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Neptune

neptune empty sky dinner parties

I’ve never felt so alone, as I do on a night of an empty sky. Especially if the night is dead still. Nothing says you are vulnerable and alone like a quiet, still night. No wind in the woods out the back. No mating calls bouncing between the trees. No wildlife, and no sounds of civilization. That’s the downfall of living out in the sticks, isn’t it? On a night of an empty sky, when all is still and lifeless, the sound of the city could be a comfort. Out here, the serenity and solace that comes from isolation changes its face from time to time.

I grew up in this house, and it was far more secluded in my childhood. Then everyone started sub-dividing. It had become the fashionable way to own property. So, of course, my parents went along and sub-divided as well, resulting in this house not being so secluded as it once was, long ago. The nights can still be just as quiet, however. And sometimes, they’re so quiet that you can hear the silence over the laughter and intermingling of friends and family.

The ironic part of this isolated fear I have found myself to have is that I’m not so afraid of being alone, but rather afraid of being not alone. Afraid that none of us may ever be alone. And that we are not alone. Is someone watching us, right now? Are they incessantly observing? Are we really just an equation? 

There was an incident, a somewhat embarrassing one I might add, when I was a child. The night was dead quiet – it was an empty sky. We often had guests over for dinner parties and the such, because we had a large decking looking over the rear of the property to the woods. The woods looked brilliant when they were painted silver in the moonlight. That night, however, they swallowed the light that spilled out from the glass doors that led onto the deck. We had a large, glass dining table on the deck that seated up to twelve people, and a massive grill. With the amenities, it seemed like we were almost obliged to throw all of those dinner parties. I didn’t care for them, really. I mostly kept to myself while the adults swapped stories from work or exaggerated anecdotes about business trips abroad. My brothers would show off their newest toys to the other children before we all sat down to eat the meat and pretended to be a civilized species. I didn’t care much for the meat, either. It always saddened me to think of the potential life it could have lived had we not been eating it. Of course, I was still young, so my perspective was naive.  I didn’t really know where it came from. It still seemed all very silly to me to be having dinner parties in the cold season, but father always insisted.

Father was also a proud owner of a very large telescope. The biggest in our neighborhood, in fact. It always came out on cloudless nights, and that night was no exception. All of the other kids gaped in awe at its magnificence. It was so much longer than any they had at home, but more impressive was its girth. If it were a canister, you could gather all of their telescopes together and store them in it. Pushing and shoving ensued as each child raced to Father’s side begging and grovelling for a chance to see the cosmos through its superior lens. Of course they would, as this was half the reason it came out. The other half was the inevitable “mighty fine piece you’ve got, Harold, good show!”

I had also wanted to see the cosmos through that giant lens, but custom dictated that I let the other kids have a turn first. Father would find a star or a planet, get the lens in focus and hold a child up to the eyepiece. They would squeal in delight at the probably magnificent view. I sighed deeply. My eyes moistened as my lips curled into a frown and my cheeks flared a hot crimson. I knew I probably wouldn’t get to have a go. By the time the other children, and my brothers, had all had their turns it would likely be far passed bedtime and that would be that. I marched inside to continue drawing, as I was before the meal, and took off my coat. Father called out to me just as I had found the right shade of green in my case of colors. “Come! It’s your turn. I found your favorite, Neptune. It’s beautiful, tonight, you really have to see it.”

I was trembling as I pressed up against the eye-piece. I couldn’t see anything. It was very cold outside, and the eye-piece was icier still. My face was trembling more than my body and I was beginning to become frustrated. Raising my eyebrows did not help; nor did widening my eye as much as I could muster. Then, suddenly, I heard a deafening, low-pitched hum. Or did I feel the hum? As I brought my head away from the eye-piece, I noticed all the hairs on my arm were standing on end. Once again, I tried to view Neptune and was met with futility. Something had to be in the way.

It became vividly apparent, as I looked up, why I could not see Neptune while spying through the telescope. Directly in front of our deck, blocking the telescopes line-of-site, was a massive craft. Its hull was a deep green and the windows, of which I counted at least eight, were a burnt yellow. They were emitting a faint glow from inside the craft. The hull looked as though it was spinning, but the windows showed no such signs. Several figures flurried past the windows inside the ship. It must have been the size of our house.

My feet were anchored heavily to the decking. My face was no longer cold. I was weeping sweat from every pore as my core heated to unfathomable heights. I let out a shriek of pain and broke free from my paralyzing fear. Everyone was staring at me, questioning and judging. “What are you staring at?! They’re here, they’re here! They’ll take us all!” I tried to tell them. But no one listened. No one believed me. They all thought I was hysterical. Father told me to go to bed. And just as fast as it had appeared, it was gone again.

