By Brett Matthew West
Greetings my little kid-a-roos!
It is I, Doctor I. B. Howler, Nightmarologist. They claim to stick your nose in where it doesn't belong is a bad bet. Hey, watch that axe hung above your head! You may get your schnoz chopped off, kind of like the reporter in my Nightmare did. Here, see for yourself.
A dark chill settled over the morgue. Dim lighting heightened the eerie suspense of the night. Standing alone in the middle of the room, a table held a sealed casket. Like everybody else in town, I had heard the local gossip thar surrounded this embellished granite sarcophagus and pondered why it had not already been planted in the ground?
Some say it had been there three days. Others claimed it was a whole lot longer. Rumored to have the remains of a tiny baby inside, no one dared appoach the thing. I wondered what could be so scary about that? I had seen many corpses in my time. They were nothing new to me.
Wicked tales circulated about this coffin. Seven victims. All of them ripped to pieces by whatever this alleged baby was. That included the town's only law enforcement officer, and six unlucky teens who babysat the child when tragedy befell them.
Who'd ever heard of a serial killer baby before? The thought was preposterous. Being the nosy news reporter I am I fully intended to open that casket.
I mentioned this to a couple close associates. A look of terror crossed their faces. They begged me to leave this case alone and insisted I bury it deep in the ground where it belonged. I should have forgotten the whole incident ever happened.
That was not my style. Nor did their urges satisfy the curiosity welled up inside me about this enigma. I realized this as I made my way into the shadowy room. I don't believe in ghosts or monsters. All those types of things that scare the beejesus out of others as soon as word about them is mentioned never bothered me.
Wolves and vampires are a different story. I have seen them up close and personal. Some have become very good friends of mine. On certain nights, when the moon is right, I have been known to howl myself.
I held a crowbar in my hand as I entered the room. The moment I approached the casket, I smelled the permeated aroma of death. I pried my way around the outside edges and whistled a tune to myself, something about working on a railroad all the live long day. Consumed by my mission, I grew more anxious with each passing moment. I had to get inside that casket and solve this puzzle.
I broke the seal loose and shoved the lid off. Inside, I found a little baby boy. If he had been dead, there were no signs of decomposition. I reached down and picked the infant up in my hands, cradling him. With his hint of blond peach fuzz, he was adorable for a tyke his size.
Enormous fangs and claws snapped out on the baby. He cooed and slashed me. I laid in a scarlet pool of blood. Before I died I watched the baby crawl across the floor and straight for the door.
The nightmare would soon commence with no way to prevent it. What demon spawn had I released upon the face of the Earth? My last thought was when would the body count stop?
My spirit soared up through the Heavens. I Iooked down at my grisled remains. To my horror, the night janitor unceremoniously tossed them into the same casket I had opened. Suddenly, I descended into utter blackness.
I screamed at the top of my lungs, "NO! Don't throw my body in that casket like that. NO! Don't drop me into this dark hole. NO! Don't cover me with that dirt. NO! Don't put that marble tablet on the ground next to this hole, the one that reads "R.I.P". No! Don't leave me here alone! NO! This can't really be happening to me."
***THE REST OF THIS STORY TAKES PLACE IN THE DEEPEST PITS OF HELL:***
Bound tight from head to toe in cold metallic chains, with a heavy wrought iron ball shackled to my right ankle, I was brought before the Devil. Poor tormented souls roasted in the eternal flames around me. I received my sentence for my crime.
The Devil roared in spiteful laughter and warned me, "Forever you must shadow the demon you loosed on the Earth, always protecting him, and never, ever allowing any harm to come to him. Should you fail you will be fed to the gnashing, swirling demons around you, suffering their same fate!"
Not knowing which of the two choices was the worst, I surveyed the situation I found myself in and swallowed hard.
"Now go!" the Devil laughed out loud.
Still wrapped tight in my chains, I was thrust back upon the Earth to begin my mission. If only I had not stuck my nose into where it did not belong.
Sleep tight now my little kid-a-roos.
Until the next time,
Doctor I. B. Howler
Nightmarologist
| Author Notes |
Doctor Howler, the Nightmarologist who penned this Nightmare, believes his Nightmares are suitable Bedtime Stories for children of all ages and should be told to them right after they are tucked in bed. After reading his Nightmare, you may have a slightly different opinion than the good Doctor does.
Sticking your nose in where it does not belong can get it chopped off. This is a reposted piece I wrote seven years ago. I have been invited to enter this story in a contest not associated with FanStory. What I am looking for are reviewers not scared to rip the tale to shreds constructively. That way it is as good as it can be when I submit it to the contest. Any takers? Crypt Keeper, by eileen0204, selected to complement my story. So, thanks eileen0204, for the use of your picture. It goes so nicely with my story. Thanks eileen0204 for the use of your picture. Goes so nicely with my story. |
By Brett Matthew West
I always looked forward with great excitement to fishing trips with my Dad. It gave us some man-to-man time alone from school, chores that it felt like I was constantly doing, and the daily grind Dad had to go through to provide me a good home.
Our baby blue station wagon pulled to a stop in a designated parking slot in Miranda State Park. Dawn was just breaking as the sun peaked over the top of Altoona Mountain. The fishing was always the very best from the 100 foot long, weather-worn pier Dad and I had claimed as our very own on each one of our previous fishing excursions.
We arrived as early in the morning as we possibly could because the fish seemed to bite our bait so much better before the day warmed up to sweltering as Summer days along the Gulf do.
Lately I had noticed Dad was a lot quieter than normal. Even the radio didn't play as loudly as it typically did on our way out of town to the park this morning.
When I asked Dad what the problem was he just smiled reassuringly and told me nothing was the matter. He also told me not to let my imagination run wild with me. And some times I had a doozy of an imagination for a boy my age.
Once Dad parked the car I bolted out of it like greased lightning. I couldn't wait to get down to the pier and get a line in the clear blue water.
"I'm gonna catch one this big!" I proudly boasted extending my arms as far apart as I could get them. Then I snatched my rod and reel in one hand and the bucket of bait in the other.
