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Four Hundred Sixteen. That’s all it takes to tell a story. A scary story. At least here. Every tale of horror and suspense in this book is exactly 416 words long (you can spend your time counting or reading, that’s up to you). Every story was written by a member of Authonomy.com.

Stephen King takes 1,200 pages to tell a story. We did it in just one page. Sometimes we did it better.

From Arachnoids to Zombies, “416” has it all. The first fifty stories were all submitted as part of my weekly Flash Fiction Friday contest. Always a treat for the readers, this particular FFF was an outstanding success. We got a lot of “new” writers as well as the old standbys. Many wrote outside their comfort zone and they did it well.

So, now we have a collection of horror worthy to be on the shelves of whatever bookstores are still in business (another horror story in itself). Unfortunately, timing is everything and my Ouija board tells me that there is not enough time to get “416” on the shelves. That shouldn’t stop you from putting it on Kindle, however.

416 words is less than one page. But you won’t believe what we can fit into that small space. I know I didn’t, and I still believe in Obama.

When I first asked myself to edit this book, I thought “who wants to read a bunch of stories that aren’t even written by me. But after reading the submissions, I can almost see the logic of it. Besides, there are three stories that are by me, so everyone wins.

Now, here we sit. You, me, and sixty-something tales, tailor made to be read on a cold October night. Short, intense and eerie. You can take them in small doses or plow through with one eye shut and one open. It’s up to you.

Don’t be shy with feedback and comments. After all, a zombie can live on brains but a writer needs attention if he or she wants to thrive and survive.

Finally, if you think it’s easy, feel free to give it a try. Send me a 416 word horror story before October 30, 2011, and I’ll add it to this lovely tome. Thank you to Authonomy and Rachel Authonomy for inspiring all of us to rise to this challenge. Mr. King and Koontz have set the bar. You tell us if we cleared it.

And yes, this introduction is exactly 416 words.

CHAPTER 2

The Moon

By Will Macmillan Jones

It started in a bar, as do so many things. A dim-lit cellar bar, where the smoky jazz played by the house band drifted like the haze rising from the myriad of cigarettes. He had been coming to the bar for a couple of weeks, but had not made acquaintances there, not yet. Twice now, he had seen her across the room, her flowing blonde hair shimmering whilst the beguiling music played and the deep-voiced girl with the microphone sang slowly of love and loss, heartache and regret, and - yes - occasionally of passion and joy.

Suddenly, as the music swirled sensually around, she was beside him at the bar. Their eyes met, and held in a long, long look before he turned away to order another drink. Disturbed, shaken by the casual intensity of her gaze, he trembled as she lightly placed her hand over his.

“You seem to be alone,” she murmured in a velvet voice. He nodded. “So am I, tonight,” she said softly, then kissed him and took his hand in hers. Looking into her eyes his drink lay forgotten on the bar, as she pulled, with such tempting pressure, on his arm. Responding, he moved closer to her, smelt the subtle perfumes, entranced. As they moved away from the bar the bartender swept away the drink with a wry smile.

“Where can we go?” he asked a quiver in his voice.

She answered with a smile that shivered his soul, and slowly licked her lips. Then turned, as he watched – but not for long – as she swayed out through a door marked ‘PRIVATE’. Without hesitation, he followed. Through the door lay a set of steps, leading downwards. A warm, dim glow lit the stairs, and reflected from her golden hair.

His breathing became short now and he hurried forward, filled with anticipation and desire. Yet, he did not anticipate the figures that appeared behind him, and seizing him in their strong hands threw him across the cellar floor and onto the low altar that lay in the center of the cellar. Other, hooded ones took him, and bound him spread-eagled on the stone. Gently, they took his clothes, and left him naked on the stone. Wildly, he looked around as the hooded figures began to sway and move around the altar as they chanted in a strange tongue. His bowels loosened as she approached, crowned now with ivy, raising the sacrificial knife above her head, filled with anticipation and desire.

CHAPTER 3

Eternity

By Lilian Kendrick

“All alone?”
“Yes.” I am always alone.
“Dance?”
“Why not?” I have nothing to lose, why not have a little fun?

We danced to the frenzied beat of rock music. The track ended and a ballad started. He pulled me towards him for the slow number. To have strong arms around me felt good. I rested my head on his shoulder. He whispered promises in my ear. We kissed and then... nothing. I remember nothing else.

My wrists are hurting so I’ve stopped struggling against the bonds. They aren’t going to give way. It’s dark. I mean, pitch black. I can’t see anything at all and I don’t know where I am or how I got here. I’ve wracked my brain and all I can come up with is the dancing and the kiss.

I’m naked and cold and it’s damp in here. Maybe it’s a basement, or something? The noises are the worst part. Not loud noises, but subtle ones. Scratching, squeaking – stuff like that. I thought there might be rats. God! Please don’t let it be rats!
I think I’m alone. I called out a few times, but it seemed to aggravate the squeakers and I didn’t get an answer, anyway.

I must have fallen asleep again. It’s quiet now. How long have I been here? I tried to stand up, but I haven’t any strength in my legs. All I can do is roll sideways, and I don’t want to move too far when I can’t see where I’m going.
I’m so thirsty. My throat feels all cracked-up and dry, and I need to pee like you wouldn’t believe.

Surely someone has to come soon. But why should they? There’s no-one to miss me; no-one to notice I’ve gone. I try to catch my tears on my tongue to relieve the thirst, but they’re rolling in the wrong direction because I’m lying on my side. The sobbing hurts my throat more, but I can’t stop it. I must regain control; think of something that made me happy.

