By Dean Kuch
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
Exhilarated, my fist grips the ice pick tight. Knuckles flare white. Blood runs down the walls in rivulets. It drips heavy — like syrup — from the overfilled bathtub. The woman inside is limp...lifeless. Her arm dangles over the side.
A puppet without strings.
I am the Puppeteer.
Digging deep into her left breast, I detach bits of her whorish heart with each stab. I dip my hands into the gash, covering myself with her viscous fluids. Her essence is upon me.
I'm fully aroused.
I attach fishing line from incisions made in her hands, arms, legs and feet. Wrapping them around my erection creates a macabre puppet as I step back.
It's the part I enjoy most.
I ejaculate.
It's what I'm known for.
I glance toward the gore-spattered mirror to witness my elation. I realize we're no longer alone. A police officer brandishes a weapon in the reflection behind me.
I yank away, then tear off for the bedroom, knocking over a family photo in the process. I pause — glance down. A uniformed policeman is pictured accepting an award.
She smiles in the photograph next to him.
I hear nothing before I see the flash.
| Author Notes |
198 Words.
This will be my first chapter in an anthology series of flash fiction horror stories, depending upon how well it is received by you, my fellow FanStory horror aficionados. The series will be titled, "The First Cut is the Deepest". The first chapter is titled, "The Puppeteer". As always, thank you for reading and supporting my work. Pleasant Screams!, heh-heh-heh... |
By Dean Kuch
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
The Lamia's Lullaby
The clock pulses a bright red 12:01 AM. Frank looks on in horror as the Lamia pushes its jagged, rotting nails deep into his gut. White-hot shards of pain take control of his brain. Gore sprays, spattering the walls. Frank is pinned beneath the grinning ghoul.
Lowering its face to within inches of his own, the Lamia's shark-like teeth bite down hard, then clamp. Frank gags, convulsing as he chokes on his own blood — chest heaving, gulping, gasping for life-giving air.
Frank bolts upright, covered in perspiration.
“Oh, thank God,” he mutters. “It was only a dream.”
Frank glances at his nightstand, then to the alarm clock. 12:00 AM flashes back.
The bedroom closet cracks slightly, then slowly creaks open...
| Author Notes |
In Greek mythology the Lamia is a mistress of the god Zeus, causing Zeus' jealous wife, Hera, to kill all of Lamia's children and transform her into a monster that hunts and devours the children of others. Another version has Hera merely stealing away all of Lamia's children and it being Lamia herself, losing her mind from grief and despair, who starts stealing and devouring others' children out of envy, the repeated monstrosity of which transforms her into a monster on its own.
Some accounts say she has a serpent's tail below the waist. This popular description of her is largely due to "Lamia", a poem by John Keats, composed in 1819. Thank you as always for reading and supporting my work. I appreciate each and everyone who does. Oh, and...Pleasant Screams, heh-heh-heh. |
By Dean Kuch
She's Such a Doll
Her black lifeless eyes stare into mine. Perfect porcelain features, expressionless...I'm held transfixed.
"Genuine haunted doll," claimed eBay's description. Just a gimmick, something to push the price up. She looked creepy.
I won the bidding.
Lucky me.
She arrived early yesterday. I placed her on the table. Now, here I sit. Can't move. I'm so thirsty...hungry — yet I can't force myself to look away, locked in her deadly stare...
Phone's ringing...Beth!
She'll still come over if I don't answer, won't she?
“Okay, well, I guess you're busy. I'm off on my trip. See you in two weeks when I get home. Kisses!”
Dear God...
| Author Notes | As always, thank you for reading. |
By Dean Kuch
Warning: The author has noted that this contains strong violence.
~The Cat's Meow~
My wife adores the beast who roams our humble home. She's named him... Fabio. This cat gets more affection than I do. He's always mean-spirited, nasty, and easily agitated with everyone.
Everyone but my wife.
The day began mundanely, as most of my days do. I awoke to the intoxicating smells of a scrumptious breakfast consisting of bacon and eggs. However, there was one problem. The breakfast wasn't meant for me. When I saw Monica feeding this feline fiend my bacon and farm fresh eggs, I lost it.
Okay, maybe I overreacted by tossing the damned cat out of the kitchen window, but I was upset.
Wouldn't you be?
He left a couple of nice, deep bloody gouges in my forearm for my troubles.
I'd get even, once and for all.
After she left for the office, I prepared my wife a wonderful meal. Accompanying my beautifully garnished meat dish was a sweet red wine. You see, earlier, I'd caught Fabio and twisted his mangy neck.