Uncharacteristically Dad was quiet. I briefly wondered to myself why he was before sprinting down the pier covered with moisture from the morning dew.
Dad did not say a word. Usually he would warn me not to run on the wet wood because he did not want me to slip and fall into the water below it knowing I could not swim.
Once I reached my favorite spot to fish from on the pier I pulled out a wiggly worm and put it on the silver hook at the end of my fishing pole saying, "Okay fishes. I'm coming to get you now!"
Lost in my own little world, without so much as a single care at all, I felt a snug yank on the end of my pole and excitedly exclaimed "I got one!"
It was then I felt a two handed shove from behind that about knocked me off balance. I totally did not expect that at all.
Once again I felt being grabbed and spun around. I started to yell out, "D-d-Dad!" but the hideous monster I saw was not my father.
It couldn't be. My Dad would never handle me in an attacking way. He was always very non-confrontational and had always treated me gently like a ten year old boy should be handled.
Another push and I could feel myself moving backwards towards the edge of the pier. A danger zone my body quickly sensed.
Desperately I called out saying, "Dad, stop! What are you doing?" Another shove moved me even closer to the edge. "Daddy, please stop!"
I looked down and could tell how perilously close I was to disaster, and in desperation, my final words to him before he shoved me off the pier were, "You know I can't swim!"
"Then have the little fishes teach you," was the last thing he said to me.
Up on the pier Dad commented to himself "Problem solved. Now to claim that insurance money".
I couldn't believe my Dad had pushed me off that pier into the deep still water. I couldn't believe my Dad had drowned me to collect insurance money, or that I was worth so much more to him dead than I ever was alive.
But there I floated face down under the water. My whole life gone in an instant and a flash before my eyes. What had I done to deserve my fate? I could not think of anything.
And Dad acted like nothing happened. Almost like I never even existed. He pulled out his cellphone and made two calls.
The first one was to 9-1-1. You should have heard the frantic voice he used making that call. He definitely was the world's greatest actor. So upset his son, that he loved so dearly, he claimed, had accidentally, of course, fallen off the pier.
Dad even went as far as telling them that although he had tried all he could he was too late to save me from drowning. When he disconnected the call he had a broad smile on his face.
The second call Dad made was to his life insurance company. Boy, he did not waste any time making that call did he? I'm not dead five minutes and he's already filing the claim on my life?
"Hey kid," I heard an unseen creature in the water asking me, "life sucks don't it"?
I snapped back angrily, "Yes it does!"
The creature then told me, "That guy up there on the pier. He killed you, huh? That's tough".
Unsure whether this unknown creature was taunting me, or what, I simply responded with an emphatic "And!"
Without missing a beat the creature said, "Bet he's gonna stroll down that pier now like he's all that and a bag of chips too," then the creature asked me, "and, are you just going to let him get away with killing you?" he wanted to know.
I watched Dad meandering down the pier with our fishing poles and tackle box in hand. As he did he walked perilously closer and closer to the edge. Suddenly springing up out of the water I grabbed him before he knew what hit him and pulled him back under to our watery graves.
Immediately the creature I had been talking to in the water, and a swirling school of many more of them, swarmed around the dead carcass of my Dad.
"Thanks for the grub!" he nonchalantly told me. Then with a smile on his face he said, "Float over to the edge of the lake kid and keep right on walking out."
I looked over to the creature and said, "Thanks. I guess".
Making my way to the shore I heard him saying "Enjoy the rest of your life kid and may it be a long and happy one too".
Walking away from that lake I never once looked back.
My Dad and I always liked to go fishing together.
| Author Notes |
A little tale about a father and son going fishing.
Thanks corrinas creations for the use of your picture. Goes so nicely with my story. |
By Brett Matthew West
Once upon a very long time ago, on Windsor Island, a forgotten land that no longer exists, lived a very lonely T-Rex named George who wanted nothing more than to be left alone in peace.
Now, George was a young dinosaur. He was also a meat eater. And, yes, there was plenty of lush green vegetation all over his island but the poor beast could not dine on any of it.
One day George devised himself a plan that should be the envy of most any self-respecting meat eater. He began advertising the scenic beauty of Windsor Island in all the local newspapers on other nearby islands.
George also advertised on all the radio and television stations he could find. He even phoned some of his dinosaur friends in far distant lands and had them run ads wherever they were.
Then the strangest thing began to happen. One by one tourists began appearing on Windsor Island. This was just what the meat eater had hoped they would do.
Now he was no longer alone, nor was he ever hungry again. See, George's advertising campaign had only been a ruse to attract meals to his dinner table. When these tourists realized they were the menu it was too late.
George was also a very mean dinosaur. He delighted in torturing his guests long before devouring them. His most favorite game of all was securely chaining them to a tree. Once he had them fastened so they could not move he began toying with them.
First he let out a loud roar that curdled their blood. And, as if that didn't scare them bad enough, he lifted their scalp, and waved their hairpiece in front of their terrified eyes, taunting them. Bumping, grinding, and sinisterly laughing in a voice loud as thunder. A reaction that always brought a delighted glee to George's face.
George realized if he divided his guest's body into smaller pieces he could refrigerate them, and spread the meat out further. So methodically he lopped their ears off one at a time even with the sideburns. These were tasty little treats George dined on when he wanted a snack.
A quick swipe at the bridge of their nose and the body part fell harmlessly to the ground. George ate these but they weren't his favorite food.
Slowly and carefully George would flay the skin off their bodies, trying to keep them alive as long as he could just for the sport of it. This was a part of his torture routine he especially delighted in. He also enjoyed hearing his guest's anguished cries as he dissected them one piece at a time.
His pattern usually ran the fingers first, then the hands, followed by the arms at the elbows, and then at the shoulders. These he found made good stew meats, or if he wanted something grilled they worked really nicely for that too. The arms also gave him bones to gnaw on later.
Once these parts were removed George continued his dissections working up the body from the toes. Most of these he found to be too smelly and tossed them into the sea surrounding Windsor Island. They were the only part of his guest's body George never developed a taste for.
