A teenage guy takes his girlfriend out into the hills one weekend, determined on a bit of midnight action in the predicted storm. The two of them make their way to an isolated spot on the peaks, and wait for the rain to start. Overcome by excitement--and hormones--they strip off and get down to business.
The lightning storm moves on top of them. Bolts of electric light crack down through the sky . . . and by unfortunate chance, one strikes in the exact spot the teenage lovers have chosen for their tryst. Hundreds of thousands of volts course through the pair. The girl is killed instantly, but the boy survives, despite being in awful pain. Worse still, the electricity melted the latex of the condom they were using, fusing the two of them together.
Sickened and horrified, the boy vomited straight onto the girl's face, before passing out cold. When he came to a few minutes later he was no longer alone; a wolf had wandered out from the woods and was licking the vomit from the girl's face. The boy balked in disgust, but managed not to move. It wasn't long before the wolf got bored and left the scene . . . though not before taking a few quick bites at the back of the boy's head.
The night that followed was agonising. Despite the pain and the weight of his dead girlfriend, the boy managed to drag himself--inch by agonising inch--all the way back to the car park. That was where they found him in the morning, bloodied, filthy, barely alive, the corpse of his girlfriend fused agonisingly to his most sensitive of organs.
Sunday, 24 July 2011
Saturday, 23 July 2011
The Stoned Sitter
A couple are head out for dinner one night, leaving their baby at home in the capable hands of a teenage sitter. The first half of the night passes pleasantly enough, and both of them are thoroughly enjoying their meal, when the man's mobile rings. It's the sitter. She sounds . . . strange.
"The baby's asleep," she said, "and I put the turkey in the over like you asked."
"Turkey?" says the man. "What turkey?" Neither he nor his wife had any kind of turkey in the house.
"You left . . . on the table you left a turkey. You said to, um . . ." The sitter tails off, sounding uncertain. Then she hangs up.
Worried, the couple decide to cut short their dinner and head home. When they arrive they find the sitter curled up on the sofa, crying hopelessly. There's a distinct smell of marijuana in the air . . . and at first the couple think that's all it is. She smoked a few joints and got a little paranoid: careless, but nothing terrible.
Then they go through to the kitchen.
In a flash they see what has happened. Out of her head on the drugs, the babysitter became confused. There never was a turkey. Only their baby. Sitting on top of the oven in a metal dish is what remains of their child, his skin blackened and crisped and cooked.
"The baby's asleep," she said, "and I put the turkey in the over like you asked."
"Turkey?" says the man. "What turkey?" Neither he nor his wife had any kind of turkey in the house.
"You left . . . on the table you left a turkey. You said to, um . . ." The sitter tails off, sounding uncertain. Then she hangs up.
Worried, the couple decide to cut short their dinner and head home. When they arrive they find the sitter curled up on the sofa, crying hopelessly. There's a distinct smell of marijuana in the air . . . and at first the couple think that's all it is. She smoked a few joints and got a little paranoid: careless, but nothing terrible.
Then they go through to the kitchen.
In a flash they see what has happened. Out of her head on the drugs, the babysitter became confused. There never was a turkey. Only their baby. Sitting on top of the oven in a metal dish is what remains of their child, his skin blackened and crisped and cooked.
Sunday, 17 July 2011
The Death Car
A young office worker is in the market for a new car. He's mooching around the used-car salesrooms, searching for a bargain, when he spots a slightly-battered-looking BMW on sale for less than half its value. It's a deal he can hardly resist, and he finalises the paperwork later that day.
As he drives home, he's aware of a vague, sweetish smell pervading the inside of the car. Still, it's nothing that a good clean won't solve, and he's too happy with his new purchase to really care.
The next day he washes the car and vacuums and cleans the inside as thoroughly as he can. However, the smell remains. In fact, it gets worse as time goes on. After about a week he can hardly stand it anymore, and he takes the car back to the showroom to complain.
To his surprise, the dealer doesn't give him any trouble. "I knew this would happen," he says. "I just can't get rid of this damn car." He goes on to explain the history of this particular vehicle.
It just so happens that the car's first owner committed suicide inside of it, gassing herself to death in the garage of her home. Unfortunately, nobody was around to witness the woman's suicide, and so by the time she was found her body was long-since decayed.
"Ever since we got it," says the dealer, "that smell has stuck around inside the car. It doesn't matter what you do: change the seats, change the fittings . . . it makes no difference. Ever since we got it that car has stunk of death."
As he drives home, he's aware of a vague, sweetish smell pervading the inside of the car. Still, it's nothing that a good clean won't solve, and he's too happy with his new purchase to really care.
The next day he washes the car and vacuums and cleans the inside as thoroughly as he can. However, the smell remains. In fact, it gets worse as time goes on. After about a week he can hardly stand it anymore, and he takes the car back to the showroom to complain.
