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.