So I think about the kiss that started it all. His lips were warm and gentle on mine. His tongue flicked across the roof of my mouth and I wanted to devour him. He promised me... I can’t remember the promise, it didn’t matter then. His hands slid down my back as we danced and I was lost in the sweetness of the new sensations.

He will come and release me soon.

He promised me eternity.

CHAPTER 4

Succubus Kiss

By Sharon Van Ormen

He lay upon the bed. His frail chest rising and falling rapidly. It seemed strange to me that a man who had been responsible for taking so many lives would soon lose his.

On his nightstand sat a book. Malleus Maleficarum. “The Hammer of the Witches.”

The light of the moon shone in through the window placed high on the wall. I crossed my legs; the buckle on my shoe caught that cold light and gave it back.

That I loved him was never the question. That he loved me was also never cause for doubt. That he had me tried for witchcraft and summarily executed was equally factual. That I died. Well, therein lay the crux of our story.

I rose from the old rocker that had seen a constant presence for the past several months. It amused me to think what their reaction would be to find me sitting there. “They would likely use it for kindling. Throw it into the hungry flames just as I had been,” I said aloud not caring who heard, if anyone should care to hear.

“Wake up, Heinrich,” I whispered against his lips. It was my gift, this kiss. I knew it would rouse his mind just as it had his body when life had coursed vigorously through his veins.

His eyelids fluttered and I smiled. They opened. The grey film that had obscured his vision for so long cleared. I smiled again. It wasn’t a genuine smile. More a demonstration that I had teeth. He flinched when he saw me. The real me. The me that lived in this body. The me that had lived in the body he had had killed. The me that mothered his children through that body. And the mother that mourned when he had those children killed.

“Meridiana,” he croaked, his voice unused to speech.

I smiled again. “Yes, my love.” I pushed the frail white hair back from his forehead watching it turn the fine chestnut color that his youth had known. “So much began with a kiss,” I said as my lips caressed his again. This kiss was long and slow. I relished the feeling of the magic as it encircled him. His breath evened out. His heart remembering the rhythm of long ago settled into it like a well worn coat.

“What have you made of me?” he asked his voice now strong and confident.

“Incubus,” I said, my laughter echoing in the small cell while he screamed.

Chapter 5

Window

By Diane Dickson

The view from that window was her greatest pleasure. The slope of the fields fell to a copse with just the merest glint of water in the distance.

On summer evenings the water would be kissed with gold and the grass in the field flowed and rippled before the wind. The winter showed an anthracite spot gleaming on the far horizon a pewter disc shuddering with slivers of white as the weather moved on the ocean.

Jane would stand often before the glass and gaze out, a cup of coffee cradled in her hand or perhaps a glass of wine. She left the window undressed, why would you cover this bliss with swathes of fabric gathering dust or plastic slats slicing across the vista. Some nights when the moon was full she would be drawn from her bed to stand shivering in her nightdress mesmerized by the swaying trees and the moon describing a pathway over the ocean to be lost out of sight behind the wood.

She had been restless all this night, unsettled and on edge. Making hot chocolate she had gone to bed early and struggled to lose herself in a book but sleep hadn’t found her and so now in the early hours she was standing before the window searching for peace. The woods were deep in shadow and the tiny thumbnail of a moon was having little effect on the darkness.

Down in the farthest corner of the meadow a wraith began to rise calling her attention. A mist, a miasma was writhing in the tiny air movements. Peering through the gloom she wondered what lighted the vapour, not the moon and surely not the stars but an inner glow seemingly self generated.

It moved, slowly at first and then with gathering speed up the field towards the house. A developing nugget of fear clutched at her insides. With increasing haste the vapour covered the ground, nearer and nearer until it was close to the other side of the little wooden fence. She leaned to the casement and as she did so the haze crossed the fence and streaming onward now flew over the garden and the patio. Seeping and bleeding through the tiny gaps around the frame it entered the room. She stepped backed in fear, tears starting to her eyes. The mist enfolded her, it took her breath compressing her lungs forcing the oxygen from her body and turning her lips blue and stopping the beating of her heart.

CHAPTER 6

Flies

By Me! (Adam Sifre)

He looked calm. Contemplative, really. With his head turned slightly toward the back wall, everything looked more or less normal. Peaceful. If it weren't for a single fly lazily crawling over his eye-lid, Janet suspected that no one would have thought anything was amiss. Not that there was anyone else here. That might work against her, but it was too late to change the plan now. She closed the door and went to wash up.

There was surprisingly little blood on her hands. Other than a few dark scratches on her forearms, she looked no worse for wear. Still, just to be safe she took a quick shower, paying special attention to her fingernails.

The whole thing had excited her immensely and she took a few extra, delicious minutes to pleasure herself in the shower. Thinking back, there was that first kiss, the night before their wedding, when she had taken him in her mouth on the kitchen floor, and tonight. Three heated moments, sexual diamonds scattered on a desert of neglect.

When she was done, she toweled off, put on a robe, and popped her head inside the room. He had company. Or rather, more company. Janet glanced at the windows, but they were both closed. Several flies now buzzed above his face, landing on open eyes, lips, and nostrils for a brief respite before taking off again. Frowning, she closed the door and went downstairs. She had intended to make herself a sandwich, but she couldn't seem to find her appetite. The dead husband didn’t offend her sensibilities. It was the flies, of course. Instead, she made her phone call.

