Flash Fiction

Door: a Horror Story

Faces_Sketch“Nobody goes down there,” said Toby, taking a sip of whisky and pausing for a drag.

“Nobody?” I said, “Are you sure?”

“Well, I know some have, but they probably weren’t too happy about it.”

A breeze fled past the alley, and there was a crinkling sound when I shut my eyes. I need water, I thought. Water and a woman.

“You know,” said Toby, “I saw a gal,” I leaned back, because I knew this was gonna’ be a story. Not small talk, real this time.

“Pretty woman, bout 5’4. Beautiful as they come. We talked a little, kinda like how we are now. She knew a guy too. I never saw him.”

“And what was she doing?”

“Waiting by the door. A lot of people do that.”

“Why? What do they think’s there?”

Toby leaned in to speak, “Not what they think is there. She walked in after awhile. Shining. So young looking. My ears started ringing then, they do that a lot lately. Trying to tell me there was something wrong, I think.”

“So, how’d it go?”

“Well she went in. Said she was tired of waiting so long. Thought maybe he was already in there. I just nodded, but I couldn’t smile. No way he was in there. She walked out an hour later. Something wrong with her eyes, but that’s not what I thought about afterward, when I was trying to lay down for bed.”

“Will you just get on with it, old man?”

“I could tell you. But… Ah, it’s not like you want to be here anyway. Who you waitin’ for?”

“Wife. Fiancé, I’m sorry, get the two mixed up sometimes. Wedding’s next week.”

Toby buried half his face with a dirty palm, “Her dress was torn at the back. Shredded. Red marks. Deep red marks, like some hands had burned in through the skin. And it confused me at first, because I saw it glinting, all weird in the street lamps. Glinting white stuff. Then I realized it was a bit of rib cage showin’ through.”

I couldn’t say anything after that. Toby grinned when he saw the look on my face. Looking at me with his one eye. “And the kicker?” he continued. “Prints on the back, and somewhere a little lower, between the rear end and the inner knee… Two more handprints. Same shape almost, but the fingers… They were pencils. Long, thin strands of fingers.”

“Four of ‘em?” I said. “How many people are in there?”

“There ain’t a person in there, mister. Ain’t nobody you’d want to do the dance with.”

Another woman, just like any other I’d seen on the street, walked by. Blond. Young. So much ahead. She passed me, shoes clicking, giggling on her phone. “I’ll see you there. That place over by the corner!” she said and hung up.

I wanted to watch, see what was beyond the door when she opened it, but I couldn’t. My joint was out anyway, so I just shut my eyes.

I imagined that whatever lay past that door was dark. Very, very dark. But I couldn’t open my damn mouth. What could I have said? Toby must have known what I was thinking, because he laughed. It bounced all up and down the alley.

But when I could finally open my eyes, look over to nod goodbye, he was already gone.

This story is soon to appear in the DimensionBucket Magazine Podcast: http://www.dimensionbucket.com

Winchester Street

Tick… Tock…

Its voice is the tempo of a slow waltz in his mind. He taps the back beat with the heel of his worn down shoe.

Tick… Tap Tap… Tock… Tap Tap…

Just like when he was a young man again, and he would dance with a beautiful lass who happened to meet his gaze. Only now, he is older. The house is empty aside from the grandfather clock. All close family is long dead. The only thing he has is the tempo, and when he loses what little hearing he has left, he will have lost everything. This includes his mind.


Rest Stop

“Kirby… where are we?”

“Hell if I know. I think we’re still in Nebraska”

“Well don’t stop.”

“Wasn’t going to.”

“Did you see that?”

Kirby fell silent. He had seen it. It dashed right by the passenger window. All he could make out was a shape which could only be compared to legs. Not human ones though. That was for sure.


Gone Fishing

He’d gone fishing, at least, that’s what the sign said. What’s a business owner to do? It was always calming, and the pastime had inched its way closer to becoming a serious ritual. It’d only taken a couple years, after obtaining his new job in street cleaning. The water rippled at the motion of the electric stilts, the waves disappearing long before they reached the scattered horizon of the lakeside town. There was no wind, no voices to be heard, not even the movement of water. It was merely the hushed whiffling of the machine’s movement, and Vander’s own relaxed breaths.

He withdrew the fishing rod with the slip of a lever, and it slid out of the waist compartment. The click of a button, and it let its line drop into water, making more little ripples. It plonked as it did so, and somehow that was the most relaxing thing. He leaned back in his seat, and the electric legs supported this movement as sturdy as if it were stone. His eyes closed almost without thought. He wondered if he would catch anything today. There was hope, but little effort to actively think it over. He couldn’t concern himself. It had been difficult back at home. Surely, this was his time to unwind, even though this was double-duty in a sense.



In Singapore, the skies are clear. Everybody makes their way around the busy interstates, ensuring that they keep to themselves. Something is askew. Birds silently fly overhead. Smoke from a cargo ship paints dripping streaks onto the sky. Someone nearby coughs. Life continues on.

The janitorial office is but a hazy repetition of the previous morning. It smells vaguely of burning hair and soap. Today, you will be cleaning the restrooms. They escort you to a nearby office, with the guarantee of a good month’s check if management is pleased. You shut yourself in there, and begin to work on the stalls. You are aware of the chill which surrounds this place.