The toes removed George would cut off their feet at the ankles. Lots of meat was always found there. This was followed by the shins being chopped off at the knees and the thighs cut off at the hips. George usually made steaks out of these body parts.
After a hard day's work of dissecting one of his guest was almost over George still had the torso left. This he stored in a special freezer for midnight snacks. Hey, a hard working T-Rex does so enjoy late night dining too you know, and George was no different.
George's ad that he never changed simply read:
Windsor Island -- Serenity awaits in the greenest corner of Heaven on Earth. Stay as long as you want. No worries, no cares, just paradise.
Nevermore was George a lonely or hungry dinosaur.
| Author Notes |
This nightmare was inspired by the British tabloids you just gotta love.
Thanks Mr. Jones for the use of your picture. It goes so nicely with my little story. |
By Brett Matthew West
I glanced at the exquisite timepiece strapped on my wrist. Four o'clock in the morning. What was I doing at Cassanova's Diner again? Granted, I have been here many times before. You might even call the place my home away from home.
I had absolutely no business being here and certainly not at this time. None at all. And I definitely should not have been there with the young lady who accompanied me. Not another living soul in the place but me, her, and Tony Amata, the cafe's overnight staff. Oh, and Michael Overton, the bartender.
On my table sat an empty bottle of wine that had made the wee hours of the morning possible. Food was a long forgotten past time.
My desires were for the vivacious, slender and tall, blue-eyed blonde bombshell seated across from me. I barely even remembered her name. Lola, I seemed to recall. Or was it Maria? Hell, after so many of them I never could keep them straight.
I knew she was a looker when we met there earlier that night. And, now, the motel key was seriously burning a hole in my pocket. Very shortly I would remove it and she would become the Blue Ribbon catch I expected her to be.
Sweeping the floor in the far corner of the little cafe Tony just shook his head. He knew my game, and how I played it, much too well. One night stands were nothing new for me. But why? Why couldn't I break this vicious thing that kept a stranglehold on me?
I didn't really want to cheat. At least a small part of me, somewhere deep inside me, didn't want to do that. But, at least once a week it seemed this was my routine.
My wife, the one I kept waiting at home, knew all about my unfaithful ways. Man, was she ever an angel and I really did love her. Honestly and truly I did. More than I had ever loved anybody else before. But somehow she just did not satisfy the loving side of me. Or did I simply crave more than what I had right there in the palm of my hand?
And, most importantly, I had promised her the last time I did this I would never play around on her again. It seems to me I had told her that very same lie at least a hundred times before.
I swallowed the last sip of wine in my glass and stood up. Lola, or Maria, or whatever the Hell her name was, stood up with me in unison. The heat of passion written all over her as we made our way to the Templeton Motel, Room 123, right across the street from the cafe. You know what happened once we got there. I don't have to paint that picture for you.
At six-thirty, the chance encounter over, I steered my truck for home not having a Chinaman's clue what I was going to tell the Mrs. Not that any of my alibis would have worked on her. She must have already known I had stepped out on her one more time. How could she not know?
Walking in the front door of my palatial manor I caught my first surprise. The aroma of my favorite breakfast, complete with eggs over easy, crisp bacon, orange juice in a tall glass, and a piping hot cup of coffee sweetened with just one packet of sugar, awaited me.
My wife, adorned in her bathrobe and house slippers, greeted me with a welcoming kiss. Wearing curlers in her raven black hair she led me to the table where she placed the morning paper. This was unbelievable to me. Not one single word about my activities of the night.
I took a very enjoyable bite of the eggs and looked down at the front page of the newspaper. Only it wasn't the paper's print I immediately saw and right away I knew.
BANG! An explosion from the .45 held in my wife's right hand rang out. Fired from directly across the table from where I was seated the bullet rapidly found its mark. My last meal and a goodbye kiss. The whole scene I had walked into was a mere ruse neatly carried out by my adoring wife.
However, the final sight I would ever see was my wife picking up the Will she had taped to the front page of the newspaper before I arrived home. Oh, and the biggest shock of all was Lola, or Maria, or whatever the Hell her name was, who I had dropped off at her apartment across town before I went home, passionately wrapped in my executioner's arms.
Closing my eyes in death I knew the truth.
| Author Notes |
Just a little story about cheating on the one you love.
Thanks CammyCards for the use of your picture. |
By Brett Matthew West
Foley, located right smack dab in the middle of nowhere but one giant dustbowl's, where I call home. I've always been a plowseed and can't n'er see being nothing else.
I plant eighty acres of corn, and tend forty head of the finest Black Angus cows you ever laid your eyeballs on. The fattest ones in Claxton County by far. So, I always have good, high grade fertilizer for my main plantings.
My pride and joy fifty foot long garden is stashed down yonder in back of the cornfields, on the far side of my two-room clapboard house. Far off the beaten path so no one knows it's there.
I don't bother to keep the homestead up. It stays in bad repair. Paint's cracked and peeling off the exterior of the 160 year old structure. Several windows are boarded over with plywood covering where the glass panes should be. Best of all, the rickety wood porch creaks every time the wind blows.
I know the place could stand a good tidying up, instead I let it rot away, kind of like the critters that roam my garden. No one's been out to visit the place for 50 years or more since I paid a paltry penny for it from Old Man Cooper, the last caretaker of the place before I come on the scene.
That don't bother me none. Long as I can keep my harvester running I am a happy camper. I love the sound that thing makes! What a roar. Drowns out all other racket for miles around.
'Sides, no one lives here except for me and Ole Blue, my shaggy haired, flop-eared mutt. Course, he's the damndest dog I ever seen. Ole Blue's treed many a coon, and, I always reward him each time he does.
His reward? The privilege of ripping them apart one little piece at a time. Now, before you go getting all animal lover on me let me tell you I don't care what you say about that. The dog's gotta enjoy his sporting ways somehow.
I turn the key in my harvester and the rumbling engine makes my heart swell with joy. I always keep plenty of gasoline in that old thing. Never know how long I may plow with it. The longer I do the happier I am.
