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?”

Boo! Two new short scary stories

The Audition

The room was a large, open, unfinished loft. In the middle of the space, a nervous Kyle Evers sat in a folding chair holding a script. Several feet away, movie director Eve Tolbertson sat behind a picnic table, a script lying on it in front of her.

“Thanks for coming down, Kyle. I know actors hate cold readings, but it is what it is.”

“Oh, no problem.”

“Great. Okay, let me set up the scene. Your character Jerry is your age and height. He’s a bartender at a club downtown and…. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, it’s just that I’m a bartender downtown.”

“Okay. So Jerry’s goal is to be an actor, but it’s been tough and he’s only found work as an extra. Then an audition for a film pops up that he’s very excited about.”

“Look, I’m really sorry to interrupt, but you’re describing my life…exactly my life. How can that be?”

Eve took off her glasses and set them on the script. “I hope not, because Jerry finds out that his girlfriend Anna is cheating on him and he stabs her to death with a butcher knife.”

“Shut the fuck up. My girlfriend’s name is…” His phone rang and he checked the caller ID. “I’m really sorry but I have to take this.” He put the phone to his ear. “Jean, what is it?”

“Oh my god, Kyle. Something horrible has happened to Anna…”

I Remember

I remember everything about that night. There was a squeaky gate in the picket fence surrounding the house. I remember there was no moon that night, just like tonight, and the air was chilly and damp. We went to the back door and into the kitchen and there was a chemical, hospital-like smell that enveloped us.

The door to the basement was just off of the kitchen, and the stairs going down were old and noisy.  I remember being laid on a cold hard table and the sounds of metal things clinking together. The light over me was bright and I couldn’t look at it very long.  Something was wheeled up next to me. Then his piggish, sweaty face suddenly hovered over mine, and his eyes were wide with excitement and he grinned at the moment I felt the pressure of the blade on my arm.  Then, all I remember was searing pain and screaming. Waves of pain and screaming.

As I make my way quietly down the hallway, a grandfather clock chimes three times, and I remember hearing that sound from the basement as my energy dissipated and death overtook me.

Now in his bedroom, I watch as he snores and his fat body rises and falls to the grating noise. Tonight, I’m going to help him remember me.

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.”

2 New Short Scary Stories

The Silver Ring

Gary Donovan’s shovel slid easily into the dark earth in his backyard. He glanced over at the pile of dirt he’d created and saw something glittering. It was a woman’s silver ring with a large single diamond. Inside, he washed off the old yet elegant piece of jewelry. Kim came into the kitchen and he hid it behind his back.

“What have you got?” she asked suspiciously.

He held out the ring. “Marry me? Again?”

Taken by surprise, she plucked the ring from his fingers.. “Where did you get this?”

“Say ‘yes’ and I’ll tell you.”

She hesitated. “Come on, Gary.”

“The hole in the backyard for the koi pond.”

“Wow. Buried treasure.” Surprisingly, the ring fit. Then her face darkened. “Don’t think this makes up for everything.”

No, he knew, nothing would ever make up for the lying and cheating. A few days later, a sweaty Gary stood back, admiring his work. He called for Kim. Arms crossed, looking annoyed, she stood at the edge of the cavity.

“Nice hole,” she said.

The shovel cracked against the back of her head like the sound of a solid double. Kim fell face first into the black earth at the bottom of the hole.

Two months passed and Gary sat on his deck enjoying the silvery orange koi in his new pond.

“Gary,” a woman cried from inside the house. Dawn came bouncing out onto the deck holding out her left hand. “How did you get that on my finger without waking me up?” She proudly displayed an antique silver ring with a large single diamond. “Yes, I will.”

Apartment 118

After having lived in his apartment for what seemed like an eternity, Cliff had still not met or even seen his next-door neighbor. He knew someone lived there because he heard the occasional thump, water running and muffled snippets of voices through the shared wall. Being a private person himself, it didn’t really bother Cliff that he’d never met the people next door, but it did seem strange that he didn’t even know what they looked like.

The situation abruptly changed one night when he was awakened by a woman screaming. After several heart-stopping shrieks followed by sobbing, Cliff got out of bed and went to the neighbor’s door. No one answered after several loud knocks, and the screaming stopped. Cliff was reluctant to meddle, but the woman sounded like she was in trouble, so he dialed 911.

The police arrived shortly and knocked a number of times on the door, but there was no answer. Several minutes later the building manager, looking dazed and concerned in her bathrobe, joined the officers in front of the apartment door.

“What’s gong on?” she asked.

“Gentleman who lives in that apartment, 118, called and claimed he heard a woman screaming in the apartment next door. No one’s answering their door.”

“That’s because both apartments are empty.”

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?”

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.”