New Scary Stories To Read Before Bed

The Mirror

The antique mirror couldn’t have been more perfect for the wall above her bedroom dresser. It took Janine six months of searching to find just the right one after her ex took the previous mirror out of spite. Prick, she thought, smiling. You lose.

That night, her Kindle on her lap, a glass of wine on the bedside table, Janine relaxed against her pillows, engrossed in her latest novel.  Her phone rang and she checked the number. It was her ex, Randy. Her eyes rolled and she disconnected, not in the mood for any more drama.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a shadow move in the mirror. The only light in the room was from a small lamp on her bedside table, and she got up and went to her new purchase. At first, everything seemed as it should, but soon an image formed of her ex-husband sitting on the bed holding a handgun and looking upset. She gasped and turned her head, but no one was there, and when she turned back, the image was gone.

As a person who took the paranormal seriously, Janine called her ex back, but there was no answer. Panicked, she dialed 911 and told the dispatcher she thought Randy might be suicidal. He was a prick, but they had history, and she didn’t want to see him do this.

Fifteen minutes passed and her phone rang.

“This is Officer Duncan, Miss Melano. We’ve located your ex-husband’s car.”

“Yes?”

“It’s parked in front of your house.”

 

Karla Should Have Known

As the paper’s editor, I was becoming concerned about one of my best reporters, Karla. We had history, even dated for a while until she called it off, complaining I was too vindictive. Whatever.

I had a paper to run, so I kept an eye on her and could see Karla growing more and more paranoid by the day, claiming that a mysterious person wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap was stalking her.

We went to lunch one afternoon and she continuously looked around the room, her eyes scanning faces, her own face muscles twitching nervously. I tried to get her to talk about who would be watching her (besides the NSA), and she said she wasn’t sure, but that it could have something to do with a story she did about a local religious cult last year. I tried to help, but other than suggesting she see a therapist, which I regretted immediately, I was pretty useless.

Karla’s mental state deteriorated further, and she was finally hospitalized and getting the care she desperately needed, or so I thought. Shortly after my most recent visit, the hospital called and said Karla had committed suicide by jumping from her fourth-floor window.

That evening, as I walked to my car in the lot, I pulled a pair of sunglasses and a baseball cap out of my briefcase and tossed them into a trashcan. Of all people, Karla should have known. Dumping me has its consequences.

Cozmo

Cleaning the disaster area that was her son Tim’s bedroom was never an enjoyable task. There were always piles of smelly clothes to go through, plates with moldy leftovers and empty energy drink cans everywhere. Jen was on her hands and knees checking under the bed when she discovered a Ouija board and planchette.

When Tim came home from school, she confronted him about it.

“What’s the big deal?” he asked. With a little more probing, Jen found out Tim and his friends communicated with a spirit named Cozmo. “He said to never tell anyone about him or…”

“Or what?”

“Or he’d come to the house and kill me.”

“It’s all rubbish, you know,” insisted Jen. “There’s a scientific reason why the pointer moves and it doesn’t have anything to do with ghosts or spirits. It’s called the ideomoter effect. You’re too old to be wasting your time on this nonsense.”

Despite Tim’s angry protests, Jen threw out the board.

In the early hours of the morning, Jen got up to use the bathroom and noticed a dim light escaping from Tim’s room. She opened the door and found her son sitting on the edge of his bed, eyes wide with terror.

“Honey, what’s wrong?”

Tim slowly raised his hand and pointed in her direction. Confused, she looked behind the door.

“Nothing there,” she said, suddenly inhaling the stench of decaying flesh as an arm wrapped around her throat and squeezed.

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.”