The Upgrade

“Weirdest thing,” said Al Donner as he handed his wife a coffee cup.

“What’s that?”

He sat across from Janine at the dining room table. “I was looking out the kitchen window just now and saw a car drive by that was exactly the same make, model and color as mine. And the guy driving…looked like me.”

“Oh lord, please don’t let there be another Al Donner in the world,” she said with a smile. “Just kidding.”

“Ha. Strange, that’s all.” He got up and kissed Janine on her forehead. “Late for work.”

At a stoplight on his way to the office, Al wondered if he had time to grab a latte at the coffee shop just across the street. His gaze came to a rest on the front door of Peet’s, and a man who looked alarmingly like him came walking out of the shop holding a to-go coffee cup. He was even wearing the same color shirt. Car horns from behind broke his trance and he shook his head in disbelief at the strange events of the morning. Did he actually have a doppelganger?

The oddities continued as he sat at his computer in his cube trying to log in. His password wasn’t working. Frustrated, he looked up and saw his boss Tom Rhodes walking toward him with an uncharacteristically serious expression. The man leaned over the cube wall and spoke quietly.

“Al, can I see you in my office?”

As Al took a chair, Tom sat on the edge of his desk.

“It’s time,” said Don, with an apologetic tone.

“Time?”

“Yeah.”

“Time for what?”

“Let’s not make this any more difficult than it has to be.”

“Don, I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. Are you firing me?”

“No….”

Al reacted as if he was hearing a foreign language. “Then what the hell are you talking about?”

“I’ve heard of this happening, but never…. Look, Al, just report to IT. Okay? They’ll explain everything.”

“IT? I don’t—“

“Al, please.”

“Fine,” said Al, standing. “Maybe someone there will tell me what the hell is going on.”

Confused and red-faced, Al l walked out of the office and headed in the direction of IT. A few moments later, he seemed to reappear in the doorway of the office.

“Mr. Rhodes? I’m Al Donner.”

Tom got up and extended his hand. “Call me Tom. Glad to have you on board, Al.”

Short Scary Stories: They Live!

Creative Inspiration

Sitting at my computer in need of inspiration, I glanced up at the skull sitting on my bookshelf between “The Best of of H.P. Lovecraft” and “An American Psycho.” I’d gotten it from old girlfriend who knew my penchant for the macabre, and as an aspiring writer it made me feel Poeish or Kingish or something. For me, writing horror required the appropriate setting.

At 2:00 a.m. banging on my apartment door woke me. A person shouted that it was the police and I’d better open the door or they’d break it down. Confused, I quickly unlocked it and let in three very grim police officers. They said they had a search warrant so all I could do was shrug my shoulders.

“Here’s one,” shouted a cop, taking the skull off its shelf and holding it up triumphantly.

“Bag it,” said another copy. He then told me to put my hands behind my back.

“Why are you here?” I asked.

“Shut up, you sick bastard. What’s that stench?”

“I don’t know what you’re—“

“Oh Christ,” shouted a cop from the bedroom. Then we heard retching noises.

“What’s in there?”

“Research,” I responded.

The Shed

The shed was old and weather beaten and leaned to one side. It sat at the furthest edge of the backyard, backed up to thick woods that designated the end of the Warren’s property. The only thing contemporary about the shack was the deadbolt lock meant to keep out everyone but the family patriarch Jack Warren, who guarded its contents as if it were precious religious artifacts.

Ten-year old Evan Warren new the rule about staying away from the shed, but being a kid, he was achingly curious about what his father was hiding. Mother never talked about it, and always changed the subject when the shed was mentioned.

Evan and his younger brother Jeb were playing catch in the backyard on a crisp fall day when Jeb missed a pass and the ball tumbled across the grass, coming to a stop near the shed door. When Evan went to retrieve the ball, he noticed that the door was ajar.

“Whoa,” said Evan as Jeb joined him. “Look.”

“Dad must have forgot to lock it.”

“Come on,” urged Evan. “Let’s check it out.”

“No way. Dad will skin us alive if we go in there.”

“Chicken. I’m going in.”

A frightened Jeb ran back to the house without looking back.

That night, Jeb came downstairs to dinner and saw three place settings instead four. His mother’s eyes were red as if she’d been crying. His father was carving a roast.

“Where’s Evan?” he asked.

“Don’t know anyone named Evan,” answered his father. “And neither do you.”

Four new short scary stories

If you like this genre, go to Reddit and check out the subReddit: Shortscarystories.

