A young student meets a man at a nightclub and, one thing leading to another, ends up going home with him. The two spend the night together, drunkenly enjoying each other's company. In the morning they wake up with twin headaches, and quickly part company. The girl's embarrassed more than anything, so she doesn't mention the encounter to any of her friends. It was a stupid, alcohol-fuelled decision. Worst of all, she fears she might have caught something. She's itching horribly down there.
A week passes and, despite her hopes, the itching doesn't go away on its own. The girl makes an appointment at her local clinic and submits herself to her inspection. The diagnosis comes back: she has a colony of "corpse worms" living inside of her. It's treatable but, since the only place you can get corpse worms if off a dead body, the police will be wanting to speak to her.
She's taken down to the station and interviewed. There in the featureless interrogation room the whole humiliating story comes out. She tells them about the guy, and gives them his address. The police head off to investigate.
A week or so later, after she's been in and out of hospital a couple of times to be treated, she receives a follow-up call from the police. A young officer, barely hiding his disgust, explains that the guy she slept with was a hospital worker. It turned out that he'd been abusing the bodies entrusted to his care. At the time of their liaison he was, it seemed, a practicing necrophiliac.
Sunday 26 June 2011
Saturday 25 June 2011
The Solid Cement Car
A cement-truck driver is making his rounds one morning with a "wet" load. It just so happens that his second job of the day is in the same neighbourhood as his house. He decides to stop off and surprise his wife with a visit.
He pulls onto his street, and to his surprise sees that there is a car parked in his driveway. He stops up on the other side of the road, and looks across to his home. There, through the living room window he can see his wife . . . and another man, a stranger. They're sitting awfully close. All at once, a dozen possible explanations rise up in the driver's head, but they're weak. Jealous rage floods through him.
He's never had the best temper, and so the cement-truck driver pulls up his truck alongside the stranger's car, climbs out and levers open the sunroof. He directs the chute towards the sunroof and pulls the lever. Wet cement torrents out into the car, filling it in seconds. His revenge complete, the man climbs back into his cement truck and drives away.
Later that day, the police arrive at the depot with a warrant for his arrest. He knows what he's done, and so he doesn't resist. But it's not until they get back to the station that the police fully explain what has happened. It turns out that the car he wrecked was a surprise present from his wife. The man he saw inside his house was the agent who delivered the car. He and the cement-truck driver's wife had taken it for a test drive, before returning to her house. He'd come inside to finalise the paperwork.
Bad enough, but the worse is still to come. When she took the car out for a test drive, the man's wife took their baby child with her. The poor thing was still inside the car, strapped into its child seat, when the cement-truck driver took his ill-planned revenge. He's not being arrested for destruction of property, but for murder.
He pulls onto his street, and to his surprise sees that there is a car parked in his driveway. He stops up on the other side of the road, and looks across to his home. There, through the living room window he can see his wife . . . and another man, a stranger. They're sitting awfully close. All at once, a dozen possible explanations rise up in the driver's head, but they're weak. Jealous rage floods through him.
He's never had the best temper, and so the cement-truck driver pulls up his truck alongside the stranger's car, climbs out and levers open the sunroof. He directs the chute towards the sunroof and pulls the lever. Wet cement torrents out into the car, filling it in seconds. His revenge complete, the man climbs back into his cement truck and drives away.
Later that day, the police arrive at the depot with a warrant for his arrest. He knows what he's done, and so he doesn't resist. But it's not until they get back to the station that the police fully explain what has happened. It turns out that the car he wrecked was a surprise present from his wife. The man he saw inside his house was the agent who delivered the car. He and the cement-truck driver's wife had taken it for a test drive, before returning to her house. He'd come inside to finalise the paperwork.
Bad enough, but the worse is still to come. When she took the car out for a test drive, the man's wife took their baby child with her. The poor thing was still inside the car, strapped into its child seat, when the cement-truck driver took his ill-planned revenge. He's not being arrested for destruction of property, but for murder.
Sunday 19 June 2011
The Tanning Salon
A woman is preparing to be married next month. She's excited about the big day, and the one thing she wants more than anything else it to have a nice, deep tan. To this end, she heads down to a local tanning salon. It's one of those self-service places; basically a small shop with a bunch of coin operated machines. She strips off, inserts her money and climbs inside. Twenty minutes later she emerges a little bit more brown.
But it's not enough. She wants more. A few days later she heads back for another session, and another the day after that. She's getting close to the tan she wants, but it's still not enough . . . and the wedding's getting ever closer.
The night before the rehearsal, she heads down to the salon once more. This time, when her time on the bed expires, she just puts more money in. Not once, or twice, but five times. By the time the salon's finally closing up for the night she's dizzy and dehydrated, but she finally has the deep-gold tan she wants. She heads home and falls into bed.