His eyes bulged from their sockets when I squeezed the life out of him.
Monica loved it, exclaiming the meal was the cat's meow.
If only she'd known...
| Author Notes |
*199 words, by the FanStory editors count.
The ultimate horror for anyone who dearly loves their beloved pets, no matter how mean and nasty they might be... Thanks so much for reading~ |
By Dean Kuch
The Tell-Tale Bart
Can't they hear it? They must; the incessant mewling is maddening. I should have killed that damned beast and buried it in the basement alongside her.
Bart — she named that infernal feline, Bart.
Now, just where has the horrid beast run off to?
Those sounds...they seem to be coming from... no, it can't be! Strange noises, coming from underground, her father said...beneath the flooring of the basement.
But... the dead make no sound.
The police? Why have they come; who summoned them here?
Her father...he's called them!
Digging — they're all digging now. They'll find her, and when they do, they'll know.
Nuh–no...it's impossible, it simply can't be! I checked everything carefully before tossing her into the grave...
“Evildoers!” I cried, “dig no more! I'll admit what I've done –– here...dig here!
...It is the bleating of her hideous Bart!”
| Author Notes |
*145 Words
My apologies to one of history's most adept spinners of horror yarns and dark poetry, the great Edgar Allan Poe... As always, thanks so much for bleating...er, ha-hah -- I mean reading! |
By Dean Kuch
So Sorry I Missed You, Dear
"I'm off to my poetry class, Harold!”
Harold was aware of his wife's secret affair.
Following her to a park, he observed his wife and a man necking in the back seat. Popping the cap on his sniper rifle lens, he sighted in, then fired...
—<<>>—
Back home, Harold sat watching television as his wife pulled in the driveway.
“I went by the poetry class, Jill. Your friends said you'd already left.”
“Oh? Uh—well, Harold, I'm sorry I missed you, dear.”
Harold sneered at her.
“Yeah, I'm really sorry I missed you too.”
| Author Notes |
I'm not advocating that anyone go out and shoot their cheating spouses. Divorce is always a wiser option. Reconciliation and forgiveness, if possible -- even better.
|
By Dean Kuch
Please, indulge me and allow the intro and music to play before
reading. I want this to have the feel of one of those old classic,
radio plays of bygone eras. Some of you know what I'm referring to.
Thanks!~Dean
~ Doppelgänger ~
Edgar hugs his daughter, then tucks her snugly into bed.
“Don't forget to say your prayers, sweetie, ya' hear?”
Grinning up at her father, Betsy nods in affirmation. Before her father exits the dimly lit bedroom, she asks, “Daddy, will you please check under my bed for monsters?”
Edgar smiles, gets down on one knee, then peers beneath the bed to humor her.
Terror seizes his heart in a vice-like death grip.
It was her — another her — under the bed, staring back, quivering — her mouth gulping for air...
“S-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h, Daddy. Someone's in my bed...”
| Author Notes |
dop-pel-gang-er
[dop-uh l-gang-er; German daw-puh l-geng-er] noun 1.a ghostly double or counterpart of a living person. When I was a child, I had several recurring dreams that were truly terrifying. My cries of terror transgressed sleep and would leave me panicked, shouting out loud and visibly shaken. Below is one such dream. Simply retelling it has the power to shadow me with dread... It would always begin with my parents and myself sitting in our living room. In the dream, I would be sitting on a chair opposite my mother and father, terrified, waiting for the inevitable knocking on the front door of our house. When it came, I would plead with my father not to answer it, but, as is the futility of attempting to divert a dream, he always would. On seeing him about to turn the handle to open the door, I would run back to the sofa and curl up in a ball, gazing out from a gap between my fingers. As always, a man and a woman would step in, the living duplicates of my parents, their hands held aloft, their thumbs parted and tips joined, as if poised to strangle my mother and father; and, finally, they would make their way towards their intended victims with slow -- dreadfully slow -- exaggerated steps. To those who take the time to read this, thank you as always for reading and supporting my work here on FanStory. I am in your debt... Pleasant Screams! Heh-heh-heh... |
By Dean Kuch
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
Please, indulge me and allow the intro and music
to play prior to reading. I'd like this to have an
old-time, classic feel, like those old radio plays of
bygone eras.
Some of you know what I'm referring to.
Thanks!~Dean
Dog~ Gone
A Tiny Tail... u-h-h-m-m-m, heh-heh, Tale of Terror
Seven-year-old Marcy awoke from a deep sleep with an urgent need to pee.