Hunting Season

My new running route seemed unusually quiet for a Saturday afternoon, in fact, I hadn’t passed or been passed by a soul. It was a cool, gusty fall day and dry leaves crunched underfoot as I entered a shady wooded stretch of the path.

It was hunting season so I wore a fluorescent orange cap, and although I felt self-conscious, it was better than being mistaken for prey. Between my clopping feet and heavy breathing, I thought I heard something out of context in the quiet woods, so I stopped for a moment to listen. At first, all I could make out was the distant tapping of a woodpecker and the rustling of leaves. Then, like a whisper, I heard a child crying.

The sound was coming from my right, from somewhere in the shadows, but it couldn’t be too far away. Was it a lost child?

I followed the sobbing voice into the hazy greyness of the forest, stopping every few yards to listen. The crying grew louder as a picked my way through branches and brush, and soon I broke out into a large meadow of tall grass and froze. In the middle of the meadow was a deer stand with a speaker attached to it. This was the source of the child’s cries. Then I saw a man dressed in camouflage looking in my direction. He slowly raised a rifle to his shoulder….


Katie’s Crisis

We’d only been in our new apartment two days when next-door neighbors Doug and Jeanie Myers arrived bearing a plate of goodies. I wanted to kill them right off, but my wife gave me the “no” signal. So we had coffee and stale cookies and listened to mind-numbing gossip.

After they’d left, I asked Katie about her reluctant attitude.

“I know they’re horrible, but I’m tired of moving every few months, changing my hair color, my name, all of it.”

“But killing assholes like them is what we do, honey.”

“I know, but we could do other things. I used be a waitress. I could do that again.”

I hugged my wife, the love of my life, but I had to admit I was starting to worry about her attitude.

Two months went by without a kill and I was a ball of raw nerves. I knew Katie was too. If she was subduing her passions, it didn’t mean I had to. I decided to go hunting by myself that night. I told Katie I was going out with friends and not to wait up.

I decided to work a neighborhood not far from our new apartment. Who knows? Maybe I’d catch the Myer’s out for an evening stroll. I walked around a corner and sensed a presence behind me, but before I could react, a knife blade punctured my back, then three more quick stabs. I twisted around and fell face up. The figure standing over me suddenly knelt by my side.

“Oh my god,” whispered Katie.

I smiled. “There’s my girl.”

Frank

Our father passed away a week ago and my younger brother Tim and I were sorting through things in his house to keep, sell or throw out. It was a difficult and emotional task, but it had to be done. He’d outlived our mother by five years, and without her sense of order, had collected a lot of junk.

I found a shoebox in the back of a closet that contained a pair of worn leather gloves, some pens, paperclips and a few old photos. The first two were of family vacations. The third photo was a mystery. It was taken at night looking down a street I didn’t recognize. Off to one side was a person leaning against a car. It looked like a man, but the light was behind him so he was all in shadows. I flipped over the print and in my dad’s handwriting was the name, “Frank.”

Who was Frank? And why keep a photo of someone that’s only a black silhouette? Tim wandered into the room.

“Recognize Frank?” I asked, handing the photo to my brother.

He studied the image for a moment and his face darkened. “Don’t you remember? I used to have nightmares about a guy named Frank when I was a kid. He’d…do things to me and I’d wake up screaming. This looks just like him.”

“Yeah, I do remember now. But how could Dad have a photograph…of a nightmare?”

The Monsters Are Out

The neighborhood streets were alive with roving clusters of zombies, vampires, ghouls and monsters this Halloween night. I was escorting my four kids, trying to keep up with them actually, as they rushed from house to house, gleefully filling their bags with candy.

As we trooped down a dark side street, the porch light of an older home burst on. The kids instantly zeroed in on their target and ran whooping and hollering toward the house. Huddled together under the light, they rang the doorbell. I turned away for a moment. When I turned back, the kids were gone.

I was frozen with astonishment. I’d taken my eyes off of them for literally two seconds and they disappeared. Then the porch light went dark.

I ran to the front door and pounded on it, then rang the doorbell a half-dozen times, but the house remained dark. The back door was locked. Now panicked, I yelled for the children and pounded my fist on the door. I checked around the house for open windows with no luck. This was a nightmare. I was about to hurl a rock through a window when I was suddenly enveloped in light. A policeman was walking across the lawn towards me holding a flashlight.

“Thank god you’re here,” I called out. “My kids are in this house and I can’t get anyone to answer the door.”

“I’m aware of that, Sir,” said the officer, pulling handcuffs out of his belt.

“What are those for?” I said impatiently. “The kids are in the house.”

“Yes Sir, and none of them know who you are.”

