Frightmares: A Fistful of Flash Fiction Horror by Unknown Read Free Book Online Page A

feeling went up and down his leg.
    When he pried his eyelids apart he saw the bloody muzzle of Mint, standing over him, in the place where his leg should be.
    Logan Theodore Branjord is a 27 year-old writer living in the Twin Cities, MN.

IF THESE WALLS COULD TALK
     
    JACK NEALY
     
    When she left I decided to take out the wall that separated our bedroom from the guestroom. My brother came over to help and together we tore down a chunk of drywall. Later, the police explained to us that the bodies we found stashed inside the wall had been there for over thirty years. After the detectives left, after we were assured we would not be facing any further investigation, and after they promised to have the bodies removed within the week, my brother called me to say he was too busy to come back and finish the wall-removal job. He never was good at lying.
    “It’s fine,” I told him.
    I was up late with an empty bottle when I called her to tell her I had decided to expand the room we used to share. I told her how glad I was that I would never have to spend another holiday with her mother in the extra bedroom. After I called her every name I had always wanted to call her when we were together, she hung up, sobbing. I sat in bed staring across the room at the hole in the wall. I had the whiskey in one hand and the phone still gripped tightly in the other, the dial tone blaring. I dropped both and approached the man-sized hole, and tore away the caution tape.
    I peered sideways into the darkness; it had been a week, yet no one had come by to take the bodies. I crept inside carefully to get a better look. There were three dusty, disarticulated bodies lying on the floor that I could see, but there might even be more, deeper in the space. There was just enough room within the wall for me to squeeze through, shuffling sideways over the unfortunate souls that had been abandoned there for decades. Stepping over bones I walked slowly, further and further into the wall with my arms held up high. I thought about what I said to her, the names, the stuff about her mom, and I started to laugh. I kept moving sideways into the space between the walls, laughing, and then began choking on the dust. I tried moving my arms down to cover my mouth instinctively, but there wasn’t enough room. That’s when I noticed the pain; I had been holding my arms up for twenty minutes. My feet were sore too, having been mashed awkwardly as I tried to walk through the wall. All at once I felt completely exhausted but I kept stepping over bodies and moving further.
    Later, I awoke in total darkness. My head hurt. I tried to move back in the direction I had come, but it was impossible to position myself correctly; my body was sore from being in the same position for so long while I slept. A spider crawled down my face and bit me. I gasped in pain, but I couldn’t even swat it away. I couldn’t see them, but I could feel the hollow gaze of the forgotten skulls as they watched me, amused.
    In the darkness between the walls I shouted franticly for help. In the darkness I waited.
    I am still here.
    Aspiring author Jack Nealy shares a birthday with horror movie legend Bela Lugosi and has harbored a lifelong fascination with all things horror and pulp. He grew up in Southern California where he happens to live two blocks from a cemetery. He is currently working towards a degree in Literature.

THE REAL WORLD
     
    CYNDIE GOINS HOELSCHER
     
    Never before had I experienced the oppressive darkness that gathered just beyond the lights of the midway my first night working at the circus. Clouds hovered chillingly close to the ground. A brisk wind twisted them into ghostly figures prophesying doom.
    “What’s up buttercup?” Joshua called, walking to join me in looking up at the sky.
    “I don’t know,” I hesitated, watching a cloud shift into a form and dissolve once again. “Do you see that?”
    “What?”
    “Never mind,” I replied.
    I suspiciously watched the