A Threesome of Short Scary Stories

The Date

The date with Clare had not gone well. James had the cab drop him off several blocks from the apartment so he could clear his head and shake off the bitter disappointment of another dating disaster. It started fine, they always do, with wine and small talk, he did most of the talking, but then, to keep the conversation going, he opened up about his life and some of the problems he’d struggled with and things went downhill from there. His date left the restaurant sobbing into a tissue.

He envied the couples he passed on the sidewalk, holding hands, smiling at each other, enjoying the warmth of another person. Why couldn’t he have that too? Why was that so much to ask? It was a chilly night and James pulled his coat tighter around him. He jogged up a few cement stairs, met a man coming out of the building, and walked in.

He shouldn’t have told her so much about himself. He needed to learn to keep his big mouth shut. Standing in the dimly lit entryway, he pulled a plastic card out of his jacket pocket and held it up to the light. It was Clare’s driver’s license.

Apartment 212. He sighed. This wasn’t going to be the kind of relationship he’d dreamt about, but it was better than nothing.

Neighbors

In my 15 years as a detective, I’d never responded to a homicide in this neighborhood of millionaires. Now I was in the master bedroom of one of their homes, looking down on two bodies lying in pools of blood. Identified as Sarah and Paul Constantine, she had no record but he had been arrested for several DUIs and assaults.

A neighbor was sitting on her porch watching her son, who looked to be nine or ten, play basketball in the driveway. I walked around a small hedge and introduced myself.

“Excuse me. I’m Detective Hamilton from the Minneapolis PD.”

She pointed to the police cruisers parked in front of the Constantine’s house. “What happened?”

I lowered my voice so the boy couldn’t hear. “The couple next door were murdered last night. Did you see or hear anything?”

“Murdered? Oh my God, that’s horrible. No. I was sleeping. Are we safe?”

“We’ll keep a heavy police presence in the area. Did you know them well?”

“We rarely spoke. They were not very friendly people. Didn’t really fit in here, if you know what I mean. My son was actually frightened of them, though he never told me why.”

“Here’s my card. If you think of anything, please call me. Thank you.”

As I walked back across the driveway, the boy made eye contact with me, smiled and ran a thumb across his throat from ear to ear.

The Spirit Box

There were three sharp raps on his dorm room door, but before Jason could get up and answer it, Flip Sherman sauntered in and set a white box on Jason’s desk. It was about the size of a paving brick and resembled a radio.

“It’s a spirit box,” announced Flip.

Jason’s expression turned quizzical. “A spirit box? You don’t mean the “talk to the dead” kind of spirit box, do you?”

“I do. I’m starting my own ghost hunting crew. Wanna join?”

Retaking his seat, Jason shook his head. “Ghost hunters? No thanks, man. I’m a science major for a reason. I only deal in facts and reality.”

Undaunted, Flip picked up the box and turned it on. Annoying static filled the room.

“Flip, come on...”

“Is there anyone here with us? Please tell us your name.” The static continued until the whispery word “Charon” broke through the white noise. “Sounded like ‘Karan’ to me.”

“But it’s a dude.”

The voice was louder this time. “Charon.” Once again, it barked, “CHARON.”

Standing in the hallway, Glenn knocked impatiently on the door, then called out. “Jason? You in there?”

He pushed open the door and entered the room. It was empty, but static escaped from from the spirit box sitting on the desk. Glenn walked over and picked it up.

“Glenn,” came a warbly, frightened voice just above the hissing noise. “Help us.”