And there she stays, forever. Her family find her the next day, dead and shrivelled, organs cooked to perfection from the inside out.
But it's not enough. She wants more. A few days later she heads back for another session, and another the day after that. She's getting close to the tan she wants, but it's still not enough . . . and the wedding's getting ever closer.
The night before the rehearsal, she heads down to the salon once more. This time, when her time on the bed expires, she just puts more money in. Not once, or twice, but five times. By the time the salon's finally closing up for the night she's dizzy and dehydrated, but she finally has the deep-gold tan she wants. She heads home and falls into bed.
And there she stays, forever. Her family find her the next day, dead and shrivelled, organs cooked to perfection from the inside out.
Saturday 18 June 2011
The Itchy Head
One afternoon, an old man comes wandering into hospital, wearing his pyjamas and dressing gown. He looks confused, squinting about short-sightedly. When one of the nurses approach him and asks what is wrong, he tells her his head itches terribly. As a matter of fact, it has for quite some time.
The nurse takes him in to be inspected. It doesn't take long to work out what the problem is. His hair is crusty with dried blood. When she tries to clean it, his scalp peels away along with the hair and the blood. There beneath is a bloody hole, delving deep into his head. In the depths she sees the grey matter of brain. Not only that, but it's moving. Little white shapes wriggling madly away.
"Oh, God," says the nurse. The little white things, she realises, are maggots.
It's not long before the doctor's have worked out what's happened. The old man lived alone, and he's not in the best of minds. A cut on his head became infected, and the infection spread. Flies came along, landing and laying their eggs. Slowly, day by day, the infection ate away, worming down through flesh, through bone, deep into the soft stuff of his brain, until his whole head was open to the sky. The man was so frail that he never even knew; all he ever felt was that steady, stinging itch.
The nurse takes him in to be inspected. It doesn't take long to work out what the problem is. His hair is crusty with dried blood. When she tries to clean it, his scalp peels away along with the hair and the blood. There beneath is a bloody hole, delving deep into his head. In the depths she sees the grey matter of brain. Not only that, but it's moving. Little white shapes wriggling madly away.
"Oh, God," says the nurse. The little white things, she realises, are maggots.
It's not long before the doctor's have worked out what's happened. The old man lived alone, and he's not in the best of minds. A cut on his head became infected, and the infection spread. Flies came along, landing and laying their eggs. Slowly, day by day, the infection ate away, worming down through flesh, through bone, deep into the soft stuff of his brain, until his whole head was open to the sky. The man was so frail that he never even knew; all he ever felt was that steady, stinging itch.
Sunday 12 June 2011
The Body In The Bag
A cat belonging to a young woman living in the city dies one day, of natural causes. The woman loved the cat very much, and wants it to be buried somewhere nice. Unfortunately she lives in an apartment with no garden, not even a communal one. As an alternative, the woman calls one of her friends--an artist who lives in the countryside. They arrange to meet at an out-of-town shopping centre, where the woman will hand over the body of her pet so that it can be buried out in the forest.
The woman wraps the body of her cat in paper and loads it into a boutique bag. She heads out to the shopping centre and goes to the food court, where she grabs a coffee while she waits for her friend. The artist eventually arrives, having been delayed by traffic. They chat for a few minutes, and then the woman goes to hand over the bag with the cat in it . . . only to find that it's missing.
They contact mall security and start a search, mostly to no avail. Someone must have taken their chance and stolen the bag while the woman went to the bathroom. The shopping centre manager apologises profusely to the woman, but there's nothing they can do.
Sadly, the woman and her artist friend head out to the car park. On the way they notice that there's some kind of commotion going on at the far end of the lot. They wander over to look. Lying there unconscious on the concrete, surrounded by a crowd of horrified onlookers is a large, middle-aged tramp. Lying there beside him is a familiar-looking boutique bag, the straggly head of the woman's cat poking out of the top.
The woman wraps the body of her cat in paper and loads it into a boutique bag. She heads out to the shopping centre and goes to the food court, where she grabs a coffee while she waits for her friend. The artist eventually arrives, having been delayed by traffic. They chat for a few minutes, and then the woman goes to hand over the bag with the cat in it . . . only to find that it's missing.
They contact mall security and start a search, mostly to no avail. Someone must have taken their chance and stolen the bag while the woman went to the bathroom. The shopping centre manager apologises profusely to the woman, but there's nothing they can do.
Sadly, the woman and her artist friend head out to the car park. On the way they notice that there's some kind of commotion going on at the far end of the lot. They wander over to look. Lying there unconscious on the concrete, surrounded by a crowd of horrified onlookers is a large, middle-aged tramp. Lying there beside him is a familiar-looking boutique bag, the straggly head of the woman's cat poking out of the top.