Every night played out the same. Her dog, Buttons, licked her hand from beneath the bed before Marcy traipsed off to the bathroom. This continued for four consecutive nights — the same scenario playing out each time.
Marcy slid out of bed, then bent down to reach for her bunny slippers as the overwhelming urge again squeezed her bladder.
A moistened tongue greets her hand – as always – before Marcy rushes down the hall to the bathroom. She opens the door then flips on the light switch.
Screams soon shatter the silence.
Buttons is in the bathtub. Bits and pieces of her beloved friend are scattered everywhere. Puddles of the poor pooch pool across the slick tiled floor.
A message, scrawled on the bathroom mirror in deep red smudges, reads ...
| Author Notes |
My undying gratitude goes out to giraffmang (Gareth) and his lovely wife for the inspiration behind this story. Thanks again, G-Man!
As always, thank you all very much for your kind support of this series. You know who you are, heh-heh... Pleasant Screams!~ |
By Dean Kuch
Her horror began with strange gurgling sounds that echoed deep within the crumbling, ancient well.
Jill approached cautiously, but saw nothing.
The full moon ducked behind a cloud. It was then she felt them touch her. Gnarled, wet hands — alabaster pale — from the well.
It was Jack.
He'd come home.
| Author Notes |
50 Words
So, how did you like my take on Jack & Jill? I mean, hadn't you ever wondered? Thanks for reading. Pleasant Screams... |
By Dean Kuch
Jenny and her friend Samantha sauntered up to the kissing booth. Jenny had always desired to kiss him, and here was he was.
A typical teenager, Jenny was curious. She'd read so much about his breathtaking kisses in literature, she simply had to know.
"Jen, you really want to do this? I mean, he's..."
"Oh, yes," Jenny sighed.
After plunking down her two quarters, she kissed him.
A carny working the ring toss yelled across the litter-strewn mid-way.
"Hey, Grimm — how's biz?"
Grinning over the corpse of yet another curiosity seeker came the whispered reply,
"...Dead."
| Author Notes |
100 words.
"Giving up is always easy. It's the peace that follows that sucks." -- Rachel Caine, Kiss of Death Thanks so much for reading! |
By Dean Kuch
Going Home
~†~
Resigned to a hospital bed, I knew now my arduous journey through life had come to an end. My family hovered all around me, grieving. They appeared to me, drifting in and out, with little definition or clarity. Diaphanous specters from an otherworldly plane of existence. They needn't weep for me.
My pain would end soon.
The heart monitor kept tempo with my shallow breathing. Rhythmic...
I heard him. A soft, essentially silken susurration.
He leaned over me then—like a passionate lover awaiting a kiss.
I wasn't afraid.
Flesh brushed bone...
I was going home.
| Author Notes |
O' death, where is thy sting? O' grave, where is thy victory?--1 Corinthians 15:55
King James Version (KJV) There is a Reaper, whose name is Death, And, with his sickle keen, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, And the flowers that grow between.~HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, "The Reaper and the Flowers" God pours life into death and death into life without a drop being spilled. ~Author Unknown Death is a welcome stranger to everyone- until he comes tap-tapping on our own door...~Anon The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time. ~Mark Twain |
By Dean Kuch
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
Bug Problem
—100-200 word horror flash fiction prompt—
Ronny Rodriguez armed himself with a flashlight and a can of RAID. He threw open the door leading down to the dank, musty basement of his home. He wasn't any closer to getting rid of them than he was a week ago. The scritch-scratching of their disgusting, creepy-crawly legs, coupled with their incessant chewing on the wooden floor joists, were keeping him awake at night..
“Ronny, you be careful down there. Don't hurt yourself,” his wife, Maria, scolded. “Maybe we should call an extermin..."
“Maria, please— I'll handle this.” Switching on his flashlight, the bright beam cut a narrow swath through darkness. His elongated shadow on the landing below looked alien, like an astronaut preparing to step on the surface of some far-off planet in another galaxy.
He felt the thing before he saw it—sharp stabbing pains, burning through his abdomen. Mouth agape in a silent scream, Ronny stared into the multiple bulbous eyes of the creature. His intestines spilled out over his work boots.
Dropping his bug spray and flashlight, the last thing Ronny managed to gurgle through blood-soaked lips bubbled out in barely a whisper.
