The terror never ends: Two more short scary stories

The Affair

Jeremy knew his wife Gail was having an affair. The only information he’d discovered about the man she was seeing was his last name, Chamberlain, and he didn’t really care to know anything else about him. The marriage was over and he and Gail were merely going through the motions.

Clues started to appear that Gail’s relationship was turning sour. Her face betrayed bruises and she was making and taking frantic calls at all hours. Jeremy kept his distance from the drama in her life, feeling that whatever problems she was having she brought on herself.

Then Gail disappeared. Jeremy came home from his office to find the house empty, which wasn’t unusual, but when Gail didn’t return for two days, he started to become concerned. She hadn’t packed any clothes for a trip. No note or text. Another 24 hours and he’d call the police.

The following morning, Jeremy was driving to work when the flashing lights of a police cruiser burst on behind him. Agitated, he pulled over and lowered the window for a burly, grim officer.

 “Morning. I pulled you over because I noticed your trunk had popped open.”

“Really?”

“Come back and take a look, sir.”

Jeremy got out and followed the cop to the rear of the car where the trunk was indeed open and to his shock, inside was the bloody, lifeless body of Gail in a fetal position. Cuffed and dazed, Jeremy leaned against the cruiser as the cop called it in.

“This is Officer Chamberlain, requesting back up and an ambulance.”

The Call

The floor was buzzing like an angry hive. It was mid-afternoon on Monday, the busiest day of the week, and 40 callers were chattering into their headsets trying to convince bored housewives that a three-day spa experience at their local Healthy World Retreat would change their lives.

I was one of those voices, following our tired script, trying to sell people something they didn’t need and couldn’t afford. Unfortunately for me, a master’s degree in biology was useless here, or anywhere else for that matter, and I struggled daily with my anger over having to work at a totally useless job just to survive. 

Tiredly, I dialed a number. A woman answered.

“Hello?”

“Hi, this is Dan from Healthy World Retreats calling, how are you today?” 

“You don’t sound very well, Dan.”

“Good. I understand your time is valuable so I’ll make this brief.”

“You know you deserve better.”

“Life is stressful, but we can help.”

“I hear the anger behind your words. Who can blame you?”

“Let’s talk about—“

“What a miserable nightmare your life is?”

“I’m just doing what I need to do.”

“You don’t have to pretend for me. You’re mad as hell. You’ve been screwed.”

“I know, but—“

“Did you bring it? I think it’s time to finally be a man and make someone pay.”

“Yes, Mother,” I said, reaching deep into my briefcase. “You’re right as usual.”

Still more short scary stories

The Nightmare

Jennifer hated working late. The office was old, the neighborhood sketchy and the underground parking lot was dark and creepy. The presentation, however, was tomorrow morning and it still needed work. The clock on her computer read 10:15.

It was 12: 30 when she lifted her head up off of her arm. It took her a moment to fight through the fog, but it finally registered that she’d slept over two hours at her desk. The overhead lights were off and the white glow from her cube was the only illumination in the large open floor. She rushed to finish the presentation and then gathered up her coat, phone and keys.

Not only were the lights off on her floor, the hallway to the elevators was lit only by emergency lights. It was a shadowy, tense walk down the hallway. She pressed the down button repeatedly and angrily with no response. A light at the opposite end of the hallway went out, then another. Methodically, each emergency light went dark, until Jennifer was standing in complete blackness.

Knees trembling, she extended an arm and moved slowly until she touched a wall and then put her back against the surface. A door shut somewhere. Footsteps? How could anyone walk around in the pitch black? The clicks grew louder.

“Hello?” said Jennifer, her voice quivering.

The footsteps stopped.

“Hello?”

Warm breath touched her ear. A person was close enough to breath on her. “Wake up, Jennifer.”

It was 12: 30 when she lifted her head up off of her arm…

Flight 74

The older gentleman next to me in the window seat was staring out at the white carpet of clouds below the plane when he spoke.

“I forgot my pills.”

“Excuse me?” I asked.

He turned toward me. His eyes were red as if he’d been crying, his face ashen. “I forgot my pills.”

“Sorry,” I said, not knowing how else to respond. “We’ll be landing in about a half-hour.”

“I won’t last that long without my pills.”

“Do you have a heart condition? Should I get a flight attendant?”

The man turned back to the window. “No. I’m afraid that won’t help,” he said, with a sense of resignation.

***

“Repeat. This is UA flight 74 requesting permission for an emergency landing. Over.”

“What is the nature of your emergency?”

“There’s something happening in the main cabin. Flight attendants are not responding. We can hear screams….”

“Flight 74, you have permission to land…Flight 74, do you read? Flight 74….?

The Tattoo

Head throbbing, stomach churning, I pulled myself up slowly to a sitting position in bed. I hadn’t had a hangover this bad in ages. I remembered meeting my friends Todd and Kip downtown for a drink, but after moving to a second bar, everything goes dark. I hooked up with someone…think her name is Carla. After a minute, she came out of the bathroom, not looking much better than I felt.

“How are you?” I asked.

“I feel like shit,” she declared, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Thank god for cabs. Last thing I remember is the tattoo parlor…”

I tilted my head. “What? Tattoo parlor?”

Carla frowned and pointed. On the back of my hand was a brand new tattoo, the skin around its edges still red and irritated. It was some kind of symbol, like a rune or something. “I tried to talk you out of it.”

“What the fuck? I don’t remember anything. What is it?”

“There was this creepy old lady sitting at the bar and she overheard us talking about tattoos. She drew that on a napkin and gave it to you. Said it was an ancient symbol of protection. Next thing I remember is being in a tattoo place where you got that done.”

I looked at the symbol again. “Protection? Wonder if it works.”

Carla’s head snapped toward me. Her eyes widened and darkened. Her lips curled back to expose teeth like an angry dog. Suddenly, it wasn’t the face of a woman, but of a creature.

“You’re still alive, aren’t you?”

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.