I haven’t seen any of them since that night. Not Father, not my brothers, not any of my neighborhood friends or their parents. No one could make sense of it. The newspapers called me Family Killer, but there was no trace of murder. They were there, and then they weren’t. Just like that. No one believed me. They all thought I was hysterical. I still don’t know what happened that night, exactly. I do, however, know where the meat comes from. It’s the only food you can buy in this sector, now. You just have to read the packaging:

Superior prime-cut human calf steak – stair-mastered and tenderized;

John Doe Rack o’ Ribs – finger-lickin’ good, serve with fingers;

Twerkin’ Toni’s Rump – the chewiest bubble-butt-steak you will ever eat!

Even the milk comes from them.  

 

 

 

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The Thing That Went Bump In The Night

wooden-floor-dark-flash-fiction-campfire-horror-stories-the-thing-that-went-bump-in-the-night

I was startled by the sound of a bumping through the wall. The kind of startled where your whole body jolts you awake. It was very jarring, and as you can imagine, I was instantly as wide awake as I would have been after a triple-shot cappuccino.

I could hear my daughter whimpering from down the hall. In the 3a.m. darkness, I walked softly up the corridor. The wooden floor was cold on my bare feet, and a breeze swept passed me, sending a tingle up my naked spine. I peeked into my daughter’s room and saw her figure shivering against the wall, in the corner of her bed. Her knees concealing her chin and mouth. Shivering, but not the kind of shiver you get from the cold. The kind of shiver you get from overwhelming anxiety. That unwelcome adrenaline-shiver. As I sat on the bed with my arms open, she leapt into my chest and clung to me. She looked up with a face that screamed for solace. I wiped her moist eyes with my thumb, “did you have another nightmare, Darling? Tell me what it was about.”

“It was about the monster, again,” she spoke in a whisper, and rather slowly. Almost cautiously. As if she was weary of who might still lurk in the shadows. I couldn’t see them clearly enough, but I imagined her eyes darting around the room as the words escaped her lips.

“Look, I’ll show you: there’s no monster in your closet. Just your coats and shoes and the dirty socks you threw in the back. Which is also why you haven’t been able to find any socks this week.” I made a point of standing to the side of the door so she could see the inside of the closet. Despite the darkness, this gesture usually seemed to render reassurance.

“It’s not in my closet, Daddy,” she said so mater-of-factly, shaking her head from side to side. “The monster is in your closet.”

“Darling, there are no monsters in any closets. Don’t worry your sweet little munchkin head about it, okay? I will be just fine.”

“. . . okay, Daddy.”

“Now go back to sleep, okay? Goodnight, princess. And how about we dream of unicorns this time, hmm?” I kissed her firmly on the forehead as I pulled the blanket up under her chin.

After returning to my own room, I let out a sigh of relief. Relief that my daughter once again felt safe and secure, but also relief that I could get back to my own slumber. I fell backwards onto my bed. It was now cold. It felt silly, but I briefly scanned the dark recesses of my room and glanced at my closed closet door. A smirk flashed across my face and I quietly chuckled at myself as I wriggled under the blanket, pulled it up under my chin, and shut my eyes.

Bump

I opened my eyes and there in my closet stood my daughter. She had no eyes, no mouth and no ears. But she could smell my fear.

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A Good Nights Sleep

image-of-a-man-enveloped-in-darkness-for-creepypasta-short-story-a-good-nights-sleep-by-salmon-slammin-s-j-kearney-shadow-man

I opened my eyes. Laid in bed, enveloped in darkness, I heard it again. The same SKRCHH SKRCHH scratching I hear every night. It hasn’t always been every night. I used to only hear it occasionally; in fact, I almost didn’t notice it at all. I would wake up in the middle of the night every so often, maybe once a week. Either to go to the toilet if I had been a tad ambitious with my water consumption that day; or to get a glass of water, having awoken parched, to quell the feeling of heavy sand overwhelming my gums, cheeks, and tongue. I couldn’t tell you when it began, because I couldn’t tell you for how long it went unnoticed. I also could not tell you the first time I noticed it, because when I got up in the middle of the night, I was often still half asleep. But at some point, I did notice it.  One night, having returned from the bathroom, I was shuffling through the thick black that remained after flicking off the blinding-white bathroom light. I froze somewhere in the middle of my room, about half-way or two-thirds of the distance from my door to my bed. I heard it.