“Hello, this is Mrs. Kane at 17 Winding Way,” she sobbed. “There’s been a terrible -- my husband!" In a choked, stage-shaky voice, she told the officer on the phone that she had been in the shower when she heard noises. Now her poor, sweet husband was dead, the front door was broken open and she was terrified someone else was still in the house. She was quite convincing. She hung up the phone and waited.

Everything was dead quiet, as it should be. God only knows why, but she felt compelled to pop her head in the room one last time and check on the body. As she opened the door she was greeted, and consumed, by the roar of buzzing.

When the police came, they found a broken door, and a dead silent house. No body. No victim.

Not even a fly.

CHAPTER 7

Stoned

By Diane Dickson

2024 You’d have thought by now they’d have a kinder way to do this thing. From what I’ve heard the rocks are thrown by guys specially trained to hurl hard and hurl fast. I did hear that it was considered some sort of mercy but I don’t know that word has any place in this thing. They do say that once it starts it’s not long before you’re out of it, I hope that’s true.

I can’t complain I know that, I knew this could happen. I knew the rules, we all do.

I don’t know when it’s going to happen but not very long now. They’ve just brought me back from the court room. I’m not sure it’s sunk in yet to be honest, I’m shaking a bit and feeling sick but that’s all. My main concern was not to let myself down in front of everyone, not to wet myself, have hysterics or whatever. I didn’t, I’m proud of the way I held myself together.

I almost lost it when I saw the children. I wouldn’t have had them there but it’s part of the whole deal. I think it’s like watching the …well you know the other thing, its’ supposed to teach them what will happen. They’re very small though and the baby was crying and holding out her arms. Yes I nearly lost it then.

Anyway I just feel kinda numb really, it doesn’t feel real. With the overcrowding and everything they don’t like to keep you around once you’ve been convicted so it won’t be long. I don't know the difference between what’s true and what they used to call “urban myth” back in the twentieth century. Anyway I guess all there is to do now is to wait and try to keep calm.

I think I hear them coming now and admit I’m pretty scared. With any choice I would never have done it but it was so long since I’d seen Mike and before the crack down we used to email all the time to the moon bases. I didn’t prebook space on the web and the rules are unbreakable. I couldn’t wait six months and that’s the normal queuing time now.

They’ve stopped outside the door, I wish this was back in the nineteen hundreds when they had electric for executions, I hope it’s true what they say and not just urban myth and that after that first hit you’re out of it. The door is opening.

CHAPTER 8

The Green-Eyed Monster

By Stephanie King

He never lied to me, not once. I was less honest with him. I never told him he was ripping my heart out. I was afraid he’d end it if he knew how I felt and I couldn’t let that happen. So we played at being ‘lovers’, without ever using THAT word.

Of course, I don’t know if he lied to her. Is not telling the whole truth the same as lying? Who knows? He didn’t want to hurt her, that’s for sure and he didn’t know he was hurting me. I could live with that for a while until I saw them together.

I had no right to be angry; no right at all. He’d told me about her from the start but seeing them window shopping, arm-in-arm on their way to the restaurant, I started to hate her. I’d never had dinner with him sitting opposite and gazing into my eyes. He’d never smiled at me that way. Our nights together consisted of a pizza and a bottle of wine at my flat after work followed by almost frantic fucking. Then he’d leave and I would wait until he needed or wanted me again. But, he didn’t ever pretend that it was anything serious, so he’s not to blame for what I did.

He hadn’t called for a week and I was lonely, so I took a walk into town. That’s when I saw them and the craziness started. I watched through the window of the restaurant as he paid the bill and helped her into her jacket. I ducked into a doorway as they left and kept out of sight as I followed them. They stopped outside the door leading to the flat above the butcher’s shop. It was her place, but he didn’t go in. They kissed and laughed a little and she went in alone. He stood and watched until the light came on upstairs and she waved from the window, then he turned away. I stayed where I was until he had turned the corner.

It was easy to persuade her to let me in, another woman in distress. It wasn’t difficult to strike her head with the bronze statuette and render her unconscious. Cutting her heart out was much harder, her kitchen knives weren’t all that sharp and if I hadn’t tied her up and stuffed a dishcloth in her mouth it would have been impossible. The bitch wanted to scream and struggle.

He’ll get over it. I’ll help.

CHAPTER 9

Eternal

By Rose Wall

Silence is the worst. Screaming shows that the adrenaline is still running, that your body is still prepared to fight, or flight, if it is capable.

Real horror is when the silence falls. When you know that there is nowhere to run, and there is no fight left in you. Adrenaline then fails you, and you are left helpless, facing the reality before you, unable to do anything but accept your fate.

I sat there, in complete silence, unable to do anything, watching the scene before me. My voice had deserted me during self preservation - screaming for help, screaming to stop, screaming that they be spared. None of it made any difference, they didn’t listen. If I’d been able to see their faces through the masks, I bet they’d have been laughing.

I’d been the first victim, or so they thought. Tied up, bound so tightly that the blood quickly oozed down my wrists. Then the cutting had started. Not stabbing, that would have been simple, and quick. This was slow and deliberate. Just deep enough to nick the veins so that I slowly bled to death while watching the show in front of me. The pool surrounding me on the floor gradually grew bigger as my life ebbed away. Finally they came to finish me off, but not before the real torture began.

