I’ve noticed recently that the internet has been buzzing with the latest in horror fiction; that is the two sentence kind of fiction not the full blown novel. Courtesy of salon.com, here six novelists try their hand at what is fast becoming a new subgenre. Some may chill you and others may make you shrug your shoulders; hopefully there’s something here that most will like.
It wasn’t what you’d expect, how she knew she was never truly alone. It was the damp trail of moisture she sometimes found–along the arch of her spine, across her shoulders, between her breasts — that let her know he was there.
Could it be that he really did remember to put the chains on the truck tires, that she came back from the valley with the baby formula as expected, in spite of the freak snowstorm, and nursed the child, nursed him that night and each night for the next three months at the appointed hour, the hour when once again tonight he feels her hand on his shoulder and rouses from sleep to find her standing over him, blankly beseeching, wondering where the child has gone, not realizing that the child is living with her parents now, that he couldn’t raise the child on his own, that he has since that night been incapable even of cooking his own meals in this empty cottage in the woods at the top of the hill their trucked slipped and swerved on, and off of which it tumbled in the snow all the way to the creek below; could it be that he has dreamed these terrible months of loneliness and guilt, that this is not her ghost, that this hand is corporeal, that the cold bed is an illusion and she has touched him only to acknowledge him as she rises to gather the child from the crib?
No, apparently not.
When I was 9, the birds stopped still in the sky and I saw the men that move between moments. They sang silently as they prepared the lake where my little sister was about to drown.
Because my mom was moving houses, she made me come over and go through all my childhood stuff. When I got home, the Raggedy Ann I’d bagged up to be tossed was sitting upright on my bed, smelling of smoke, with her hair half burnt and a charred smile that looked like it meant me no good.
The Murder House Tour is bullshit: the House of the Crazed Chiropractor, the House of the Fallen Weatherman, the House of the Ill-Informed Doomsday Cult. The last stop is a prefab, modern and obviously brand -new, and I ask, “Who was murdered here?” right before the screams.
Entranced, he followed her to her door and after she’d gone in, peeked through the keyhole, seeing only what seemed like a deep red lake. Only later did he learn ghosts’ eyes are red.