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Latest Stories

March 19, 2024
Fantasy Stories Wondering Monk

Just My Imagination

The alarm clock went off and started playing an awful tune. Tom opened his eyes and closed them back, squinting. He reopened one eye and stood up to stop the torture. The phone was on the desk, in the furthest spot from the bed. Although he changed his way of…
March 19, 2024
Science Fiction Stories Ocelotlzin

Earth Is Dead

Recording… It doesn't matter who I was; I probably lived a long time ago, and I am now just a voice someone added to the audio-visual records. What is essential is the recollection of events that lead to the current state. So, a little history needs to be…
March 08, 2024
Flash Fiction Benoit

Some Enchanted Evening

It was a rugby tackle with tears: Chrissy burst in, sobbing and babbling, hugging James. Her face was all wet, eyes wild. What…? My parents split up, Dad has moved in with his boyfriend and I cannot join them. I am shut out. I have lost my dad. Torrent of…
March 08, 2024
Horror Stories Marvel Chukwudi Pephel

In The Hands Of My Legs

The car pulled up in front of the large salon. The neon sign, that sexy broad thing, on the salon'sroof read "Mr. Gil's All-night Salon". The exhaust pipe of the car was pumping solid smoke, theswirls moving from the car and towards the salon.…
March 07, 2024
Mystery Stories Vanessa Leigh Giles

Casualty of Love in the Time of Coronavirus

Chapter 1 Until Death do us Part ‘Ring, ring!’. I answered the telephone and asked, “Hello, good evening. Who’s this? “Hello.” This is Dr. Smith from Red Cross hospital. “Is this Mr. Locke, John?”, he asked, hesitantly scratching his bald head. “Yes, doctor.…
March 07, 2024
Crime Stories Robert Pook

Bar Room Trigger

Another return journey on footpaths so familiar. He strides across each crack in each paving stone. Regular loose drain covers sidestepped. Mapping long ago mapped in Richard’s desolate mind. His pace hastened by the sight of the oncoming storm. Quickening…
March 04, 2024
Horror Stories Ano Chinemerem

Sanctity

Where should I begin? I could begin by telling you about this comely boy, whom every notable person around the streets agrees his smile could charm the bills off one. Between one smile, there was his goodness, his dreams and humanity—a little far ahead?— but…
March 04, 2024
Flash Fiction Emanuel Diaz

Et Mortui Partium

As Rafael stepped out into the rain, it wasn't the ordinary drops that fell from the sky. Instead, it was a storm of souls, each one taking the form of shimmering jewelry as it cascaded toward the ground. Rubies, diamonds, and sapphires twinkled amidst the…
February 29, 2024
Poetry Jing Li Ava

London

‘Am I in London?’ "I am." Where is Elizabeth? Happy living story All of your chapter Bounlance joy Please my heart Power hand Wise mind Our baby Vow vow Love all love Miss I miss Endless wonder Bring us together Love all love Miss I miss For everything My…
February 29, 2024
Flash Fiction Rob Pook

Life Sentence of The Smith

Born nine months after his country won the World Cup.A child prodigy.Cast off at age twenty-four.Husband, father, emigree, away on the other side of the world.The blue-collar life.The dreams of success.The search for fulfillment.The long years of empty…
February 29, 2024
Mystery Stories Joshua Lowther

The Operator

Jason looked over to his right, his eyes barely able to focus themselves on the subject of his attention. His neck ached terribly from the strenuous movement. He was tired. The captain’s gaze came to rest on the rookie sonar operator sitting tense at his…
February 29, 2024
Flash Fiction Salvatore Difalco

The Chute

At dusk, we left our unit with a soft pink bundle. I carried it through the wet streets and into the black woods. I said I’d take it all the way, the bundle, but that we had to drop it in together. My wife’s green eyes flashed. “Don’t make me do that.” I…

His name was Mr. Rempel.

Jill learned of her seven-year-old’s “new friend” one Sunday afternoon. She had dropped the last dollop of chocolate chip cookie dough on the greased baking sheet. She held out the empty mixing bowl.

Chelsea shook her head.

Jill arched an eyebrow.

“Feeling okay, honey?”

Chelsea considered this, then nodded. “Mr. Rempel says too much sugar is bad for you.”

“Really now? Mr. Rempel is a teacher?”

“Oh no. He’s my new friend.”

Jill stiffened, feeling cold. She didn’t like the sound of that.

“He’s a little man who lives outside, in the tree hollows,” Chelsea said matter-of-factly, and Jill felt the tension begin to dissipate. “We talk sometimes, when I get mad or sad or just feel like talking.”

“A little man? Smaller than me?”

“Way smaller. He’s even smaller than a cat.”

“Really? What does he look like?”

“He’s not good looking, but Mr. Rempel says looks aren’t everything. He knows uglier creatures than him.”

Jill found herself smiling and covered her mouth.

“What else does Mr. Rempel say?”

“People throw out way too much garbage. That makes him angry.”