One by one they danced, in the shadow of the flames that surrounded what had been my home. They wanted to show me, to torture me, to make me suffer as they thought I had made them suffer. That was my job, to discipline them, teach them, and empower them to discover truths for themselves; to teach them how to behave properly, and not like a newborn. What I had done bore no resemblance to this.

They took my companions, the books that I had clung to, my photographs, my life, defiling everything before casting them onto the flames. I watched, helpless, as everything and everyone was destroyed before my eyes.

They thought that they tortured me with this. Thinking that, other than the pain of my injuries, this was how to hurt me most. After all, to them I had no soul, no family, no feelings. All I had was my work.

Once the silence settled, I accepted my fate gladly. The torture for me had been life. The three hundred years I had been forced to live, devouring blood, hating myself for the lives I took. Death was peace.

CHAPTER 10

Immortal Beloved

By Sharon Van Orman

He stood at the window watching the bustling of the city below. The clop of the carriage horses, the buzzing of the voices of hundreds of people playing a deep harmony to the muttering of the river beyond.

Or at least that is what he presumed it sounded like. What he remembered it to sound like. With an inarticulate growl he threw the glass against the wall. Watching in satisfaction as the fine crystal shattered into a thousand pieces. A crimson drop stained his white shirt when a shard laid open a small cut on his cheek.

He cursed, his fingers going to the cut. His words lost to the quiet void of his world. It had not always been so.

A slight movement caught his attention. The lifting of the curtains on the breeze. But then the window was not open. Inexplicably, there she stood. The only door to the room was behind him, she had not entered there.

Her gown flowed behind her as she walked sheerest white. A few shades paler than her hair that seemed to have been kissed by the moon. Her eyes were dark as midnight.

His conversation books, where were they? He cast about looking for them. There on the piano he found one. Hastily he flipped past the pages that lamented his hearing loss. The pages that suggested it would be easier not to go on, and past the pages that detailed all the various ways to accomplish such a deed.

She took the stylus and wrote one word. Aoide. Her name. She took a step forward and ran her fingers through is wild tangle of hair and kissed him. As her cool lips touched his, he heard music. Layers of octaves, crescendoing notes that spoke to him, and made his fingers twitch.

He gasped, though silent to him, it was true music to her, and she smiled. He laughed, and stopped, unable to remember when the last time that had occurred. Deep into the night he wrote. He wrote until the music in his head, if not quite vanquished, was content to be still for a bit.

As he recorded the last note, he looked up. She was gone, as he knew she would be. She was not of this world. He had accepted that moment after he saw her. The admission of her name labeled her Muse. But no matter what history had called her, or would call her, she would always be his....... Immortal Beloved.

CHAPTER 11

Howl At The Moon

By Paul Freeman

They say the wolves howled nonstop at the moon the night he was born. Certainly his mother’s screams could be heard echoing around the mountain until the sun broke over those dark hills, it was a hard birth for her, her only one. As morning broke he was dragged screaming and bawling into the world, claiming his first life while he was at it. She held her new babe in her arms, gave him his first and last kiss and then she died.

His father buried her the next morning, with a tear in his eye and a curse in his heart. They were supposed to be a family, a unit, them against the world. He had dreamed of holding his newborn son in his arms with his woman by his side. But the mother was dead, killed giving birth to the son, the unexpected is always the hardest. The father was confused, should he love the babe or hate it, how could a husband not feel resentment towards the creature who had killed his wife?

Born into a world that took his mother as he entered it, left with a father who neither cared for nor loved him. Did he ever have a chance? Was there ever the remotest possibility he would be normal.

Who knows when it first happened, how it had happened even. Was it a bite from some demonic beast or a curse from a witch or warlock? What had triggered his lust for blood, his need to feed off the fear of his own kind. To absorb the spirit of his victim as he gorges on the flesh of man.

Only strangers and those touched by the sickness of the moon would be caught unawares and alone in the darkness of the night. To feel his hot breath upon your throat is to know terror and death. To hear his howl is to know how it would feel to have your bones turn to ice. Never look into his glowing yellow eyes or gaze upon his bloody maw. If you hear him come it is already too late.

The mountain folk know him well, they lock their doors and bar their windows on nights when the moon is a round silver disc in the sky. They can hear the wolves howling still, now he is with them. Leading the pack, hunting, waiting to catch the unwary. His prey is man, all men. No one is safe while the unholy beast roams.

CHAPTER 12

Proverbs 4 Verse 16 – “Wicked people cannot sleep unless they have done something wrong.”

By Quenntis Ashby

The numbers kept adding up to eleven. There they were. “2-2-1-2-2-2”. Five twos and a one. Avakka smiled nervously at his boss, Doctor Aliater. Avakka’s teeth were missing and something was wrong with his vision. He lisped when he spoke, sounding like the mop he kept pushing ahead of him after wetting it in the bucket he dragged behind him – four wobbly wheels squeaked in Micenese, “Silly-silly-weak-silly-silly-silly.” He counted the syllables like his poetry teacher taught him to. Always one too many. It was driving him insane.

“Ay Doc’,” his gums slapped in quiet greeting again. Only a grunt from behind the dimly-lit white of Doctor Aliater’s coat. He held up a marker and drew some lines on the soles of a baby’s wriggling feet.