Saturday 11 June 2011
The Deep-Fried Rat
A trucker pulls into a service station on the motorway. He's been driving all night and hasn't eaten since the night before. He needs some food, and so he heads for the fast-food bar and orders some fried chicken and chips. While he waits he glances around the place: it's not exactly sparkly clean--but then again he's been in some bad places in his travels. He takes his food and heads for a table.
He's about to bite into his chicken when something makes him stop. He pokes it with his fork, inspecting the meat. For a moment all he knows is that it looks kind of weird . . . and then he flips it over and he sees the shape of it. He hurls it away from himself, almost vomiting.
The deep fried thing is not chicken at all. It's a rat, curled into a ball and slathered with batter. The poor thing must have fallen into the fryer, cooking itself whole in the remnants of a hundred meals-worth of grease.
He's about to bite into his chicken when something makes him stop. He pokes it with his fork, inspecting the meat. For a moment all he knows is that it looks kind of weird . . . and then he flips it over and he sees the shape of it. He hurls it away from himself, almost vomiting.
The deep fried thing is not chicken at all. It's a rat, curled into a ball and slathered with batter. The poor thing must have fallen into the fryer, cooking itself whole in the remnants of a hundred meals-worth of grease.
Sunday 5 June 2011
The Sewer Workers
A group of sewer workers are down in the tunnels. They've been sent to clear out a blockage in one of the more far-flung pipelines under the city. The trouble is, they're working from plans that are way out of date. The further they go down, the harder it gets to be sure of where they are. At last, they come to a hatch in the floor of a junction.
"This is it, I think," says the foreman. "Let's head down."
They prepare their gear and open up the hatch, only to find that the tunnel beyond is narrower than they thought, and the ladder is long-since rusted. They can only send down one man to clear the blockage. A young workman volunteers for the job and is roped up and lowered down into the dark. A few minutes pass.
Then the man starts screaming.
Panicking, the others haul back on the rope. The guy down the hole sounds like he's screaming his lungs out. Eventually he comes back into sight, kicking and yelling, and they manage to get him over the lip of the hatch. He's shuddering violently, clutching at his clothes. His hair has turned a deathly white.
"What happened?" cry the other workmen. "What's down there?"
But the guy won't answer. He can't even speak. They shut up the hatch and manage to drag him back up to the surface, where he's carted off to hospital. But whatever the doctors do to him, he will not speak, will not say a word about what it was down there he saw.
"This is it, I think," says the foreman. "Let's head down."
They prepare their gear and open up the hatch, only to find that the tunnel beyond is narrower than they thought, and the ladder is long-since rusted. They can only send down one man to clear the blockage. A young workman volunteers for the job and is roped up and lowered down into the dark. A few minutes pass.
Then the man starts screaming.
Panicking, the others haul back on the rope. The guy down the hole sounds like he's screaming his lungs out. Eventually he comes back into sight, kicking and yelling, and they manage to get him over the lip of the hatch. He's shuddering violently, clutching at his clothes. His hair has turned a deathly white.
"What happened?" cry the other workmen. "What's down there?"
But the guy won't answer. He can't even speak. They shut up the hatch and manage to drag him back up to the surface, where he's carted off to hospital. But whatever the doctors do to him, he will not speak, will not say a word about what it was down there he saw.
Saturday 4 June 2011
The Carpet Store
A woman is out shopping for a new rug for her bedroom. She's wandering around a warehouse store, searching. She's looking for something exotic, something imported perhaps. She inspects some carpet samples and brushes her hand across a stack of rolled up rugs at the end of an aisle. Just then she feels a sharp pain in her finger, as though a pin or something was embedded in one of the rugs . . . but when she looks she can't see a thing. Sucking her finger, she leaves the store and heads back home.
A few hours later her neighbour discovers the woman lying dead in her kitchen. The police are called and the body taken down to the morgue. A pathologist examines her thoroughly, and eventually determines the cause of death. The woman was killed by the bite of an exotic spider.
It's a week before they track the woman's movements back to the carpet store she visited that day. And it's a week more before they discover the offending carpet. Imported from the Middle East, the thing is riddled with the husks of venomous spider eggs. The spiders themselves, however, are nowhere to be found.
The carpet is hauled away for further inspection, but the detectives know it's already too late. The spiders have spread already, and it's only a matter of time before the hatchlings start laying eggs of their own.
A few hours later her neighbour discovers the woman lying dead in her kitchen. The police are called and the body taken down to the morgue. A pathologist examines her thoroughly, and eventually determines the cause of death. The woman was killed by the bite of an exotic spider.
It's a week before they track the woman's movements back to the carpet store she visited that day. And it's a week more before they discover the offending carpet. Imported from the Middle East, the thing is riddled with the husks of venomous spider eggs. The spiders themselves, however, are nowhere to be found.
The carpet is hauled away for further inspection, but the detectives know it's already too late. The spiders have spread already, and it's only a matter of time before the hatchlings start laying eggs of their own.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)