The sun beating down makes the day another scorcher. Summers in these parts get mighty warm. However, I got a chore to take care of before I down another fifth of whiskey and grub up.
I also got my new orders in. I get 'em from the local lawman. Been doing a little side work for him a long while now. He really appreciates my job performance cause he keeps me well in stock.
There's nothing to raising this crop neither. Why, it don't even need to be watered. I dig a hole, poke it in the ground, bury it up to its neck, and leave the head out.
I see Ole Blue's done treed hisself another coon. A big, juicy looking one at that. "Good boy," I call over to him as I turn the harvester around and head for my prized garden. I encourage Blue to "Enjoy your catch. I know I'm gonna enjoy mine!"
The closer I come to my garden the louder I hear the screams and see the terrified looks on the faces of my soon to be harvested crop.
I drive my machine up one row and down another. By the time I'm done heads roll everywhere and the sun's setting.. My hard day's work complete, I can rest.
I casually stroll to the head of my garden. I drop down into my hole at the front of the first row waiting for the next call to come in that it's harvesting time again. When the call comes you can bet me, Ole Blue, and my trusty harvester will be ready.
| Author Notes |
One way to clean up a town.
SPECIAL NOTE: I would never be cruel like that to any animal. But, for the purposes of this story I stated the comment about animal lovers. So, don't stone the messenger about that one. Doctor Howler's Nightmares have become a rather popular series here on FanStory. Thanks Renie Rutten for the use of your picture. It goes so nicely with my little story. |
By Brett Matthew West
Little Johnny was twelve years old the day he learned the secret everybody else seemed to already know. However, he was forbidden to ever tell another living soul. After the ordeal he suffered through, the part of him still alive swore he would never let the cat out of the bag. Maybe it was the two fingers broken by the pliers that convinced him.
This wasn't the first time Mommy hurt him. Johnny knew it wouldn't be the last time either. It seemed every time Mommy talked to him it ended up with him being hurt.
Lit cigarettes burned his young, balloon-shaped face. Sometimes, he could smell the smoldering flesh, and felt the hot flame pressed against his skin. Other times, it was the exposed end of a wire that seared the boy. Johnny knew better than cry out while he was being punished. That only made Mommy madder. When she was real mad the pain always hurt a whole lot worse.
Afterwards, Mommy said she did not mean to hurt him, but Johnny must do exactly what Mommy told him to do. Johnny always tried as hard as he could, but every once in a while the bad Johnny came out. That was the one Mommy did not like.
There was never any question Johnny knew when he had been bad. Mommy told him. Why else did she have to go away and leave him alone? Friendless and abandoned, Johnny lived in a two-room shanty in the middle of nowhere.
Being Summer, Mommy let Johnny run around with only his tattered worn-out shorts on. No shirt on his chest and no shoes on his feet. No one ever came to the shack so it did not matter how Johnny was dressed. There was only him and Mommy.
Johnny thought Mommy dressed funny, but never laughed at her. He knew better. Johnny knew how mad Mommy would get mad if he make fun of her in any way and that he would endure her wrath.
Johnny's Daddy abandoned him back when Mommy went away. He had not heard another word from him since then. The boy often wondered about a big hole behind the shack he discovered one day.
Johnny asked Mommy about the hole. He quickly learned through another torture session he must never go anywhere near it again. Mommy struck him upside his head with a board. The blow drew blood and knocked Johnny out cold. That was the first time he felt Mommy's awful pliers.
Mommy always showed up covered in white bandages from the top of her head to the bottom of her feet. Johnny remembered how pretty she had been with her flowing golden blonde hair and blue eyes. They were the same colors as his.
One day, Johnny went outside to play in the mounds of dirt surrounding the shack. He liked to climb them. However, when he explored the mounds, Johnny never told Mommy. She forbid him to play on them.
Johnny found something he didn't tell Mommy about. One day, he found a bone. A big, long one, with a foot attached to it. That scared the boy. Johnny quickly covered the bone back up. Only one person Johnny ever knew had a foot that looked like that one. No doubt about it, the clubbed foot was Aunt Ethel's.
Johnny had another secret too. That wasn't the only bone he found in the dirt mounds. His grandparents, and his baby sister, were also buried there. Those were the only ones he had found. There were other dirt mounds Johnny had not explored yet, but he would.
Johnny heard his Mommy calling him to the house. This time, he did not run to her like he knew he should. Disobeying Mommy meant big time trouble, but Johnny didn't care. If Mommy wanted him she would have to come get him.
Johnny wouldn't wait to spring his trap when she did. He had learned Mommy's past and refused to be her next victim. He was a survivor. The only one in his whole family still alive and he intended to stay that way.
Mommy's stern warning sounded in a thunderous voice, "If I have to come get you, Young Man, you are going to wish I hadn't!"
Johnny wanted Mommy to come get him. He knew that would make Mommy real mad and she would storm down the stairs leading away from the shack after him. Mommy hurried on her way. Her trusty pliers in hand.
"Wait till I get a hold of you!" Mommy warned him. She promised, "I am going to break every finger you have got!"
There was nowhere to hide between Mommy and himself, and the last place Johnny wanted to be was trapped inside the shack. Out in the open he had a chance to maybe escape Mommy's wrath.
"I know the truth," Johnny replied back to his Mommy. He told her, "You killed them all. Grandpa, Grandma, Aunt Ethel, and my sister!"
Mommy rambled towards him. "They deserved it!" she remarked, "And, what I am going to do to you when I catch you is going to be a whole lot worse than any of them got!"
"First you have to catch me," Johnny mocked back without taking a step.
Mommy crept along her way.
Johnny tried to keep his nerves in check. He thought to himself, "Just a little closer."
"You are going to be a very sorry little boy long before I get done with you!" Mommy threatened. She inched nearer.
Johnny stayed where he was.
Mommy took three more steps and BAM! The dirt she stood on caved in under her feet just like Johnny hoped it would. Mommy was caught in the hole Johnny had secretly dug that morning with no way out.
The rest of his plan would be easy to carry out. With Mommy no longer a threat, Johnny made his way to the dilapidated barn and emerged with a gas can in his hand.