To his surprise, the dealer doesn't give him any trouble. "I knew this would happen," he says. "I just can't get rid of this damn car." He goes on to explain the history of this particular vehicle.
It just so happens that the car's first owner committed suicide inside of it, gassing herself to death in the garage of her home. Unfortunately, nobody was around to witness the woman's suicide, and so by the time she was found her body was long-since decayed.
"Ever since we got it," says the dealer, "that smell has stuck around inside the car. It doesn't matter what you do: change the seats, change the fittings . . . it makes no difference. Ever since we got it that car has stunk of death."
Saturday, 16 July 2011
The Chicken-Footed Dancer
A Spanish woman is at the annual dance of her town. She's spent half the evening dancing and is resting for a moment against the wall. She watches the other dancers twirling and sweeping past on the floor. From among them steps a tall, dark-haired man who she's never seen before in her life. He saunters up to her with an easy confidence.
"Would you care to dance?" he asks, holding out his arm. The woman is tired, but for some reason she finds the offer difficult to resist. She takes the man's arm and allows him to lead her into the crowd.
Five minutes later the rhythm of the music is sundered by a scream. The dancer's grind to a halt and turn towards the source of the disturbance. It's the woman, and she's lying on the floor in a cold faint. Her partner is already pushing his way through the crowd towards the exit; he's gone in a flash before anyone can grab him.
Smelling salts are fetched and the woman is eventually roused to consciousness once more. She's deathly pale, and looks terrified. It's a long time before she can explain what happened, and when she does the listeners that surround her don't know whether or not to believe her. It was the handsome man, she tells them. They were dancing together, quite happily, when she happened to glance down. There, in the place where his legs should have been were a scrawny pair of chicken feet, thick horny claws and all.
The listeners withdraw in fear. This can mean only one thing; a man with the feet of a chicken can only be the devil.
"Would you care to dance?" he asks, holding out his arm. The woman is tired, but for some reason she finds the offer difficult to resist. She takes the man's arm and allows him to lead her into the crowd.
Five minutes later the rhythm of the music is sundered by a scream. The dancer's grind to a halt and turn towards the source of the disturbance. It's the woman, and she's lying on the floor in a cold faint. Her partner is already pushing his way through the crowd towards the exit; he's gone in a flash before anyone can grab him.
Smelling salts are fetched and the woman is eventually roused to consciousness once more. She's deathly pale, and looks terrified. It's a long time before she can explain what happened, and when she does the listeners that surround her don't know whether or not to believe her. It was the handsome man, she tells them. They were dancing together, quite happily, when she happened to glance down. There, in the place where his legs should have been were a scrawny pair of chicken feet, thick horny claws and all.
The listeners withdraw in fear. This can mean only one thing; a man with the feet of a chicken can only be the devil.
Sunday, 10 July 2011
The Halloween Apples
It's Halloween, and a bunch of children are out trick-or-treating with one of the kid's uncles. All night they've been making their way through the neighbourhood, banging on doors, collecting a sizeable pile of handouts. Towards the end of the night they stop on a corner to count up what they've got. Most of the kids seem to have amassed a good pile of sweets, along with a few small toys and a number of differently-sized apples from concerned members of the healthy eating brigade.
Satisfied, the kids and their chaperone start to head back to their home neighbourhood. On the way, the kids start in on their haul, munching their way through various sweets and snacks. They're almost halfway back when one of the boys yelps and drops the apple he'd been chewing on. Blood is dripping from his mouth.
Concerned, the uncle crouches down by the boy and inspects the injury. It looks like he cut his mouth on something. The uncle comforts the boy until the crying stops, then snatches up the apple from the pavement. There's something metallic stuck in there, he sees. Squinting closer, he sees to his horror that the metal thing is a razor blade.
The first thing he does is collect the apples off the other kids. With mounting horror, he sorts through the fruits, finding first one then another with a little telltale slash in its skin.
He's panicking now. So many people gave apples this year there's no way he can tell who the perpetrator might be. And who knows how many more of these doctored apples are out there? Thought whirl around his head, but one is most prominent of all: which of all the nice, normal-looking houses they stopped at tonight was the house of a lunatic?
Satisfied, the kids and their chaperone start to head back to their home neighbourhood. On the way, the kids start in on their haul, munching their way through various sweets and snacks. They're almost halfway back when one of the boys yelps and drops the apple he'd been chewing on. Blood is dripping from his mouth.
Concerned, the uncle crouches down by the boy and inspects the injury. It looks like he cut his mouth on something. The uncle comforts the boy until the crying stops, then snatches up the apple from the pavement. There's something metallic stuck in there, he sees. Squinting closer, he sees to his horror that the metal thing is a razor blade.