“Must be ticklish as all hell. Poor baby!” thought Avakka to himself. He heard the baby gurgle and giggle before another blinding headache forced him to drop onto his sore knees again. He counted to eleven as he held onto the mop with both hands before pulling himself up again. “1-2, 1-2, 1, 1-2, 1-2 , 1-2”. He never gave up – something his dad taught him after he got back from serving in Afghanistan...

“Son, ya’ enemee keeps wantin’ ta keep puttin’ ya’ down. You gots ta keep gettin’ up, no matter wha’! You stay down, you gonna keep on dyin’! Up, soldier! Up.”

Avakka looked down the double row of hospital beds stretched out on both sides. His job was to keep mopping up the floor while the doctor worked on the patients. Everyone was asleep because the lights were on dim – twilight grays lit his every step. He listened to the baby girl giggle some more before she started crying in earnest. Doctor Aliater was cutting deep and carefully along the lines he’d previously drawn with a marker. Blood was spurting out of her mutilated feet as he peeled the flaps of skin off both tiny leg bones. Half a liter of blood quickly made a puddle. It wasn’t much, but it was everything.

“Whadda fukya’ doin’ Doc’?” he mumbled as another headache hit. This time he blacked out.

The dead bodies on the gurneys lay still, covered in blue lines and recently missing large sections of flesh peeled right down to the bone. Doctor Aliater chewed thoughtfully on another fresh morsel. Avakka had two narrow steel tubes conveniently protruding upwards from his skull. Aliater took another small sip before pushing the tubes in slightly deeper.

“Thank you, brother.”

CHAPTER 13

Baby Monitor

By Gretchen Steen

“I’m late, everybody doing OK tonight?” as the old building’s heavy door slammed.

“Old” Harry, our security guard, sat chuckling maliciously behind his desk. “Crazy” Grace, clapping, whistling, and skipping up the hall, was grinning like a Cheshire cat. “Chicken” Joyce, bow-legged and limping, carefully climbed the basement stairs and yelled, “Wash is in…”

Desks were dusted, carpets vacuumed and bathrooms stocked, scrubbed and disinfected. All that was left…fresh bathroom towels for the “prissy” executives, they had their ‘own’. What made them think they were too good for the employees’ facilities and TOO GOOD for paper towels?

Lifting the wet towels from the washer, Joyce filled the oversized dryer. Stepping back, she peered into the dark rooms of the old basement. She heard something, sounded like breathing. Quickly throwing in softener sheets, she slammed the door, turned on the timer and pressed the start button. Her heart beat faster. She limped around the corner and looked back. The breathing was louder…closer…

Finished upstairs, Amy walked to the main staircase and down to the first floor open lobby. “Grace is in the kitchen…” Harry said, sitting cross-legged, tapping his nightstick against his shoe.

Passing the basement door, she could faintly hear the dryer running. Amy waited, and watched as Joyce scuffled to the stairs, nervously looked around again, grabbed the railing and, step by step, meticulously returned.

“How much longer…”

She was well behind the regular schedule. “Another hour…my legs are really bad tonight, sorry,” she replied, with a phony smile. “Would you mind getting them when they’re done?”

“You know the schedule…tonight’s your night, sorry!” You only clean the president’s office and do the laundry ONCE a week…lazy ass!

An hour passed, limping out of the office, she made her way slowly to the basement.

Harry wasn’t at his desk…apparently on his nightly rounds. Grace, coming up the hall from the kitchen, dragging a full garbage bag, called out, “Towels done yet?”

“She’s doing them now.”

Harry was on the steps outside the building and Grace stopped at the basement door. She gave him a wink and laughed uncontrollably.

As she folded, the breathing began again…heavy and forceful. “Joyce…JOYCE…GET OUT…I’m coming for YOU!!”

Grace flipped the basement lights off, back on and waited.

Joyce ran up the stairs, two at a time, white as a sheet, eyes saucer wide. “This place IS HAUNTED!” Pushing Grace aside, she bolted passed Harry and out the door.

Laughing wildly, we all came to the same conclusion…her legs were FINE!!

CHAPTER 14

The Runaway Elevator

By Eve Menteuse

“I have strange dreams about angels taking me to Heaven,” said Sister Agnes. “Anyone else had a strange dream?”

There was a long silence. I don’t like silence much, so I spoke.
“I had a dream last night that scared me.”

“Tell us about it, my dear.” All eyes were upon me and I couldn’t really back out.

“Well,” I began. “In this dream, I got into a lift in a very tall building. I was all alone and very scared because I suffer from claustrophobia. Well, it’s not really claustrophobia as such. I don’t mind being confined in small spaces, as long as I’m not alone, but in the dream, I was alone and I had to go to the top floor.”

“That must have been frightening!” Sister Rose was on the edge of her seat.

“Anyway, on the second floor, the doors opened and this man got in.”

“Which man?”

“I didn’t know him, Sister, but he was very nice. Anyway, now there were two of us. I wasn’t scared anymore. At least, I wasn’t scared until I realized the lift wasn’t behaving as it should. The doors weren’t opening even though it was stopping at every floor. When it reached the top floor, it went all the way to the bottom again without stopping, and still the doors wouldn’t open. I started to cry.”

Sister Agnes and Sister Rose were beside themselves at this point.
“Oh, you poor thing, so what did you do?”

“As the lift started to ascend again, my hero put his arms around me and said I shouldn’t be afraid, that he would look after me.”

“Oh that’s nice.”

“So, I said thanks and as we stopped at the second floor and the doors didn’t open, he gave me a kiss for courage.”

“Did that work?”