“Muh—Maria...I thu-think we got a very big bug problem...”
| Author Notes |
Although termites are supposed to be harmless creatures to humans, the "accidental" crossing for its road to human civilization has resulted to the destruction of a lot of properties. Statistically speaking, termites damage about 600 thousand US homes each year. Multiply that to just ten year and you get a shocking 1 000 000 homes already! It is worth noting too that termites have already been causing property damage for so long that in some countries (like in Australia), termite infestation problems are considered to be as old as their civilization. Imagine that amount of damage.
Because of the vastness of the damage that termites cause, roughly $5B is spent for termite eradication and control on a yearly basis in the USA. This much money is enough to feed the marginalized sectors of Africa for almost a decade! However, because of the termite infestation problems, this money is spent on termite repellent products, termite control services and repair of properties being damaged by termites. Moreover, according to the statistics released by the USDA or the US Department of Agriculture, about $1B to $2B is spent on repairs alone. |
By Dean Kuch
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
Please, indulge me and allow the intro and
music to play before reading. I want this to
have the feel of one of those old classic,
radio plays of bygone eras.
Some of you know what I'm referring to.
Thanks!~Dean
She Loves Me Not.
Early morning sunlight filters through the smudges on the kitchen window like yellowed smoke. Classic rock station, WROK, in Portland, blares tunes distorted by static from a tiny transistor radio on the kitchen counter. An upended bowl of Lucky Charms cereal sits toppled on a checkered tablecloth.
Johnny's cell chimes Bad Company's hit, “Shooting Star”, inside the breast pocket of a tattered jean jacket tossed over the back of a wobbly chair. It's mom, calling her teenage son to remind him to be on time to catch the school bus.
“I love you baby,” she coos.
Upstairs in Johnny's bedroom, an empty Vicodin vial sits beside a bottle of Jack Daniel's. A crumpled note from the boy's girlfriend juts from his stiff clenched fist.
A lone, dark silhouette hovers over the pallid boy — head down, skeletal features locked in a perpetual feral grin — as it watches patiently with hollow sockets... waiting.
Blue Oyster Cult's, “Don't Fear The Reaper,” beckons from the cheap tranistor radio below...
No one sings along.
| Author Notes |
Thank you all for your interest in this series. I appreciate all those who read and support my work.
|
By Dean Kuch
The children of Glenn Haven often played near the weathered barn on Siler's Hill. They would dare each other to approach, bragging about going inside at night.
The barn, abandoned years before, was said to house spirits of the dead. Kids speculated what evils lurked within. They'd noticed crows and other birds would fly inside but never come back out again.
A man working the fields near the barn rushed toward the latest group of thrill seekers, wild-eyed, pitchfork raised — hurriedly warning them away.
“That’s where they lock us away — the bad scarecrows — after we've...turned.”
None of the kids ever thought of going near the barn again.
| Author Notes |
I hope you've enjoyed this latest installment of the Tiny Tales of Terror series. Thanks for reading, and as always...
Pleasant Screams, heh-heh... |
By Dean Kuch
Carnival lights glow eerily in the darkened sky. Strange melodies mixed with excited shrieks are whisked along by the scented breezes. The faint, familiar aromas of cotton candy and caramel permeate the air with sweetness.
Beneath the ferris wheel, excited children gather around a captivating clown. He springs in and out from his hiding place beneath a skeletal tree, grinning as he performs a menagerie of card tricks and sleight of hand.
At the close of his performance, he casts a sideways glance towards the distracted parents of his enchanted audience. His painted smile conceals his true nature; something inhuman, broken — insatiably hungry. With promises of continued fun, the children follow him into the crowd unseen.
Soon, their parents call out for them.
Receiving no reply, they summon the carny manager.
"Folks," the man says, confusion etched across his face. "This carnival employs no clowns."
| Author Notes |
*148 word count.
The misspelling of "Carnival" in the title is intentional. As always, thank you for reading my work. |
By Dean Kuch
I desperately struggled to move any part of my drugged, paralytic body to alert the doctors I was conscious. They were scrubbed and ready, and their conversation seemed very jovial. I knew I had to alert them someway — somehow — before they made that first incision.
I was relieved to see that one of the nurses noticed my pupils were dilating from the bright operating room lights overhead. She leaned in close to me – face-to-face– then with a whisper which tickled my ear, she hissed,
"Don't you think we've always known you were awake?"
| Author Notes |
Thank you for taking the time to read yet another installment in the Tiny Tales of Terror series. I appreciate you and your readership, as always.
Pleasant Screams,, heh-heh-heh... |
|
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| © Copyright 2015 Dean Kuch All rights reserved. Dean Kuch has granted FanStory.com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work. |
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