“Mmm hmm.”

“He talks about nature, about insects and birds and animals. Once he told me ants talk to each other using chemicals. He also said some male birds have pretty red feathers, but the female is all gray. Mr. Rempel says men are prettier than women.”

“Ho ho! I may have to have a few words with this Rempel fellow about that,” Jill protested. Chelsea broke into giggles.

“Mom, could you make a little cookie for Mr. Rempel?”

“Well, I suppose, though you might tell him next time, in defense of women, that we are the fairer sex.” Her daughter nodded earnestly, and Jill laughed. She peered out the window over the sink. Emerald forest carpeted the surrounding hills.

Jill wanted Chelsea to make some friends. After she and Dean divorced, the child who loved to braid dandelions together and write poems to the moon became lost and withdrawn. When school let out for the summer, Jill envisioned the girl seated before the living room window for days on end, staring at the Vermont forest.

And an imaginary friend—well, that was something.

That night, after tucking in Chelsea, she went out to the porch and called her best friend Laura. They chit-chatted while she watched the fireflies.

It didn’t take long to get to Mr. Rempel.

“Where do you think she got the idea?” Laura asked.

Jill softly swirled the red wine in her glass. “School. You know that age. They all study ecology. Being nice to the trees, animals and Mother Nature.”

“And Father Rempel.”

Jill cackled. “He sounds like a lovable little wood sprite.”

Now Laura laughed. “You don’t sound concerned.”

“It was my idea to move into a fixer upper in the boondocks. Imaginary playmates come with the territory.”

Once the workweek began, Jill forgot about Mr. Rempel. Their old longhair cat, Princess, had to be rushed to the vet. Bouncer chewed up her favorite silk blouse. And at the office, one of her clients turned out to be straight from hell, snarkily rejecting every logo design she created. Twice, she picked up Chelsea late from day care.

The weekend came none too soon. Before noon Saturday, she coaxed her daughter into taking a walk with her and Bouncer, a young mutt rescued from the shelter. Chelsea seemed distracted.

Then the girl said, in a dark voice, “Bouncer better be careful, sticking his nose all over.”

Jill shrugged. “That’s what dogs do.”

“Well, I know what Mr. Rempel does to nosy dogs.”

“And what’s that?” Jill said cautiously.

“Mr. Rempel finds porcupine quills, in the woods sometimes. When he falls asleep inside a tree, sometimes a dog comes sniffing around. He waits until they get up close, then jabs a quill right in their eye.”

Chelsea violently thrust her arm forward.

“Jabs as hard as he can. That quill blinds ‘em good. The dogs cry and run in circles.”

Jill stared at her daughter, horrified. She cleared her throat sharply.

“That’s not funny.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“What do you mean?” Chelsea looked confused.

“That story’s not funny.”

“But that’s what Mr. Rempel said.”

“I don’t want to hear any more about what Mr. Rempel said.”

Her lips were pursed in a tight line. A sparrow hopped between the thick limbs of an old oak. She braced herself for the reaction. She waited for the sulking.

“Okay, Mom.”

And that was it. Something about the girl’s casual indifference bothered Jill.

No more was said that weekend about Mr. Rempel. But Jill began watching her daughter more carefully. On Sunday, she spied Chelsea sitting on a stump near the treeline at dusk, talking and gesturing. But mostly listening.

This time, after returning to her job at Branded For Success!, she couldn’t get Mr. Rempel out of her mind. She thought about him constantly, usually with a creeping sense of dread.

On Wednesday, she got a panicked call from day care.

“Miss Evans, come pick up your daughter,” a woman brusquely said. “We’re not equipped to deal with situations like this.”

“With what?” Jill asked, her heart quickening.

“This—this—drawing that Chelsea did.” The voice sounded deeply offended. “It’s scaring the other children.”

Jill’s throat went dry. Her hand stabbed into her purse for her car keys, then she rushed out.

By the time she arrived, Chelsea was already standing outside Little Friends Day Care with her Minnie Mouse lunchpail, singing under her breath. Mrs. Redmond, the owner, was waiting too. The stout, normally friendly woman looked shaken.

She held out a crayon drawing.

“Take it,” she hissed.

Jill examined the picture. In the center was something gray and furry that had tiny paws. Half its body was missing, replaced by furious scribbling of red crayon.

“What is it?” Jill asked, bewildered.

“Chelsea can tell you.”

“That’s a mouse,” the girl drawled. “He ran under a lawn mower. He got chopped in half. So Mr. Rempel caught the blood in acorn caps, because if you leave it out overnight, it chills and thickens. Like Jello. Blood has iron in it, and it’s yummy—”

“I’ve heard enough,” Jill snapped. She grabbed Chelsea’s wrist. It was like grabbing a rag doll.

“No more Mr. Rempel, honey.”

She hustled her daughter into the car. They rode home in silence.

The next morning, she begged off a few days from work. She stayed home with Chelsea, resolving to act quickly. She spent three hours Friday night on the Internet. By the next morning, she had reached a decision.