“Well, it did something, Sister Agnes. So we decided that every time the lift stopped without the doors opening, we would encourage each other a little more.”

“How long were you trapped?”

“Three hours. We kept starting at the bottom and going all the way up, then going down again, encouraging each other all the time.”

A cough in the background alerted me to the fact that Mother Superior had entered the room.

“Young lady!” she barked. “I have heard enough of your stories. Going up and down, top to bottom in a lift alone with a man! That is surely sinful on so many levels, I can’t begin to think about it.”

CHAPTER 15

Ripley’s Headache

By Raymond Terry

Mild mannered Ripley Bernard fidgeted in the actors’ lounge, while waiting for the writer Frank Weller. Ripley wasn't nervous so much as undecided after reading through today's script. Of course an actor had little in the way of choices when it came to scripts, stand here, move there, say this, make a gesture. Ripley couldn't even fart unless it was on cue. No, Ripley Bernard was a puppet at the writer's whim, nothing more, and an actor could never even snatch a peek behind the curtain of what was coming next. Depressing, that was it, and so unlike his character Dalton Drake, the bold, wild, undiminished, don't take any shit hero. And then there were the headaches. Pounding headaches, like the one he was experiencing just thinking of what Dalton would do in this situation. A door opened.

"Come in Ripley. Was there something?"

Ripley, still conflicted, said, "Yes, Frank, there was, is, actually."

"Spill it, man. I've a rewrite deadline, and you're due on set."

"Yes…Dalton is in scene two. Look, Frank…word on the set is you're killing off Katherine."

"Word huh? Well, Ripley that's closely held, but since we're shooting today, there's no harm in telling you. Katherine is history. She'll simply disappear down that deep well on the back lot like a drowned rat."

"But Frank…Dalton is invested in Katherine…emotionally. I mean…."

"Don't worry about Dalton, Ripley. He's a survivor and besides, this is all under control. I'll write him some other bitch interest for next season. He'll cope. He always does. I'll write that too."

"Cope? It's not that simple. Dalton loves Katherine. This will destroy him."

"What's with you Ripley. Katherine is a problem. It's that simple and the producer has ruled. She's out, or at least Meagan Crowder is, the demanding bitch. Now get back to the set. The director will be shouting. Go."

"You can't do this, Frank…"

"Can't? I already have. That's the rewrite I'm working on, Ripley. All I need now is to determine the suffering I want her to endure before drowning."

The headache swelled. This was monstrous. Sweet delicate Katherine shouldn't suffer. She couldn't. The headache said so as Ripley turned to leave but it was Dalton Drake who closed the door.

It was Dalton Drake who plunged a knife into Frank Weller and it was Dalton Drake who burned the damning rewrite before returning to the set where his lovely Katherine waited. Ripley Bernard was a pussy. Dalton Drake didn't need him any more

CHAPTER 16

The Pursued

By WiSpY

Trip stared at the woods as though they ought to explain themselves for the last sound they had emitted.

He silently cursed himself for not bringing a flashlight, but he knew this damn track as well as he knew to an inch the exact place to set the gunstock to his shoulder when he hunted game; something he’d done time without number growing up in this northern Michigan bush. He’d dearly like to have his Winchester with him right now. There was something deeply not right about that sound.

Trip felt like he might do himself an injury as he strained to catch the slightest murmur that would confirm his notions that something unusual was nearby. A chill went up his spine as he realized that it was what he didn’t hear that was the problem. The towering forest was as deathly quiet as a charnel house. Nocturnal beasts usually filled the night with their hunting; that silence just wasn’t proper.

The sudden sharp snapping of a branch to his left nearly froze his heart, as it tried to disgorge itself from his throat. He forced himself to take stock of his situation.

The full moon was bright enough for him to discern a long row of dark cedars that separated him from whatever moved in the deeper woods.

Without properly realizing it, Trip found himself running; a headlong dash along that dark hedge, his reason and woodcraft abandoned to the primal instinct that movement meant survival. Equally intuitive was his assurance that something large was easily keeping pace on the opposite side of the hedge.

His terrified gaze traveled down to the more sparsely limbed trunks of the cedars and he instantly wished he had kept his sights higher. In the gloom he could make out the twin legs of his pursuer. Silver haired and lupine they looked, the large feet were feral, the toes tipped with vicious claws. His terrified mind registered vaguely that they were running sideways as the thing kept stride with his unchecked sprint towards … towards what?

He realized that he had no idea where he was going. Leaking adrenaline, his brain grappled with the understanding that safety lay not deeper into the wood. With Herculean effort he altered his flight from this cedar brake and veered from the tree line, the cacophony of rending timber joining the nightmare shape cast in vivid moon shadow on the ground in front of him as the last sensations he would ever know.

CHAPTER 17

Death Always Collects

By Jeremy Rodden

Death Always Collects

It is my turn to die next. I don’t want to die, but when one makes a deal with Death, He always comes to collect. Death doesn’t care if the deal was with a couple of scared housecats trying desperately to save their owner’s life; He has a quota to maintain. The Church will tell you that animals don’t have souls. Death disagrees.

# # #

It began when my owner became depressed and decided a few bottles of pills would solve all his problems. That night, Death came for him. We saw Death standing over our master’s body, preparing to retrieve his essence for his collection. Popular culture says that animals can sense evil, such as dogs barking at ghosts.