As Johnny approached, Mommy cooed in a soft tone, "Darling, be a good little boy and help Mommy out of this hole." She sweetly added, "I promise there won't be anything bad happen to you for any of this".
"You're not my Mother," Johnny said as he poured gasoline all over the trapped woman.
"Johnny please! You wouldn't hurt your Mommy would you?" she desperately pleaded.
Johnny struck the match he held in his hand and spat, "Roast in Hell!" He tossed the lit match onto his Mommy and said, "You can't hurt me any more!"
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Twelve year old Jonathan Gathers slowly rubbed the sleep from his eyes and fought hard to wake up. He glanced around his bedroom and found his favorite picture of himself in his Little League baseball uniform. It was then he realized he'd had an awful dream.
"Man, what a nightmare!" he thought as he rolled on his back. Good thing his family was going to the beach for his birthday that morning. Sure would help him forget the dream he had.
Jonathan felt something wet, clammy, and damp lay on the bed beside him. He smelled the burnt aroma of gasoline.
Suddenly he was grabbed. He saw what looked like white linen strips as he was dragged off the bed and transported back to the world of his nightmare. He heard his Mommy's voice say "Got'cha!"
Johnny's terrified screams were never heard.
| Author Notes |
Doctor I. B. Howler, Nightmareologist, has always been one of my muses and is the creator of this unique bedtime story. Doctor Howler believes his Nightmares are suitable for children of all ages and should be told to them right after they are tucked in bed. After reading this Nightmare, you may have a slightly different opinion about that than the good Doctor does.
Doctor Howler's Nightmares were a popular series here on FanStory. Thought I would revive one of them for your reading pleasure. Enjoy! Thanks cleo85 for the use of your picture. It goes so well with my story. |
By Brett Matthew West
It had been raining hard for seven days in a row. Torrential downpours had formed water puddles throughout the landscape surrounding the tiny little village of Cambridge.
The rain, for me, is always a welcoming sight to behold. It refreshes my senses and gives me the strength needed to carry out my marching orders. Me and my army of comrades that is.
Our destination sits way down deep in a secluded valley. It is a peaceful and quiet little town that makes our attack so much easier to carry out.
However, Cambridge is not the first town we have conquered on our quest to invade and destroy. No crops, no animals, and definitely no one of the human persuasion has ever escaped our destructive path.
We always line up side by side before our march begins. That way nothing we encounter remains after we strike.
Humans are our Number One enemy. They only think they are the top dog on the food chain. And, for several thousands of years maybe they were. But, that is no more. We are here to rightfully claim what is ours for the taking.
The high and mighty human race has proven weak every time we invade. And, now, nothing can stop us, or even slow our advances down. Soon we will conquer the world and establish our rightful place as the world's ultimate superpower.
What are we? We are a laboratory experiment gone real bad that should never have been attempted in the first place. But, you sure could not tell the foolish humans that created us that. And, they were our first taste of blood. However, they will not be our last.
Far from it. These rogue experimenters, against their government's strictest orders, took a few of us in our previous state and lathered them with radioactive solutions just to observe the affects they would have on a common cockroach.
Huge mistake! Their little illegal experiments went completely haywire and their radioactive solutions created us super bugs. On the average those of us who have undergone these treatments measure five feet long. We have jaws that are so powerful we can eat our way through any material known to exist. And, we have fifty pairs of legs that take us anywhere we want to go.
After becoming supersized, unstoppable, and indestructible creatures, with a never ending appetite, we knew we needed a leader. Being the largest, and the bravest, as well as the first one these experiments were performed on, I became the chosen one.
I am also the most blood-thirstiest of the whole lot of us, as well as the most devious. After I line my troops up across the horizon I assume my position in the front and center of the formation.
Slowly I move my army forward. Our fangs gnashing as we go, chomping on everything in our way. Grass, rocks, animals. It doesn't matter. We eat it all.
So, now here we are overlooking Cambridge. I have the bugle sounded as loudly as it can be heard. I want the human population of the town to know we are here. Let them try to run.
We will spare no one as we crawl all over whatever stands in our way. And, the most fun of our attack on humans is the ease with which we pick their bones clean.
With Cambridge now a distant memory we advance our army forward. We will not stop until our final destination, and world dominance, is ours. What are you going to do when you and your town are on our radar?
We welcome the opportunity to meet, or should I much more correctly say, dine on you as well!
Nothing can ever stop us from taking over the world and leaving total destruction in our wake.
Who's next?
| Author Notes |
How would you like to deal with this super power?
This was an actual nightmare I had about a week or so ago. I HATE roaches to begin with, and to think they were on a march to become the world's ultimate super power is even scarier! Thanks BrooklynMyra for the use of your picture. It goes so very nicely with my little story. |
By Brett Matthew West
Are you proud of yourself you pathetic son-of-a-bitch?
You are the one who put me here on such a bright sun-shiny day facing the hangman's noose. I have no fear of him though, or his death trap.
Why should I? I am not the criminal in this case. You are!
For the first five years of my life all I heard from you was "I hate you! I wish you had never been born!"
Not one time did I ever hear the words a son lives for.
Were they too hard for you to say to me? Would they somehow have made you feel like you were lowering your drunken self?
Those three little words that would have made such a huge difference in my young life were simply "I love you". But, you never loved, or wanted me, did you?
It is not that I was a problem child. Far from it. I always tried to obey your every command and fill your every wish.
I even ate all my vegetables, and whatever other slop you occasionally bothered to throw my way. Did any of my efforts ever bring one enjoyable moment from you? None that I recall.
All I ever got from you was complete rejection and being smacked around for the slightest little mistake I dared to make.
Nothing would have made me perfect in your eyes and I am not even sure being perfect would have changed the way you treated me.
So, from an early age I knew all you would ever be in my sight was my biological sperm donor.
Then I turned six years old. Do you remember what happened on my sixth birthday? I do. I have never forgotten that day and I never will.
That was the day I was entertaining myself playing on the swing in our backyard. My birthday and all you did that day was ignore me. Oh but you sure drank your beer, didn't you?