SSKRCHH SKRCHH

There was an unusual familiarity about it, as if I had heard it before. I suppose the feeling was similar to one you might feel when being introduced to a twice-removed cousin. Certain you should have met them at any numerous family gatherings or reunions, but cannot, for the life of you, remember where or when. I stood in my room with my weight on one foot, leaning awkwardly to one side with my head cocked. In hindsight, had the lights been on, I’m sure I would have looked like a demented side-show act. But that sound, was it new, or had I heard it countless times before only to be too tired or half-asleep to take note? I was sure I’d heard it before, yet I still could not move. I stood there, paralyzed, for what seemed like hours, as I tried to pinpoint the origin of the peculiar sound. I didn’t hear it again, and went to bed with a sore leg, feeling like a complete dumb-ass.

About a week or so later, I awoke with a mouth akin to the Sahara. I shuffled through the darkness and down the stairs, opting not to turn the kitchen light on as I fetched a glass from the cupboard and half-filled it with water. I poured it down my throat as fast as it flowed from the faucet. I climbed the stairs one-by-one. About half-way up, one of them creaked – CRR EAKK – as I put my weight on it and lifted it off. Had that stair always creaked? Yeah. Probably. I had returned to my bedroom and as I pulled the duvet up, I heard it.

SKRCH SKRCCH

Was that the stair creaking? No, that’s absurd, who would be in my house? I peered out of my bedroom door, cracked it slightly at first, and slunk my head around the wall. I looked into the blackness and squinted, trying to see further through the foggy absence of light. I listened. Nothing. I returned to bed feeling that anxiety I hadn’t felt since the first time I walked to school by myself as a child. I closed my eyes and tried to forget about it and drifted off to sleep.

I almost had forgotten about it. About a fortnight had passed before I heard it again. I had woken up very suddenly in a panicked sweat, and sat upright in bed trying to catch my breath. I wiped my forehead on the back of my hand and ran my palms down my face from my temples to my chin, holding them there for a moment, with my fingers pressed tightly against my face before I smashed them into my mattress as I heard it.

SKRCHH SKRRCH

My head snapped sideways. I stared into the dark abyss of my room and tried to focus intently on a most unusual, almost darker, spot perpendicular to my bed – where my closet should be. I squinted. I blinked. I tried to widen my eyes. I wanted to get out of bed, but my legs did not want to move. I felt overwhelmingly cold. Pulling the duvet up over my shoulder, I rolled to face the wall as I pushed dreadful thoughts to the back of my mind. Thoughts that a grown man needn’t worry about. Although, it wasn’t long before I threw the covers off of my bed and swung my legs over to meet the floor. I marched over to my closet, which was now quite visible, and paused right in front of it with my hand inches away from the handle. Was I really checking the closet for monsters? I’m not sure what I was checking it for, but I’m certain the sound had come from there. As if someone, or something, was scratching the inside of the closet door. I threw the door open and saw just what I expected to see: my clothes hanging in a motley of disorganized fabrics and my shoes lying motionless in a heap on the floor. I went back to bed, overcome with that same childish unease I had experienced a fortnight earlier.

These strange occurrences began to happen with increasing frequency, and I no longer needed to pee or quench my thirst to wake in the middle of the night. Too often, I began to wake with a fright, or a sudden jolt of my body, or seemingly from an overwhelming sense of violation, like that feeling you get when someone is staring at the back of your head. I felt more alone than I had ever felt since living by myself. Alone in the dark, every hair on my body reached out into the darkness. My fingers restlessly searched for a hand to hold.

A spine-tingle feels more familiar to me, now, than my own bedroom. You should know that I am still unaware of the source of this peculiar scratching sound. It seems to originate from a different dark corner of my bedroom every time I hear it. Sometimes it seems to echo, bouncing around my room. It’s almost as if it originates in the space directly in the centre of my room, like someone is standing there, holding up a small board of wood and scratching it twice.

SKRCCH SKRCHH

Sometimes it seems to emanate from beneath me, which is one of the most unnerving ones, because I can’t help feel like it could be me making the sound. As much as I do not want to, as small as it makes me feel, I always get up, drenched in sweat, and kneel on the floor to check under my bed. Just to be sure. My heart pounding, flooded with adrenaline. Every. Single. Time. There is always nothing under my bed. There is always nothing in my closet. There is always nothing standing in the middle of my room. And there is always nothing outside my bedroom door. You might think this is immature, silly, or that I simply must be certifiable. But you have to understand: I’ve tried to ignore this for as long as I can remember. I’ve tried to make it go away. I’ve tried to not check under my bed, or in my closet, or outside my bedroom door. Nevertheless, the sound still persists. It will not go away. Every fucking night, without fail, for the past two god-damned years. I hear it.