We cats can sense ghosts as well, but we aren’t as noisy are our canine cousins. Death is no ghost, however. Nor is he particularly evil. We found Death to be unwaveringly neutral. He was there to collect a spirit–nothing more, nothing less. Death waits for no man or beast, so we had to think quickly.

“Take us, instead,” I offered.

Skye shot me a sideways glance. She was never particularly fond of our male owner like I was. At the same time, she sensed my desperation. We were middle aged. Our owner was barely more than an adult. He had one kitten–I mean, kid–to look after and his mate was expecting another.

“Yes,” Skye assented. “Two instead of one, Death.”

Death turned his cloaked head and saw us: two small Siamese cats. We stared right back into his beady red eyes. He nodded and responded, “Agreed. Soon.” His voice was a raspy whisper. My tail twitched and puffed at the sound of it. Death left our owner barely breathing but alive. It worked. We’d saved him from death.

We spent the next year on edge, not knowing when Death would return for us. He returned on the one-year anniversary of our owner’s suicide attempt. Skye and I braced for his icy touch but, inexplicably, he only took Skye. The owners cried as they buried her in the backyard, seemingly unaware of how close our male human had been to being in Skye’s place.

# # #

It is fast approaching the second anniversary of our inverse Faustian deal. I know that Death will be here for me very soon. I await him like any other cat would: calm and stoic. I hope my owner makes our sacrifice for his life worthwhile. It is my turn to die next.

CHAPTER 18

The Chair

By TRM

Look! There he goes.

Down the aisles bursting with bric-a-brac, towards the so-called antiques huddling in embarrassment in the shadows at the back of the shop.

Look at him! A proper dandy, this one. Dressed to the nines, a touch of bling ... and that fake tan. Sorry mate, that’s an epic fail. Who ever told you you’d look good with that on?

Uh – oh, he’s seen it. Yes! He’s spotted our crowning glory tucked away in the dustiest corner. Bargain hunter, eh? Think yourself a specialist? Well, you’ve scooped the jackpot here, my friend.

Sure, you can sit on it. Go on! No-one’s looking, except us of course. So inviting, isn’t it?

Proper antique Gainsborough, that armchair. The deep buttoned leather’s a little cracked here and there. A little threadbare on the underside, maybe. Well, we’ll see about all that won’t we, now? But it’s an original, that one.

Well!

Almost.

Yes, it’s comfortable isn’t it? There! A moment’s shut-eye, like all the others before. Why not?

Watch carefully, now. You’ve never seen the like, I’m sure.

He’s trying to get up. But he can’t. He’s stuck to the leather. His arms and legs have become leaden, strangely drained of all their strength. He strains and struggles now, but can barely raise a squeak. His eyes are sealed shut, and his lips seem glued together too.

He’ll feel sucked into the chair by now, heaved in like a strand of linguini into a glutton’s fleshy lips. And stretched and stretched. Already his face distends and widens, the features vanishing. His skin is heaved over a growing portion of the backrest with a cracking of bone and sinew.

You won’t see this from here, but the springs have punctured his back and the undersides of his thighs, worming their way in, splitting and hooking into flesh to stretch and stretch even more, heaving all his vital organs inwards, within their bouncy structure. The suit is ripped off his contorted body, sucked away with a machine’s voracity to add to the stuffing, revealing how his chest and belly have been pulled out, stretched and stretched to the very sides of the chair.

Now the buttons burst through the front of the distended skin and then heave back in with appalling strength.

There you go! Freshly upholstered with a nice new sheen, a nice burnish to the leather. All smooth and blemish-free, if a little orange for my taste. How about that?

Can’t wait for the next one!

CHAPTER 19

The Dawn Of A New Day For Ima Spatz

By S.C. Thompson

As the sun rose over the valley below, Ima Spatz felt GOOD. Better than she ever had as far back as her pitiful batch of memories would go. Truth was, Ima had never, ever felt . . . good. About anything. All she had ever felt was shame, and fear, and . . . hate. As far back as her pitiful batch of memories would go.

But now . . . now she felt SO GOOD. So RIGHTEOUS. Sometimes good does come from bad things.

And sometimes . . . BAD THINGS must follow from good, Ima thought.

Yes, one shouldn’t shy away from business that needs to be done. Needs to be done like bad teeth need to be pulled. And sometimes, there just aren’t any pain-killers to be found. Doesn’t mean the tooth shouldn’t be pulled, though. Oh, no. Gotta pull that sucker regardless of the pain. Pull it right out. And if the roots don’t come with it, then you gotta dig for those, too.

Newfound power flooded through her like some alchemical elixir.

Looking forward to the dawning day with an ecstatic glee almost impossible to control, Ima felt like she had butterflies in her stomach, but she knew it was the beetles she had been swallowing whole – so as not to kill them - all through the long night.

Relaxing her throat, she let a few crawl up into her mouth, just to be sure she would be able to regurgitate them when needed. Giggling at the staccato stampede of their many tiny feet racing up her windpipe, she sipped a bit of water, swallowing hard.

“Not yet, little darlings, not yet.”

Short, fat, and displeasing to the eyes, Ima Spatz was unwanted at birth, unloved in childhood, kicked and tripped and had food hurled at her in middle school, ignored and ridiculed all her adult life. A life she hated as she hated the beautiful people.
But now, after hitting her head in that fall down the stairs, things were different.
Yes, she would have her revenge. She was going to pull quite a few rotten teeth.