More Short Scary Stories

A New Home

I made the mistake of taking my four-year old daughter Carrie into an antique store with me. We were killing time waiting for my wife, and it was this or an ice cream parlor. Inside the air was musty and close, and an elderly man hunched over some small project behind the counter gave us an obligatory nod as we passed.

We strolled by the overpriced furniture, shelves of knickknacks, and bins of old vinyl records. There was a child’s squeal nearby and I realized Carrie wasn’t at my side anymore. Following the calls of, “Daddy, Daddy,” I found my little girl standing over a box of toys clutching a baby doll. It was the kind with a plastic head and limbs, but a stuffed cloth body, and it had clearly lived a rough life.

“Please, Daddy,” implored the child turned actress. “She’s lonely and she said she needs a new home.”

During the car ride back to our house, Carrie informed my wife and I the doll’s name was Madison and that she was really happy she’d found a place to live.

Several hours later dinner was ready and I went upstairs to get Carrie. I tapped on her door and opened it. “Hey, Carrie. Time to eat.” She sat with her back to me and remained like that. “Kiddo, dinner’s ready.” She didn’t budge. “Carrie, why aren’t you answering me?”

She slowly turned around. Her face was bloodless, eyes dark and vacant, and she wore a joyless smile. “My name is Madison.”

What’s wrong?

I’ve noticed something off about my husband since he got back from a recent business trip. It’s really hard to put my finger on what it is, but it’s not a good thing. My first thought was another woman, but my intuition tells me that’s not what we’re dealing with here. His entire personality seems to have darkened. He used to laugh a lot and get silly after a couple of glasses of wine, but now he spends his evenings staring blankly at the TV until it’s time to go to bed. I’ve tried to start conversations, to get him to talk about what’s bothering him, but he always seems to find some way to avoid engagement and me. He acts as if I’m not there.

He’s on another overnight business trip, and although under normal circumstances I would never do this, I’m in our bedroom snooping through drawers and his clothes looking for any clue that might explain his black mood. I’ve checked almost everything I can think of and I’m going through the last dresser drawer when my hand comes into contact with something that isn’t underwear. I pull a manila envelope out that’s blank on the outside. I undo the clasp, open it and a clipped newspaper section falls on the bed.

It’s my obituary.

Aquaphobia

George suffered from a lifelong fear of water, so getting him out on a pontoon on Shadow Lake was a serious accomplishment. This was his first real attempt to deal with his fear in many years. The group that day was made up of George and his cousin Mike, Mike’s girlfriend Connie and a college friend, Barry. Everyone understood George’s situation and went out of their way to be upbeat and positive. George sat in a middle seat staring up at the few cotton clouds in an otherwise blue afternoon sky.

“Hey, George,” Mike asked. “How you doing?”

The pale young man gave Mike a nervous smile. “Good. Doing okay.”

“Cool.” Mike stopped the pontoon in the middle of the lake. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have reached our destination,” he called out, running to the back of the pontoon and doing a cannonball into the murky green water. There were shouts and whoops as everyone but George jumped into the lake and thrashed about in the water. The sun was warm and George put his head back and closed his eyes. He caught himself before he toppled out of his chair, but he’d fallen asleep. The splashing had stopped. He got up and peered out on the calm lake cautiously. No one was in the water. He scanned the dark surface around him and then the shore, but saw no one. His heart racing, he shouted names, but there was no answer. Then he heard the hollow thud of something hitting the pontoon hard enough to make it rock, and his screams echoed across the lake.

Liars

My friends look at me as if I’m crazy, but I’m sure someone is following me. I named him Jack. I catch a glimpse of Jack’s shadow out of the corner of my eye, feel his presence behind me when I’m walking, sense that he’s sitting in the same restaurant that I’m in. I can’t even convince my therapist that Jack is real. She pretends to believe me, but I’m sure she doesn’t. And no, I don’t know why I’m being followed. Does the reason even matter? This is America in 2014. People are spying on you all the time whether you realize it or not. Maybe it was a letter to the editor I wrote. Maybe I said something to a friend on the phone. Maybe I smiled at him once and he got the wrong idea. I’m not a criminal or a terrorist. I am a nurse. Maybe that’s a crime these days. I didn’t want to, but I bought a gun a few years ago and I keep it with me wherever I go. It was a good investment because of all the Jack’s in the world. They watch you and wait for just the right moment when they think you’re at your weakest and most vulnerable. But I turned the tables on them a while back. Went on offense. Jack will die just like the others, swearing he doesn’t even know me. They’re liars. All of them.