Any way, that night you called me up to the house and I came running as fast as my two little legs could carry me. But, I guess I wasn't fast enough to please you. There you stood, in another stupor with a two-by-four in your hand.
Suddenly, for the first time, but certainly not the last time, I felt the wallop of that plank of wood right up alongside my head. It hurt really bad too. It also split my head open.
Not that you cared as the blood ran down my face. All you said was "Next time I call your name you better not make me wait for you to appear!"
And, if it wasn't the two-by-four it was a baseball bat. Usually right smack dab in the pit of my stomach with enough force to double me over and take my breath away.
Is there any reason why I should not despise the very thought of you? I can not think of any.
These attacks with your two-by-fours and baseball bats continued until I was ten years old.
How I wished I could have died at that age. I prayed every night for the peace of leaving this world to come, but it never did.
And, do you know, no, I am sure you do not know, or care why death would have been a preferred option for me when I was ten years old?
That was when you first introduced me to your newest toy. The single tail. I was ten years old. Ten fricking years old the first time it sliced open the flesh on my back. And, to make a sound meant I got it worse.
Now, all these years later I still carry the grotesque scars from those beatings you so boastfully administered.
Running around shirtless was never a pleasure I could enjoy no matter how bright the big yellow ball shone in the sky, neither was going swimming, or anything else a boy likes to do.
No, I always had to keep the crisscrossed scars you delighted in giving me covered up so no one could see them. Could not have that could we?
Looking back now I understand why you never took me to see a doctor either no matter how sick I was. No, that always ended up in another whipping. Didn't it?
Then I turned fifteen years old and big enough to stand up to you. The happiest day of my life was July 4th of that year. Oh yeah! I finally claimed my independence from you in the only way it could have been declared.
I know you will never forget that day, any more than I will. And for the longest time, since I could remember, I actually smiled when that bullet pierced your ice cold heart and shattered it into tiny little pieces at my feet.
Tired of your abuse, and with no one else to protect me from your reign of terror, it finally stopped. Remember? I always tell this part of the story with a special glee on my face. BANG! BANG! I shot you down. BANG! BANG! You hit the ground. I lived.
Through all the terrifying attacks you put me through. I lived!
So what if I was arrested for killing you. Who cares if I was tried, and as an adult no less, in a court of law? Yes I was convicted and yes I was sentenced to death. But, like I said who cares?
For six long years I have rotted here in my 9 by 6, gray-walled home and thought long and hard. Oh, I have spent every moment in this cage thinking about my short 21 years on the face of this Earth.
And, through it all do you know what the one lesson in life I learned was? Any man can be a father but not every man can be a Dad. You sure as Hell never were!
So, now, even as beautiful a morning as this is, and although I certainly do not want to die, I will willingly march up these wooden steps to the platform I will take my last look around from.
Once there I will proudly stand on the trap door and not resist having the noose placed snugly around my neck. And, I will swing with a smile on my face.
There will be no fear shown. None at all. No, I am not afraid of my fate.
And do you know why I welcome death and what I am going to do after it happens? I am going to hunt you down like the rabid monster you have always been.
The bottomless pits of Hell are not deep enough for you to hide from me.
And when I find you I am going to spend eternity torturing you in more terrifyingly cruel ways than you ever put me through.
You better run for all you are worth you pathetic son-of-a-bitch!
'Cause, ready or not, here I come.
| Author Notes |
No, this is not a completely true story.
I lived the first half of this up to age ten. The revenge factor is what I have always wanted to do to this person because of it. I embellished other parts of this for dramatic affect through the use of Writer's creative license. Thanks for asking as several of you have. Shows me you are concerned. Thanks cleo85 for the use of your picture. |
By Brett Matthew West
What if there really was gold at the end of the rainbow? Who would know? I would. Cause, you see, I am the Rainbow Maker.
I really do love the sparkling glow the metal makes. I like bright and shiny things all around me. The luster just warms my cold, cold heart. Almost as much as the terrified expressions I get from those who would steal my gold from me. Something many have tried to do several times before. None of them have ever lived to tell about their caper though. No one ever will.
What phenomenon is it that makes a rainbow so attractive? After all, it is nothing more than a refraction of light in water droplets that forms a multicolored arc with red on its outer part and violet on its inner side. Nothing more than an optical illusion.
Other popular colors I place in my rainbow creations are green, yellow, orange, and blue. Some times I even make double rainbows. Once in a while I will get real creative and make full circle rainbows.
My twinned rainbows, that split from a single base, are extremely popular too. Or I might even try my hand at making my most famous stacked rainbows that contain pastel color bands.
And why do I make rainbows? Because of greed. Not mine, but those like you Reader, who would crave my gold for their jewelry, artworks, and coins. Such a waste. And to think that more than 175,000 tonnes of it have been mined throughout their thieving history.
In Old Norse I am known as a jotnar from Jotunheimr that has tormented our human victims in Asgard and Midgard. Although I much prefer to reside in Valhalla where Odin rules. I am known to live in caves, under rocks, and on isolated mountains.
I have lived to a ripe old age of many centuries now. I guess I have been around since the dawn of time. However, I can not tolerate being out in sunlight, and lightning is another thing I must avoid at all costs.
Why do I have all this disdain for those who would steal my pot of gold I always place at the end of one of my rainbows? Because it is mine. Do you hear me, Reader? It is all mine!
I also love rain because then I can spring my trap, and wait. I have all the time in the world. Do you? No, your lusty human nature will force you to come seeking my treasured gold. Well, come on. I have something for you when you do.
Us trolls, and there are many of us in this realm of existence, are also creatures, violent by nature, who delight in capturing and torturing our victims.
Hey you! Yeah, you know I'm talking to you. The one wrapped up in reading my little tale. It is time for you to pay close attention to me in action. I see my newest victim approaching the pot of gold I placed at the end of the rainbow I made this morning.
First, I just quietly observe him running his filthy human hands through my precious, beautiful pot of gold. He starts tossing some of it up in the air, letting it fall back down wherever it lands, and that drives me absolutely insane!