As the sun rose over the town below her, she raised her arms as she opened her mouth, letting the beetles escape. The huge flock of blackbirds she had called descended upon her, snapping up the treats she produced, then lifted her off the ground, and flew with her grasped gently in their talons toward the town that would never forget her name.

CHAPTER 20

416

By EM Delaney

It’s 4:16 P.M. I’ve but four minutes to live. At 4:20 the state of Georgia is going to execute me by lethal injection and I don’t know why. I’m not guilty of the heinous crimes by which they accuse me.

“It’s time, Emmett.” I recognize the voice as it has echoed through my holding cell many times over the last twenty-four hours. If I hear it again I’m going to go simply mad. I cannot think of a more cruel end to a life than waiting to be killed in a supposedly humane fashion.

I’m told the cocktail burns from the inside out. For months now it seems I’ve been taunted by the hollering of the other death row inmates on ‘C’ Block about it. Their voices are echoing in my head even now as I look at the clock in the corridor that reads 4:17. As I wriggle to free myself from the two bulky guards that are pulling me toward the death chamber I lose myself in the irony of thinking, ‘Where the hell would I go if I were to break free?’

I continue to struggle as they drag me in a door and there it is…the gurney! Another clock on the wall. 4:18 is what it reads. Why must there be so many clocks? My throat is so dry I can’t breathe but in two minutes I’ll be dead. ‘Oh God…why wait!” I scream as I’m thrust around the make-shift bed where I’ll sleep for the last time.

The doctor is a lady. She turns as I am being strapped onto the gurney. I see her eyes…they are cold and have no life in them. Her hair is silver, I guess her age at fifty or so.

“Please don’t kill me,” I beg. “Please…I don’t even know what I did.”

She ignores my pleas, pointing the end of a large needle up in the air and studying it as if it makes some difference.

One of the guards knocks me back as I try to rise up, then I notice the people outside of the window; my family, my son and his wife. There are others but I don’t recognize them.

A voice comes over the intercom in the small room. “It’s four-twenty, Doctor.”

I’m about to die. What will that feel like? Will I simply cease to exist…how bad will it hurt…”ouch!” She has stuck me with the needle.

“Honey…”

I bolt from bed.

CHAPTER 21

Diamonds

By Sammy HK Smith

Sparkling, coveted, beautiful and always, always a girl’s best friend. She sighed longingly and placed her forehead against the glass of the display as the pendant glinted back at her.

“It’s beautiful isn’t it?” the amused voice behind her remarked. She snapped her head around and a merry grin on the face of the manager greeted her. Hesitantly, she nodded.
“There’s a way you can wear it you know.”

She furrowed her brow in confusion and then raised her eyebrow questioningly.

“I’m asking the prettiest of girls to model my pieces upstairs for the new catalogue,” her face must have betrayed her concern, for he added. “It really is exquisite, it will only take a few moments.”

Glancing around the shop she could see several assistants frosting women in diamonds and jewels. They fawned and cooed over the potential customers, exclaiming in delight at the cut, the quality and clarity of the jewels. That unwanted emotion wormed into her core. Envy.

Against her better judgment she nodded and followed him up the narrow staircase to the office. Dust and dirt assaulted her nose and she sneezed several times hearing the manager chuckle as she did. The large room was cluttered and filthy – but a tray of jewels drew her attention away from the dirt. She sighed and ignored the mutterings and banging from behind her, drawn to the twinkling she stepped forward and touched the stones.

Cold and hard but so very beautiful.

Mesmorised she didn’t see the thin needle in his hand, but she felt it, a sharp stinging followed by a rush of warmth and then, nothing but darkness.

Pain lanced through her body as the rope that bound her dug into her wrists and ankles. Twisting furiously she tried to free herself but with each movement the rope bit her flesh angrily. She tried to cry out, but the grimy rag in her mouth prevented any noise from escaping. Sobbing and wailing she cried, tears streaming down her face and soaking her gag.

“You are awake, excellent.” The merry manager replied, his rapacious face looming above her. “This will be exquisite.”

He moved a hand from behind his back, the blade visible. She screamed again, ignoring the pain of her binding and furiously thrashing on the wooden floor. Her incoherent begging all that could be heard.

He raked the blade across her body, scraping at the skin.

“Diamonds are never a girl’s best friend.” He breathed lustily as he licked away her tears.

CHAPTER 22

It Ended With A Bang

By Michelle Basson

I wake up.
There’s a man’s arm on top of me.
My clothes are scattered around the room and on the bedpost, my panties.

My 21st birthday bash yesterday must have been epic. I can’t remember much. There were drinks and loud, hypnotic music. I remember Liddy giving me something in the bathroom. I looked good too. Wearing Liddy’s skimpy clothes and new underwear, boys who normally wouldn’t pay me any attention were dancing with me; our bodies swaying to the pounding beat.

I move his arm from my chest.

‘Hey, baby.’

Fuck. No. Please, no.

I grab my clothes and run to the bathroom, locking myself in. I turn on the water and climb in; no time for waiting for it to turn warmer. I hear his voice again, not from the bedroom, but from inside my head.

‘I’m so proud of you, baby,’ he’d said at my graduation earlier this year. ‘Your mom would’ve been so happy.’ His hand slid down my back, too low, but that was my dad did.
My dad. My father. My own flesh and blood. Touching my ass at my graduation.

I see a shower brush, the kind for exfoliating your back but instead I start scrubbing my chest. I scrub and scrub until my skin’s close to bleeding. My thighs are next, I want to rid myself of any trace of him.

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