SKRRCH SSKRCHH

WHY DO YOU TAUNT ME SO? WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME? HAVE YOU NOT DONE ENOUGH? LEAVE ME BE, I BEG YOU! DO WHAT YOU WILL, AND THEN LEAVE ME BE!

I open my eyes. Lying in bed, enveloped in darkness. I can hardly breathe. My throat is tight. My mouth is dry. My eyes dart around the room in a panic as I realize I can’t move my arms or legs. My chest feels heavy. I didn’t hear the sound. I didn’t hear the sound! Oh god, why did I not hear the sound?! Why can’t I move?! My lungs feel like they’re frozen in ice, but my skin feels like it’s on fire. I can’t distinguish whether my sheets are soaked with sweat or urine, but it could be either. My eyes are locked on my bedroom door. The handle begins to turn. It slowly swings open. Nothing. Nothing is standing in the hallway to have opened my door. My eyes dart to my closet, but it is still. I begin to look back at my door, but my eyes dart back to the centre of my room. A figure. I try to focus on it, but this figure, this darkness, seems to be blacker than anything I’ve seen before. The more I try to decipher who or what it is, the more the edges seem to blur into the darkness around it. I try to speak, but my jaw tightens and my teeth begin to buckle. The figure looms over me. Is it smiling? I still can’t focus my vision. My heart is thumping. The pressure on my chest increases. This is it. The end. I’m suffocating in my own bed. At least I’m not alone. 

Gasping for air, I spring out of bed, sprawled on the floor, coughing and gasping. Drowning without water is the only way I can describe what I had felt. I am plenty wet, however. Trying to regain my breath and get a hold of myself, I slowly push myself up off the floor and sit with my back against the side of my bed. Running my hand through my hair, could it really be over? I crawl to the bathroom. I need a shower; I smell like piss. I don’t know how long I sat in the shower, possibly weeping, I couldn’t tell. I don’t remember getting out, or drying myself, but now I’m standing in front of the mirror. Unblinking. Staring at the red, glistening hand print in the centre of my chest. It won’t go away. I can’t scrub it off. Soap doesn’t work. Toothpaste doesn’t work. Bleach doesn’t work. No matter how red or raw I make the skin around it, this hand print just glistens back at me. Taunting me. Screaming “I’m still here.”

Defeated, I stagger down the stairs clutching the hand rail so as not to bail down them all at once. I fall onto my couch. Looking through the glass at the still and silent night outside, I squeeze a cushion tightly in my arms. I don’t feel alone anymore. I look at the stairs. I look at the kitchen. I look at the glass door. I close my eyes. And then I hear it.

SKRRCCHH SKRCHH

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They found a boy in the river

boy, pop pop pop, watery fate

Subject#04: The Drowned Boy
Redacted eye-witness statement
Classified
Security Level: Burn after reading

I was driving home from work and had made a stop at the gassy. It had been a long day and so, peckish as I was, I got myself a Big Ben. Should’ve listened to the gospel, though, because I burned my lip as I bit into the damn thing. The mince spewed out of the pastry as I flinched and cursed. It landed on my crotch. The whole scene was a travesty. Always blow on the pie.

I pulled over into the lay-by while this happened. I didn’t have the radio on today, and I remember thinking that was unusual of me as I took note of the way the rain was ratatating on my car. As if the shock of the burn had awakened my senses, I became more aware of my surroundings and could smell the river in the air-con. That’s when I heard it. Pop. Pop pop pop pop. Pop. There were six “pops.” They were faint, but vivid. And very curious. At first, I had thought it was beginning to hail, but that thought was swiftly brushed aside. Hail doesn’t sound like the popping of bubble wrap. The faint popping was distinctly different from a sound of nature. And that realization made my stomach tighten. Or perhaps it was just the hunger.

I set my pie aside on the dash of my car and opened my door. The thundering sound of the rain poured inside, almost muting the ding-ding-ding dashboard alarm flashing a red door symbol to which I paid no attention. Against my best judgement, I stepped outside. Instantly saturated. Even my briefs felt soaked through. A chill ran up my back, but I shook it out with my arms. That’s when I noticed the lights dancing in the trees just over the ridge. I hadn’t seen them from the lower vantage point of my driver’s seat. Alternating red and blue, irritatingly out of sync with the dashboard dinging. A sense of ease washed over me as I moved around my car to the passenger side, where I could no longer hear it. Just the rain, like sizzling bacon, screaming in my ears. My eyes did not falter from the illuminated trees. I was fixated on them. And curiosity got the better of me.