“Honey,” she said sweetly as Chelsea dug through a stack of waffles, “I’ve got great news. You’re going to summer camp.”

Her daughter gave her a blank look.

“When?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

Chelsea looked disappointed.

“What about—”

At the warning look in her mother’s eyes, she fell quiet.

Packing took less than an hour. Chelsea mostly watched without comment.

All was going according to plan, when Jill made a terrible discovery.

They had just returned from Target with camp supplies—a compass, float board, khaki shorts. She refilled the cat’s plastic food bowl and clicked her tongue. Princess didn’t stir. Jill went over and gently stroked the soft white coat, but got no response.

Tears stung her eyes. She laid Princess in a small box, on an old sweater.

That evening, she saw Chelsea carrying the box that held Princess down to the basement. Her daughter looked like a marcher in a funeral procession.

“I’m sorry,” Jill whispered. “She had a good life.”

On Sunday, they made the hour-long drive to Lake Wannatobee Summer Camp. Registration went smoothly. Afterward, they toured the grounds with a counselor. Chelsea just gaped at the rambunctious children. Then she gave her mother a mechanical hug in parting.

“Call anytime you’re lonely,” Jill said. “I’ll miss you.”

When she got home, she filled a wine glass to the brim with a smooth Cabernet and drank it too fast. Her head ached. As she poured a second glass, she heard a faint noise.

“Bouncer, what are you into?” she called out. The dog bounded into the room, panting dumbly. She kept hearing something though. Small, wet noises.

Jill crept over to the basement door and drew it ajar. She clearly heard an animal chewing. In the shadows at the head of the stairs, she saw a leaf rake and a wooden softball bat.

She slid out the bat, then descended the staircase, squinting into the gloom. Weak light filtered through a narrow, mud-spattered window. The chewing was coming from Dean’s tool bench, behind standing shelves of gardening equipment. She raised the barrel of the bat, slipped around the shelves, and almost cried out.

Princess lay on her side. Her belly was snipped open, apparently by a blood-stained fingernail clipper by her paw. The cat’s intestines had been dragged free and piled in a glistening heap. A dark-red lump—her liver? heart?—rested near her head, showing gnaw marks.

Amid all this, steeped in grue, crouched a small creature who looked sort of like a man. He was less than a foot tall. Something like pubic hair sprouted from his scalp. Veins criss-crossed his scrawny arms. His eyes bulged with a crazy intensity. Scaly patches covered his skin.

He was munching savagely on the cat’s viscera, as if he hadn’t eaten for years. He murmured and gabbled with satisfaction, then spied Jill.

His dark eyes glittered.

“A shame about the cat,” he said. “At least she won’t go to waste.”

“You disgusting piece of—” Jill slammed down the bat, but the little man nimbly jumped aside. His eyes darted back and forth.

He’s looking for a weapon, she thought. This sick little creature is going to try to kill me.

This time, she brought the bat’s yellow barrel down faster, though not as hard. She scored a glancing blow. The creature screamed and clutched its arm, then toppled over. It leaped up, then slipped in the cat’s blood.

“You ugly little bastard,” Jill muttered, and swung again.

Hard.

She struck him directly. His head crushed like an old peach pit. A little green tongue flew out and he barfed up pieces of her cat’s organs. He didn’t move at first, then weakly held out a hand. So she whipped the softball bat around and whacked him once more.

After that, he didn’t move at all.

“Mr. Rempel, I presume,” she said, her voice shaking badly. “My daughter told me all about you. She got one thing wrong. She said there are creatures uglier than you. I can’t imagine that.”

As Jill stared at the dying Mr. Rempel, she heard a deep, croaking voice behind her that was eerily calm.

“No, she got that right.”

Jill clutched the bat handle tightly, then felt a terrible hammer blow to her back. It felt like something had blown a hole through her. She swayed, feeling sick, and looked down the front of her blouse. She recognized the tip of her gardening shears protruding below her breastplate.

She stumbled into the work bench, pushed off it, and somehow managed to turn around.

Before her stood a muscular creature almost five feet high. Thatches of the same pubic-like hair, except even more wiry and tangled, coiled from its head. It had similar bulging eyes, but laced with bloodshot veins, and a warty eyelid sagged over one.

But what was most horrible were the weeping lesions. Ulcerous craters covered its body. A crimson slime oozed from them. Jill tried to speak, but a pink foam only bubbled from her mouth. She started choking on her own blood. The creature staring coldly at her seemed to smirk.

“Oh, she got that right,” it said again. “Mr. Rempel told your daughter a lot of things. He just never told her about Mrs. Rempel.”

 

 

Bio: Rod Karn is a writer living in New York City who enjoys classical horror stories that feature an unexpected, delicious frisson of fear. He counts himself among fans of the “Tales From the Crypt” TV series and is the author of “Fright Ride: Tales of Horror and the Supernatural,” a collection of short stories.

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