I want to scream out loud as thunder, "Knock it off knucklehead!" but I don't. I remain silent, but not for long. Instead I turn myself into one of my favorite life forms. One that has never let me down before. If there is one thing males of the human species lust after more than my gold it is a scenic wonder they call women.
Deceit is one of my best played roles and this poor sap will quickly find out why I am so good at the game. With my raven black hair cascading down my back it is easy to attract his attention away from the pieces of metal he has found but will never enjoy.
Especially when he slowly turns around and sees my two perfectly sculpted bare breasts starring him right in the face. No doubt about it, Reader. I now own his body. Soon his heart and soul will belong to me as well.
I take him by his hand. It feels like mush in mine and I can see the weakness in his knees as I lead him under my rainbow. Like all other males I have vanquished before with this vice it won't be long before I will dine on his bones as well.
I do not stop his slipping my snow white gown off to the ground and let it fall silently to the soft green meadow we are in. Quickly he is undressed as well, anticipating the special feeling that draws two people together.
What a buffoon! Conquering this coward was easier than taking candy from a baby. Oh, I am going to touch him alright. But, not in the way he was expecting me to. You hear me Reader? That could be you!
In an instant I change back to my troll form and see the terror in his eyes when I do. Should I simply rip his throat out? Or do I let my razor sharp claws tear him to pieces?
Hey Reader, here is my special little treat for you today. How about you decide this time? Just remember when you see one of my stunning rainbows there is always a pot of gold at the end of it. What are you waiting for amigo?
All you have to do is come and get it. Are you brave enough to do so? Somehow I seriously doubt that you are.
Yes, I am the Rainbow Maker. And the pot of gold you crave is mine. All mine! You hear me? It is mine!
So, keep your filthy paws off of it or else!
| Author Notes |
This is exactly what could happen to you when you seek that elusive pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. Do you dare go looking for it now? Who knows what may be lurking, waiting there for you, if you do.
Thanks exulans for the use of your picture. It goes so nicely with my little story. |
By Brett Matthew West
(Writer's note: Horror is a new genre for me. I am looking for honest reviews of this little story. Not so much worried about how many stars it gets as long as the review is honest and fair. Stars will not help me improve in this genre. Honest reviews will. So, don't be afraid to let me have it straight up both good and bad. I can handle it. Appreciate it very much).
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The moon was big and yellow. A rolling fog covered the densely tree filled hills surrounding the little village and the third call of the tonight had just come in.
His name is Buchanan. Kyle Buchanan. And he is the local gumshoe for the village of Swarthmoore. He likes things quiet. Real quiet. So, the distractions of that night started rattling his cage in ways he does not enjoy having his cage rattled.
First there was Trevor Smithson, or what was left of him. He had been torn apart into tiny little pieces. The old goat had definitely been put through the wringer. Body parts scattered all around the bloody scene. Enough to make the strongest man toss his cookies.
Then there was Earl Milton. Can't say he didn't have it coming though. The whole town detested the old codger and for good reason. He seemed to take special delight in annoying everybody else to the umpteenth degree. Not one living soul in town missed the old man one iota.
This was getting serious. What with the third time being the charm and all that. But this time he had barely finished his tray of doughnuts, and downed his piping hot cup of joe, when the full moon broke free of the clouds that had been covering it.
Soon the howling would start and the taste of fresh meat would permeate the night air. He always liked the pitch blackness of the night. Something about it just filled his heart with joy and brought out the beast in him.
Then the hair burst forth on his arms and the claws snapped into place on his hands. He was no longer a man. He was once again the creature he was destined to be. He cupped my paws to his mouth and let out a loud blood curdling howl. It felt good. Really good. So he did it again, and again. The need for raw meat consumed him and he knew it wouldn't be long before he struck again.
Finding victims was an easy thing for him to do. His wolf nose could pick up a human scent ten miles away. And being the only law officer of the village he knew who lived alone and right where they lived. Swarthmoore was good to his natural hunting instincts. He would soon pick the town apart just like he had done in many other places several times before.
His next prey was Ryan Higgenbottom and he had promised himself he would take special joy in butchering this one. After all, Higgenbottom had a fondness for little boys he should not have had and that notion sickened the wolf. He would make him pay dearly for every little boy he ever attacked and there were many of them.
Higgenbottom's ramshackle, rundown, clapboard cabin was now only about a hundred yards in front of where the wolf had traveled to. Silently he glided the distance with evil on his mind. No doubt about it. Climbing in through the open window of Higgenbotom's cabin would be the last thing the pedophile would ever see again this side of Hell where the wolf was about to send him to.
He knew his quarry was in there. His twitching nostrils could smell his aroma. The wolf's bigger problem was pacing his pleasures. The adrenaline was really flowing now and his wolf fangs wanted to rip into Higgenbottom's flesh like there was no tomorrow, which for him there would never be again. But the wolf knew had to stay in control to fully enjoy his kill.
You should have seen the terrified, shocked look on Higgenbottom's frantic face when the wolf entered that cabin. A moment in time the wolf lived for. A quick bite to the neck almost made his victim expire and the wolf's rage began in earnest.
He tore Higgenbottom's hands off, then his arms, one at a time. His razor sharp claws easily, and oh so painfully, shredded his target's torso to bits and he heard his agonizing cries with each assault. Finally, the wolf gave him the death bite that almost ripped his throat out, and Higgenbottom's spurting blood covered the wolf's mouth. Some even ran down the fur on his chin. Yes, this was one kill he especially delighted in.
The joys of the night over the wolf climbed back out the same window he had entered in. Leisurely, he strolled back to town. His good deed of the evening now far behind him.
Reaching Swarthmoore he had resumed his human form. His police uniform was neat, and well pressed, looking like he had just picked it up from the dry cleaners. He went back to his office where he opened the thick manila folder he kept in the middle of his well organized desk and leafed through it.
There was indeed a madness to the wolf's method, and tomorrow night he would howl again, as once more he experienced the haunting curse of being all wolf and all man. The same way he had been forever. The same way he would always be.
