Five Flashy Tales of Terror: Part II

Halloween is almost here. I wrote five more flashy tales of terror. But, before you read them, for your own safety, heed the following …

  • Don’t go into the cornfield.
  • If the dinner party host is serving fava beans with a nice Chianti, don’t eat the main course.
  • Never gaze into the snowy noise on an old analog TV.
  • Don’t answer the doll if it says, “Hi, I’m (insert name here, i.e. Chucky). Wanna play?”
  • Never spend the night at a strange castle in the hills of Transylvania.
  • Beware of walking the moors of England at night on a full moon.
  • No! It’s still not safe to go back in the water.

If you would like to read the first five tales, you can find them at Five Flashy Tales of Terror.

Crescent Moon

The Invasion

With swift vengeance, it invaded the water supply. Reproduced with enthusiasm, as the population drank from the tap. It had found its legion of hosts.


The false prophet promised salvation. They drank his poisonous lies without question. He delivered them to damnation.


Her body rose from the tousled bed, appendages limp. Wicked utterances spewed from her shriveled lips, “Damn, these cursed Monday mornings are hellish!”


He wept over his mother’s coffin, gave her cheek a final kiss. “I’ll always be with you,” she whispered in his ear.

A Harrowing After-Life

The mummy awoke, hot and sweaty. Confused, he opened the sarcophagus lid and moaned, “Me angry! Minions use cheap polyester wrap instead of breathable linen.”

Special bonus flashy tale … (because I had an extra one)

Your Love Knows No Boundaries

You love her infectious laugh. Her delicate snore. The curves of her naked body. Tonight you will meet for the first time.


Five Flashy Tales of Terror

Don’t look under the bed. Lock the door to the cellar. Did you hear that noise? I think I saw something out there. I swear the butcher knife was right there a second ago. The call is coming from inside the house! It’s alive!

It’s a month-long October terrorfest over here. Enjoy these five flashy tales of terror in honor of Halloween and for those of you with a lack of literary focus. All stories are 25 words or less.

The Kiss

The passionate kiss made her tingle. Their first date lasted until dawn. He left her drained.


Buried alive in the suffocating darkness, he frantically clawed at the coffin lid. Something clawed back.

You are Served

She stirred the cauldron of boiling goulash; removed the fingernails and eyeballs. Yesterday’s dinner guests were hearty. Tonight’s unsuspecting guests ate with gusto.

Rest in Peace

The raven perched atop the tombstone, cawed at the full moon. A disembodied voice replied, “Quiet! You’ll wake the dead.”


She painted his pain in pulsating scarlet and decaying rust. Fingers caressed canvas. Created perfect strokes. She discarded his other parts.

A Day to Remember: A VisDare Short Story

It was a romantic and dangerous place. It reeked of prestige and privilege. “The Gherkin,” a building shaped like a glass pickle; the name always made her smile.

The groom and his four groomsmen were drawn to it, pulled to the 41st floor by a great force. They gathered each year on October 31st, to remember her, to forget her, but mostly to lessen their guilt. The fifth anniversary of their wedding day. The fifth anniversary of her death.

They are forever connected by the bride’s memory. They had all loved her once, but she had chosen only one. They fought for her affections. She tried to stop them. They outnumbered her. The consequences were tragic.

As they admired the infinite cityscape, the groom whispered, “I wish I could tell her I’m sorry.”

“You can, my darling,” she answered. “You all can. I’ve come back to collect your penance.”

Another VisDare story based on the photo provided by Angela over at Anonymous Legacy. I’m back to creepy, but his one is a subtle creepy. The photo is of 30 St. Mary Axe, “The Gherkin,” in London’s financial district. If you want to join the VisDare challenge, click on the badge:

Anonymous Legacy

Trifecta Week Ninety-Eight: The Collection

Spider WebIt is my once a year kill night. My one night to unshackle the surplus of depravity that dwells inside my skin. My one night to add to my collection of catches. I hide my craving under the guise of a push-up bra and plunging neckline that effectively captivates the ogling eyes of every man in the hotel bar. I sit on a corner barstool, the perfect vantage point for man watching.

The men are drawn to me like bees to nectar. Pathetic. Desperate. Arrogant. None of them will satiate my hunger.

“What can I get you,” the bartender asks.

I swivel around to look at him. Desire prickles my skin. My heart palpitates. He is the prey I hunt for, the catch of the year.

“A zombie, please,” I say, a little breathless.

His smile is charming, full lips and flawless teeth. His skin is a lovely, creamy brown. And his eyes, those eyes are dark with a sparkle of mischief. I am in love.

“Tommy,” I say, reading his nametag, “I believe in being direct.” I lean forward to give him a healthy dose of cleavage, and he is instantly a captive in my web.

“What do you have in mind?” he asks, placing my zombie cocktail on the bar.