The smell of the river grew ever stronger as I stumbled up the bank, losing my footing in the mud and grasping naively at the ground. It smelled stagnant, like a musty old home left at the mercy of the elements for decades without a visitor. It was almost acrid. I’d finally made it to the top of the ridge, all hot and bothered, and out of breath. Soaked to the bone. My arms jutted outward one last time to avoid toppling right over. I stared into the void. Into the rain-laden air in front of my face; the scene I had sweated up this bank for blurred just beyond.

As my stance relaxed, my eyes focused. There were two cop cars and an ambo pulled off to the side of an access road that led down to the riverside. I had figured as much from the lights I had seen in the trees. But nothing had given clue to what I would witness alongside those vehicles. Like I said, curiosity had gotten the better of me. As it always does. Growing up, Mum would always recite, “Curiosity killed the cat, you know? Don’t be the cat, Michael.” Well, they had found a boy in the river. It was an ugly scene.

They must have pulled in mighty hastily, judging by the skid marks cut into the earth. My guess would have been that the cop car on the right got there first; it seemed somewhat parked intentionally, and the treads in the mud were minimal. The other two vehicles were farther from the gravel. Inches deep ditches carved by their tires. With over a vehicle’s length from the road, it was clear they had continued to move after the wheels had stopped turning. The doors were left ajar, and the seats were saturated. Understandable in an urgent situation, but some time had obviously passed since their arrival. Why hadn’t they closed the doors to save their bottoms a watery fate? Because they were dead, that’s why.

All they know now is a watery fate. Floating through the ether of existence down, down, down to the depths below this plane. To feed them. That’s why they’re gone. To feed them. We should all . . . forgive me, I’m . . .

Their corpses lay at the edge of the river. All of them were shot in the head. The paramedics by the officers, I’d say, and the officers by their own hands. This much was unquestionable. Their firearms, however, were left sullied in mud only a few feet from the vehicles. Peculiar, twisting pathways were drawn in the muddy earth, like tentacles leading to the bodies surrounding the boy. The boy stood, ankle deep, in the river. He almost didn’t look like a boy, but his height would have me guess he was about eight or ten years old. That was, before he died, of course. Once that happens, I suppose you stop ageing, right?

His face was mostly missing. His empty eye sockets stared right at me. Swinging in the breeze, his jaw looked as though it might fall off at any moment. His torso was all puffed up, like the StayPuft Marshmallow Man. His skin was pulled tight – where it wasn’t hanging off him – and translucent. The veins looked like a dark web of tar holding his flesh together. God knows how long he had been drifting in the water, but from where I stood, it sure looked like ol’ Davy Jones had done a number on him. And spat him back out, no less.

He had been sent here, that much is clear to me. Nothing else is. I could still only hear the screaming of the water falling from the, now darkened, heavens. No longer could I feel it hitting my face, nor any part of me. I couldn’t feel my own skin. As I was examining the boy with horror and inquisition, I gasped. Not at the sight of his fingernail-less, gnarled hands, but at the sudden knowledge that I was no longer standing atop the ridge I had scampered up so eagerly however long before. I was standing right in front of him, only a few feet away. How much time had passed? I couldn’t tell you. How had I managed to get down there without falling, slipping, tumbling or noticing? I really cannot say. I have absolutely no recollection of it. And although I could not bear to take my eyes off of the waterlogged boy, had I turned my head over my shoulder, I’d bet my life there would have been a peculiar, twisting pathway drawn in the muddy earth, like a tentacle.

I cannot rationalize it. I felt obliged to the boy. Compelled by him. An overwhelming craving to fulfill his every desire of me replaced any sense of self I had. I remember cackling maniacally, as I knelt in the water. The boy swung his arm at me like a cricket pitcher, striking my shoulder and then over my head and down on my other shoulder. It was as if he was conferring unto me a knighthood from the depths. And then I waded into the river.

I was pulled out of the ocean by a fisherman not two hundred meters from the river’s mouth. He kindly brought me back to land, and I walked right here. That’s all I know about what happened. I am truly sorry about your comrades. But they need to feed. And they are very, very hungry.

Witness eliminated.
Fisherman sought for questioning.