The first thing he does is collect the apples off the other kids. With mounting horror, he sorts through the fruits, finding first one then another with a little telltale slash in its skin.
He's panicking now. So many people gave apples this year there's no way he can tell who the perpetrator might be. And who knows how many more of these doctored apples are out there? Thought whirl around his head, but one is most prominent of all: which of all the nice, normal-looking houses they stopped at tonight was the house of a lunatic?
Saturday, 9 July 2011
The Microwave
It's raining buckets. A young blonde woman has left her umbrella behind at work and so has to run all the way from the bus stop to her house. By the time she gets in she's soaked to the skin. Worse still, she has a date set for that night. She needs to dry out her hair quickly.
She's heard from a friend that you can use a microwave to dry things out: towels and items of clothing and such. Surely it would work the same for her hair . . .
Her date arrives an hour or so later and knocks on the door. No answer, and he can smell something burning. He wakes her neighbour, who calls the blonde girl's brother, who comes around in his car. In the intervening time the smell of burning has only gotten worse. The brother lets himself in and follows his nose to the kitchen. And there she is, the blonde girl, his sister, slumped over dead with her head wedged inside the microwave, dark streams of steam and blood running from her eyes and mouth and ears.
It turned out that she'd forced the door control with a spoon so that the microwave would run, even with the door open. She died of a fatal haemorrhage within seconds.
She's heard from a friend that you can use a microwave to dry things out: towels and items of clothing and such. Surely it would work the same for her hair . . .
Her date arrives an hour or so later and knocks on the door. No answer, and he can smell something burning. He wakes her neighbour, who calls the blonde girl's brother, who comes around in his car. In the intervening time the smell of burning has only gotten worse. The brother lets himself in and follows his nose to the kitchen. And there she is, the blonde girl, his sister, slumped over dead with her head wedged inside the microwave, dark streams of steam and blood running from her eyes and mouth and ears.
It turned out that she'd forced the door control with a spoon so that the microwave would run, even with the door open. She died of a fatal haemorrhage within seconds.
Sunday, 3 July 2011
The Elevator Angel
A young secretary works in a high-rise office building in the middle of the city. One night she's at the office late, catching up on some paperwork. When she finishes, finally, she packs away her things and heads for the elevator. It's almost ten o' clock and the building is eerily empty, just her and the security guards. She hits the button and waits for the lift to arrive.
Her mind is still on her work, but she's fairly sure she's the only one waiting on that floor. That's why she's so surprised when the elevator arrives and, just as she's about to step inside, someone barges past her into the box. She's so surprised that she stops dead, staring at the man who has pushed past her. He stands in the middle of the lift, smiling benevolently at her. He's not a worker, and he's definitely not a security guard. In fact, she's never seen him before in her life.
Before she can react, the metal doors scroll shut and the elevator starts to descend. The secretary just stands there, bemused. She takes a step back . . . maybe she should take the stairs.
Just then there's an almighty bang, and a rattling from the lift shaft. A siren sounds. A thud echoes up the lift shaft.
Later, down in the lobby, surrounded by police and fire officers, she tells her story. About the man who pushed past her, how she was seconds away from getting into the lift herself.
"You were lucky," says one police officer. The lift, he tells her, has plummeted all the way to the ground floor. If anyone had been inside, they almost certainly would have been killed.
"If?" says the secretary. "But there was someone inside. I remember; a man pushed past me just as I was about to get in."
The police officers just shake their heads. "No," they tell her, "that lift was very definitely empty." And when they check the CCTV tapes the story's the same: no stranger pushes past her. The whole time she was by herself on the floor, completely and utterly alone.
Her mind is still on her work, but she's fairly sure she's the only one waiting on that floor. That's why she's so surprised when the elevator arrives and, just as she's about to step inside, someone barges past her into the box. She's so surprised that she stops dead, staring at the man who has pushed past her. He stands in the middle of the lift, smiling benevolently at her. He's not a worker, and he's definitely not a security guard. In fact, she's never seen him before in her life.
Before she can react, the metal doors scroll shut and the elevator starts to descend. The secretary just stands there, bemused. She takes a step back . . . maybe she should take the stairs.
Just then there's an almighty bang, and a rattling from the lift shaft. A siren sounds. A thud echoes up the lift shaft.
Later, down in the lobby, surrounded by police and fire officers, she tells her story. About the man who pushed past her, how she was seconds away from getting into the lift herself.
"You were lucky," says one police officer. The lift, he tells her, has plummeted all the way to the ground floor. If anyone had been inside, they almost certainly would have been killed.
"If?" says the secretary. "But there was someone inside. I remember; a man pushed past me just as I was about to get in."
The police officers just shake their heads. "No," they tell her, "that lift was very definitely empty." And when they check the CCTV tapes the story's the same: no stranger pushes past her. The whole time she was by herself on the floor, completely and utterly alone.
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