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.”