I take a long, slow drink and reply, “When does your shift end?”

“Right now,” he says and motions toward the other bartender. They covertly whisper and give me that knowing look. I smile innocently and slide off the barstool.

As we exit out the back door, he says, “I hate to use a cliché, but, your place or mine?”

I slip my arm through his and pull him close. “My place,” I reply, and gently plunge the needle into his arm. He collapses against the car, awake but paralyzed. I push him into the backseat and whisper, “I have a spectacular taxidermy collection I want to show you. I’m an enthusiastic hunter, and I love to keep trophies.”

This October creepiness was written for Trifecta Week Ninety-Eight . The challenge this week was to concoct a tale using the third definition of the word:

ZOMBIE – 3:  a mixed drink made of several kinds of rum, liqueur, and fruit juice

Sorry, living dead lovers, no zombies here other than the fruity, tropical kind you drink. If you would like to join the challenge or read the other stories and poems, click on the badge:


The Troubled One

Troubled One“Shhh! They’ll hear you. We’re going to get in trouble again,” whispered Claire as she flicked off the flashlight. Darkness surrounded them.

“Sorry,” replied Desi. Her eyes seemed to twinkle even in the dark. She was always so animated.

“We have to be quiet. Mommy and Daddy are already mad at us. We’ll be toast if they catch us talking,” said Claire. “They’ll split us up. That’d make me sad.”

“Me too. It’s a good thing you covered for me last time. We should do something about them,” Desi said.

Claire was confused. Desi always said and did strange things that didn’t make much sense to her. Like last week when she convinced Claire that the lemony smelling liquid under the kitchen sink was lemonade. Their mom caught her just as she was about to take a sip. They were both in trouble, but Claire took the brunt of the punishment for that one.

Claire asked, “What do you mean, ‘do something about them?’”

“You know. Get rid of them. So they can’t bother us again.”

Hesitantly, Claire asked, “You mean kill them?”

“Of course, silly. What else would I mean? We need to get them out of the way.”

Desi had a mean streak in her. Sometimes, while Claire slept, she would take all their toys and throw them in the trash. She said it was because they interfered with their time together. Once, she even stuffed Barbie into the toilet and flushed her. The water gushed all over the floor and leaked through the ceiling below. They both were grounded, stuck in their room every day after school for two weeks.

“We can’t kill them. I thought you loved them?”

“Sure I do, but I love you more. I just want to make sure we always stay together. Sisters forever.”

Claire thought about Desi’s idea. She pushed the wool blanket off their heads and stared into the dimly lit room.

Footsteps in the hall made them both freeze. The faint strip of light under the closed door darkened as a shadow appeared. Someone stopped outside the room. They waited.

A woman’s muffled voice said, “Get to sleep in there. I won’t ask again.” The shadow disappeared.

Desi spoke first, “See. They’re sneaky. You know I’m right. They’ll never let us be.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Claire said. Her thoughts reeled. She was torn. She thought about what it might be like without parents. They could have such fun together. No one to boss them around. No more chores. And, best of all, no more school or homework. Desi usually knew best. She was the smart one.

“Desi, I have to think about it. I can’t decide now, okay? I’m sleepy.”

“Sure. You think about it, but you know I’m always right.”

Claire flopped onto the pillow, exhausted. She reached out, pulled Desi to her chest and whispered into her brown, synthetic hair, “Mommy told me that dolls can’t really talk, but we know the truth. You are always right, Desi.”

She put her hand on Desi’s smooth plastic face and closed her shiny, glass eyes. The long, stiff lashes tickled Claire’s palm. Their childlike giggles eventually gave way to dainty snores.

The Payment: A Short Story

Crouching behind a scrawny shrub, you hold your breath and wish it away. Maybe if you avert your eyes, it will be fooled by your pathetic attempt to hide. Sweat trickles down your sides and the small of your back, feigning a ghostly touch. You shiver.

Seventy years ago, you were warned of the eventual sacrifice, but your ego decided for you. Time sailed by at an unfathomable pace, and now you’re running from an evil that is demanding repayment in the form of flesh. It has found you.

In a whoosh, it descends; a black-winged beast. You feel the flutter, a gentle graze on your cheek, and your transformation begins. Your flawless, once adored, youth drifts away as effortlessly as sand in a whirlwind. Your skin wilts. Wrinkles, as deep as fissures, ravage your body. You disintegrate into the earth. The ultimate payment received for prideful services rendered.

This has been another Visual Dare story, Visdare 39: Adore. Originally, this photo inspired me to write something sweet and happy based on the woman’s lovely face and the light in her eyes. But my dark side emerged once again. I just can’t help myself. If you want to read the other takes on the prompt, click on the Anonymous Legacy badge below.

Anonymous Legacy