Three New Spooky Bedtime Stories

Winter’s Coming

A moonless night made maneuvering the gravel road more challenging than he’d remembered. Jack had been driving for three hours, heading north to the family cabin near the Minnesota Boundary Waters, only there was no family this time. Not this trip. In the span of two weeks, he’d been fired, gotten his second DUI and was being blackmailed by his mistress. He needed some serious alone time.

The cabin suddenly loomed up in the white car lights. It was as dark and lifeless as he was feeling. We make a perfect couple. Inside, he snapped on lights and then poured a half-glass of scotch.  It’s only me, the mosquitoes and Johnnie Walker, he thought, lowering his body into a living room chair. His eyelids fell shut. Only moments later, there was a knock on the cabin door.

“Who is it?” he called out.

A raspy, older man’s voice responded. “Hope we’re not disturbing you. We’re the O’Malley’s from down the road. Saw your lights on and brought a pie.”

They brought a pie? Great. I can’t just tell them to fuck off. Getting a grasp on his emotions, Jack opened the door. The smiling couple standing under the porch light looked like everybody’s grandma and grandpa, wrinkled, rosy and wearing stretchy pastel clothes. The woman held out the pie with her gnarly, arthritic hands.

“It’s mincemeat,” she said in a high, wispy song.

“I’m Henry,” said the man. “And this is Eva.”

Jack took the dessert. “Thank you so much. That’s very kind of you. I was just…“ Henry and Eva stood expectantly. “Uh, please, come in.”

“Thank you,” responded Henry. “We’ll only stay a minute.”

Jack quickly made a pot of coffee, cut up and served the pie.  “It’s funny,” he said. “My family and I have been coming up here for years and we’ve never met before.”

“That’s because we don’t spend much time around here in the summer,” noted Henry. “We have a motorhome.”

“We just got back from Montana,” chirped Eva.

“Time to prepare for winter,” added Henry. “It’s long and cold up here. Where’s the family?”

“Back in Minneapolis. Just needed a little time to myself.”

“Too bad.”

“What?” Jack blinked. The room was turning fuzzy. How much scotch did I drink, he wondered?

“Do you like the pie?” asked Eva. “It’s an old family recipe.”

Jack was about to answer, but his tongue had gone numb. Eva smiled at him, but the warm grandmotherly expression had turned to a sardonic grin. He dropped his plate and squinted through a swirling haze as Henry picked up the knife used to cut the pie and licked the blade.

“Why?” Jack managed to whisper.

“I told you,” Henry hissed. “Winter’s coming. It’s time to stock the larder.” 

Family Traditions

Cleaning out his father’s small house was a painful but necessary task. The funeral had been yesterday, so Kirk Foster had a couple of days to get everything moved before the house went up for sale. A lot of things were going directly into the trash, but there were photos and other mementos that had meaning and made his eyes glisten.

Working through the closet in his father’s bedroom, Kirk found a shoebox at the back of a shelf. Hoping his old man might have hid away some cash for a rainy day, Kirk sat on the bed and lifted the lid. It looked like the kitchen junk drawer and he let out a disappointed sigh. A few old matchbooks from local bars, a small pad with names and addresses, some rusty keys, but beneath a layer of worthless crap was an actual treasure.

Kirk held up the legendary straight razor that had been passed down to the men in his family from his great grandfather. His father had told him about it, and said it would one day be his.  He opened it and the clean, polished steel blade was as sharp as the day it was made. It felt good in his hand, as if it had been shaped specifically for him.

There was a knock at the door. Kirk inched open the blinds and saw it was the realtor. His heart ticked up a notch. He closed the razor and slipped it into his pants pocket. Some family traditions are worth preserving, he thought.

It Happened in the ER

There was a brief moment of quiet in the ER and Dr. Sean Stanley slipped out into a hallway and dialed his wife Beth’s number. They’d had another argument about moving last night and he wanted to apologize. She didn’t like the location, the neighborhood, the neighbors…just about everything. They had only been there two years and he argued that they had to give it more of a chance, but Beth was a determined woman. Kicked to voicemail for the second time that evening, he guessed that she was still angry.

A nurse called him back to the ER. A patient with multiple stab wounds was being wheeled in by the paramedics. The ER team lifted the bloodied middle-aged man from the gurney to the operating table, and Sean quickly prepped as the man’s clothes were cut away, exposing the punctures. A nurse held up a driver’s license.

“Name is Donald Colvin,” she announced.

Sean turned to her. “Donald Colvin? I know a Donald Colvin.”

“Lives on Piedmont Street.”

Looking more closely at the bloodied face, he recognized his neighbor. “He lives next door to me. I’ll be damned.”

A nurse was preparing the wounds for sutures when she noticed the patient was holding something. She gently opened his fist and held up a silver necklace with a small yin and yang symbol. Dr. Stanley looked up from the body and his eyes widened. He took the necklace from the nurse and held it in his gloved hand.

“Doctor, he’s regaining consciousness.”

