. So they quickly composed themselves, wiping tears, straightening hair and neatening clothing. As soon as the old man stepped into the hallway Mrs Butterfield couldn't remain patient for a second longer.

  “Okay so what happened? Why was Neve in our house? Why did she go to the neighbour’s house?”

  The detective coughed and offered a glass of water to each, but they politely declined. All they wanted was an explanation. So the ageing detective took the couple into an interview room and began to explain everything.

  “So I have spoke to other detectives and officers, as well as therapists and psychologists. We all think last weekend triggered a huge pang of guilt that caused this episode.”

  Both of their faces dropped at the reminder of last weekend and the mayhem that had occurred.

  “So last week Neve was babysitting your two twin babies and they were killed is that correct? I am sorry to be so blunt but I need you to confirm things before I go ahead with our analysis.”

  The woman could hardly contain her emotions, bordering on breaking into a fit of tears. So the husband replied. “Yes, she was babysitting and went upstairs to video chat with some guy from school. But in that time the twins left the play area and began climbing on furniture. Which was when...” the husband looked away and took a deep breath, fist trembling.

  The sympathetic detective, also being a parent, gently nudged Mr Butterfield on with his story without seeming heartless or inconsiderate.

  “A huge wardrobe in the living room fell on them both and ki......” the husband's throat became dry and papery, as his head fell and collapsed into his hands, hiding tea
rs from the interviewer.

  Which was when his wife took over. “Neve was found lying on the floor, completely unresponsive. The police told us she had gone completely catatonic due to a huge remorse at being responsible for their....deaths....by way of negligence,” Mrs Butterfield choked down more tears.

  “Okay. Well Neve's mind has blocked all of that out I am afraid, which isn't at all shocking given the guilt,” the detective informed while beads of sweat were surfacing on his shiny bald head.

  “What do you mean? Sorry, but what exactly happened tonight?” The husband burst in, frustrated, but tears still lining his face.

  “Okay. So Neve came to your house, broke in while you were out. I understand you were at the funeral today and then spent time with family?”

  The couple both nodded.

  “Well as far as we can tell, Neve's psychological being has developed very realistic illusions. She imagined you letting her in to babysit the children.”

  Both of them looked a mixture of confused and angry.

  “It wasn't long, from what neighbour's told us, until she left the house with a double carrier stuffed with winter clothes and blankets, as if the twins were in the carrier.”

  “Oh my god....” Mrs Butterfield gasped, mouth agape and lower lip shaking.

  “She broke into the neighbour's house, claiming an old man was after her from a video chat session she'd had while in your house. But according to neighbour's, they only saw the owners of the house enter shortly after Neve broke in. She was running from this assailant and trying to protect the imaginary children. In therapist terms, this was a way of dealing with the guilt in an extreme way. So she entered, hid in the master bedroom's en-suite with the empty carrier away from the hooded axe man.”

  “Hooded axe man?” Mrs Butterfield asked, curious.