Leaning down until his mouth was next to Colvin’s ear, he whispered. “Where did you get this?”

Colvin managed a weak grimace. “She put up a good fight, Sean. She was a tough bitch.”

“Doctor,” called a nurse. “Doctor, is everything okay?”

“No,” said Sean, rising slowly. “How could we miss this puncture wound of the carotid artery?”

A terrifying trio of new short scary stories

The Shadow

A friend just sent Janice one of those “there-was-no-one-else-in-the-room” photos. It was a shot looking into the living room of her apartment and in a corner of the room was a blurry, shadowy person-like thing. There are no facial features, just darkness in the shape of a human. Cass said she was freaked out and asked Janice to come over, which she did.

The two women had lost contact for about a year, so it was a good opportunity to catch up on her life, thought Janice, but she was shocked when Cass answered the door. Her old friend was pale and gaunt and looked like she hadn’t slept in days. They each had a glass of wine and Janice droned on with gossip and ranted about the men that had come and gone in her life. She finally realized she was literally doing all the talking.

“What’s going on with you, Cass? Are you okay?” A chill suddenly gripped her body.

“I’m so sorry, Janice.”

“Sorry? For what?” The light coming in from windows behind her was being blocked out.

“It makes me do this.”

The room was growing dark as if an eclipse was underway. “Do what?”

“Lure its prey.”

Janice’s panicked scream was quickly muffled as the smoky shadow enveloped her and began feeding.

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 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.

The Promise

The man in the coffin at the end of the room was my husband Edmond Copper. Not a successful or lucky man, he’d owned several small businesses during his lifetime that failed for one reason or another. He also endured two marriages far longer than he needed to because he was never very good at reading the signs of a relationship in trouble. I was his second wife, and toward the end we were only going through the motions.

Edmond committed suicide a few days ago.

I came home from work one evening and found him on the bedroom floor, blood pooled around his thin, pale face. He’d been in a state of deep depression for months, and while I was horrified by the scene, I wasn’t completely surprised.

After the funeral I returned to my empty, lifeless house and poured a glass of wine. Trying to relax on the couch, my eyes landed on a photo of the two of us taken on our vacation to Hawaii several years ago. I don’t know why, but I recalled we promised each other that whoever died first would contact the other one. Those were the kinds of conversations we had after several Mai Tais. Tired, my energy spent, I climbed the stairs and went to my bedroom, only to pull up short as I neared the bed.

Lying on the comforter were two objects; a photo of my lover Paul, and Edmond’s .38 Smith & Wesson.

New Spooky Shorts

Hands

The doctor pulled the stethoscope ear tips out and hung the device around his neck. He sat down on a nearby stool.

“Mr. Weatherby, all of your tests have come back negative and my examination shows nothing abnormal.”

Adam knew what was coming. “I’m not crazy, Doctor.”

           

“I’m sorry, but there is no physical reason for why you occasionally lose control of your hands. A psychologist can help—“

           

“I don’t need therapy. I need answers. They seem to have a life all their own. I can’t hold a job. I’m under investigation for assault. I almost killed my neighbor. This can’t go on. I’ll try anything at this point.”

           

After two weeks on a new medication, Adam saw no progress and grew increasingly depressed.

           

He was convinced that despite what the doctors said, it was not a psychological problem. That night, a frustrated and angry Adam sat in a chair drinking bourbon. Drunk and feeling hopeless, he stumbled to the garage and started the table saw, then slowly lowered his wrists toward the screaming blade.

Detective Armstrong entered the garage where several uniformed officers stood over the blood-soaked body.

           

“So what do we got?” he asked, taking in the gory scene.

           

“This is a weird one, Detective.”

           

“How so?”

           

“Take a look at the body. He apparently chopped off his hands with the table saw and bled to death.”

           

Armstrong knelt down. “And?”

           

“And we can’t find his hands anywhere.”

I’m Coming For You

My older brother Paul loves to scare me. He thinks it’s hysterical to crouch in a closet and jump out or hide under the bed and grab my ankle. I always yell (okay, scream) and it never fails to crack up Paul.

I told Alex, my best friend at school about it. Alex is super smart and into inventing things. He said he’d build something that would scare the crap out of Paul.

A week later I was in Alex’s bedroom and he showed me a black box about the size of a Rubik’s Cube with a camera lens on it.

 “Okay, Debra. Behold. If I place it just the right distance from the wall and turn it on, you see this.”

Projected on the wall was a life-size, holographic image of a zombie-like creature looking as if it is walking forward. There was also a creepy voice loop, “I’m coming for you, Paul.” I was blown away.

“Wasn’t that complicated,” said Alex. “Put it in your brother’s room when he’s asleep and the lights are off and flip this switch.”

That night I did exactly what Alex said, and waited. Ten minutes went by and I heard nothing. I sneaked down the hallway to Paul’s room. The 3D monster was doing its thing on the wall. My brother was in bed, eyes wide open, but he wasn’t moving.

“Paul,” I whispered. “Paul?”

I tried to wake him up, but he didn’t move and felt cold. My eyes widened in horror. I’d killed my brother. Then the zombie spoke.

“I’m coming for you, Debra.”

 Who Are You?

My husband went to work that morning, but someone else came home in the evening.  It looked and sounded exactly like Scott, down to the smallest detail, but somehow I could tell it wasn’t him. I was in the bathroom trying to decide what to do. He was in bed reading. How could I act calm and in control sleeping next to a stranger? What was it about him that made me feel that way?

“Kendra?” he called. “You coming to bed?”

Maybe I could trick him into exposing himself as an imposter. Sitting in bed, I flipped through a magazine trying to look relaxed.

“So how was the lunch I packed for you today?” I asked.

“Good. Bread was a little stale. Should pick up a new loaf tomorrow.”

Okay, he got that one right. “I thought I’d do seafood tomorrow night and cook some mussels.”

He lowered his glasses on his nose and looked over at me. “Are you okay? You know I’m allergic to shellfish.”

“Sorry. I’m a dummy.”

“Besides, I thought we were going to have dinner at your sister’s tomorrow night.”

“Oh, right, right. I completely forgot.”

Scott set his book on his lap and turned to me. “My wife Kendra doesn’t have a sister. Who the hell are you?”

Fresh from my twisted mind: 3 new short scary stories

Poor Choices

Jacob Coleman had spent the two months since his mother’s passing renovating the childhood home he’d inherited. It was a decrepit older house badly in need of a face-lift that would help him forget about a tough childhood of desperate poverty.

While removing strips of ancient, yellowed wallpaper from what used to be the bedroom he shared with his brother, Jacob noticed a slightly raised portion on the freshly peeled wall surface. It resembled the outline of a door.

Making a hole just large enough to see in, he discovered that there was in fact a door on the other side. He broke away the drywall, took a deep breath and pulled the knob. Light penetrated the dust-laden darkness until it revealed what Jacob first mistook for a large doll, but looking closer, discovered it was the dried, leathery skin of a dead child.

The sight and smell of the body hit Jacob like a stomach punch, and he staggered backwards until he reached a far wall. Preparing to bolt for the doorway, his body was instantly paralyzed when he heard scratching and shuffling noises coming from the now open tomb.

A faint shadow emerged, followed by the small, translucent boy, his eyes dark and vacant, wearing an expression of eternal sadness.

Jacob managed a whisper. “Brett?”

The boy looked up. “Yes.”

“Mama told me you ran away.”

“They could only afford to feed one of us.”

The Old Country

Jenny’s grandmother came to America from a place she couldn’t even pronounce in Eastern Europe. The elderly woman had lived in a rural area and was very poor most of her life, so she mended clothes and cooked with herbs she picked herself and made every meal from scratch. “It’s how we do it in the Old Country,” she would say. Despite being a kind and cheerful person, Jenny was always a little uncomfortable when her mom wasn’t there and it was just the two of them.

Jenny came home from school one day and her grandmother said that Jenny’s mother had tripped on the stairs and broken her ankle, and she would have to stay with Grandma for awhile. The girl wasn’t crazy about the idea, but had no choice.

Grandma lived in a small house and Jenny had to sleep on a couch in the den. Later that night, Jenny was awakened by noises coming from somewhere in the dark house. She got up to investigate and found that the grinding noise was coming from the basement. She opened the door and called out.

“Down here, sweetheart. Don’t be afraid.”

Jenny cautiously came down the steps. It smelled awful and she pinched her nose. At the bottom of the stairs she turned to her right and saw her Grandma grinding meat and packing sausages. On a bloody table lay the pale, naked body of a man minus a leg. Jenny was too terrified to scream.

Smiling, Grandma kept grinding. “It’s how we do it in the Old Country.”

The Big Bad Wolf

Three stools down from me at the Missoula Café, Fred Knudson was sipping coffee and staring blankly at the wall on the other side of the counter. I only took notice of it because his hands were shaking pretty badly, and I’d never seen him like that before.

“I know it’s none of my business, but you okay, Fred?” I asked.

He turned toward me, and I could see he was pale and his eyes were bloodshot.

“No sir, I’m not okay. Last night, something tried to break into my house.”

“Something? What, a deer or bear?”

“That’s what’s got me riled up, Quentin, because what I seen on the porch wasn’t a four legged creature. It stood on two legs, but…”

“But what?”

“Now don’t you laugh, but this thing had bright red eyes and looked like a man-sized wolf. And no, I wasn’t drinking.”

Twenty minutes later, I pulled into Fred’s driveway just behind him. He showed me where the thing had been and sure enough, there were large paw prints in the snow on his porch.

“Even though I had my rifle with me, I called 911. I think the lights from the police cruiser scared it off.”

“What do you imagine this thing wanted?” I asked.

“Hell, I don’t know.”

“Didn’t I hear you shot a wolf a few days ago?”

“Yeah. It killed two of my sheep. I got a right to protect what’s mine.”

“True,” I said through growing fangs. “And I have a right to protect what’s mine.”