No, Swarthmoore had no clue whatsoever a wolf was in its midst, and the wolf's folder was full of prey. Life was indeed good, very, very good. And he saw no reason to move on, at least not just yet. He still had plenty of work to attend to.
Cleaning up a lawless town like Swarthmoore was a full time duty. One that he reveled in. And this was just his first night on the new job.
| Author Notes | Thanks trenty for the use of your picture. It goes so very nicely with my little story. |
By Brett Matthew West
Gallows
I pull the trigger of my gun
Kill my victim Number One
A mere stranger to me
but his death set me free
Try to run. Don't think I can
cause I'm wanted in all the land
My picture is an eight by ten
Riding hard to catch the wind
I ride into a cattle town
about the time the sun goes down
Find the dancehall and saloon
A barroom maiden sings a tune
Tie my horse and walk in
Barkeep pours whiskey again
I sit down to clear my mind
The posse not far behind
Help myself to a dancing girl
Raven hair set my heart awhirl
Place my gun down on the bed
Listen to the words she said
Comes a smile upon her face
Takes me back to another place
Make love throughout the night
Slit her throat in the dawning light
I step into the dusty street
The marshal draws his deadly bead
Drop my gun-belt off my hip
Knew I'd made a fatal slip
Gallows stand so strong and tall
They stretch the noose. Soon I'll fall
Sun lights up the morning sky
It's too pretty for a man to die
With my feet on the trap
The sheriff gives my back a slap
I hear the cawing of the crow
Now I'm swinging. Here I go
| Author Notes |
I have always been fascinated with the Old West and the freedoms it offered.
I have also always had a penchant for hanging. This little tale is my fancified way of vicariously experiencing both. Thanks Sam S for the use of your picture. Goes so very well with my poem. |
By Brett Matthew West
See how he hangs out in the shadows of the still dark night.
A creature of solitude Just waiting to strike.
He wears his black cloak, with gnashing fangs hanging out.
Being a vampire is all he is about.
Silently, he attacks when the moon is full and with a hug he will grab you.
The warm, red blood of life to drink.
It's garlic, mirrors, holy water, and a crucifix that are your only defenses against this beast.
A wooden stake in the heart is surely his end.
Now, how many of you want to be his friend?
| Author Notes |
Vampires have become favorite fixtures in books, movies, and video games.
Dracula, by Bram Stoker, made him famous, but it was The Vampyre by John Polidori, that first introduced Modern literature to this creature. Thanks avmurray for the use of your picture. It goes so nicely with my story. |
By Brett Matthew West
She was a drop dead, gorgeous, vivacious looker and I had been eyeballing her for a while. Her long, raven black hair cascaded luxuriously down her back like a flowing river. She possessed sparkling blue eyes and full rosy red lips any man would want to taste.
Me? I was a nobody in a nowhere bar just pouring blended whiskey down one double shot after another. Oh, at one time I had been somebody but that's another story to be told later. Tonight I kicked back and let the long, painful past go.
But, there she was working that pole like there was no tomorrow. The way she contorted her various curves would drive any red-blooded man insane. After all, that was her game. It was also how she found her clientele for the evening.
Ashland, the hole-in-the-wall, poor excuse for a run down, rattletrap, ghost town we were in only came alive on Saturday nights. Especially after midnight. That was always the time the loonies seemed to appear.
I had come into the Broken Bottle Saloon on many occasions. I guess I kind of hung out here as a regular. That was after all the fiasco I was running from in Dallas happened. Here, in this quaint little cantina I could be the nobody I had become and no one knew me. I didn't allow any one close.
Too many unsolved mysteries that I really did not want to discuss with Joe Blow, your every day average citizen from off the street. And, so far, the lady humping the pole that night did not recognize me either. A very good thing.
But, you better believe I knew exactly who she was all smug in her sinister evil ways. I watched the couple of males of the human species mesmerized by her bumping and grinding routine get deeper and deeper in to the act. Just her MO. I also wondered which one of them would be unlucky enough to make the fatal mistake of leaving the joint with her.
Of course, I wouldn't be far behind them when they departed. I wouldn't make the same mistake I had made in Texas. What was left of my self-respect and pride depended on me making the right moves.
The clock on the wall said it was five minutes to three on the AM side of the dial. That meant there were only a handful of minutes remaining before she would strike again. This time I was much better prepared than when she had eluded my clutches before. An error a wanted man could not afford to make.
Yes, I was wanted. I had seen my picture, in an 8 X 10 format, plastered up on the television above the bar. Fortunately, no one seemed to be paying any attention when it had flashed. And, that suited my fancy just fine.
However, I knew it wouldn't be long before I hurriedly left Ashland in the dust behind me, provided I survived the night. And, there were no guarantees of that happening either.
I reached down and checked the contents of the left pocket of the jeans I was wearing ensuring one special item was in place. Successfully clearing my name required my entire plan go precisely as I had mentally rehearsed it a thousand times before.
There is only one thing that stops a she-wolf, and that was my prey in this rinky dink, dirt road Hell Hole I wanted no part of. Knowing my weapon was securely in place, all I could do was bide my time and wait for her to make her move.
The sleepy old barkeep had already given Last Call and was starting his close-up routine. My quarry was now wrapped up in the arms of the unfortunate choice she had made. I hoped he owned real good life insurance. Whatever family he had would soon be needing it.
However, in this war he was only collateral damage. Nothing more or less. Simply another one of her pawns. The lustful look on his face said he had found what he wanted. Too bad he had no idea he was actually her soon-to-be late night snack. Poor sap. I almost felt a twinge of pity for him. Almost.
It had been this way since she started her trek around the globe. Her first victim was found in London. That was were she had originated from. After that it was Rome, then Madrid. Now here we were in Arizona in the American Southwest.
The case had been unceremoniously dropped in my lap in Dallas. The newspaper there had stated I was the right man for the job. But, I had blown it and let her last dearly departed victim die.
Maybe I had. Although in my mind I had done everything I could until the higher-up Brass wannabes had stuck there snot-filled noses into my affairs and handcuffed my every move.
A twenty year Detective career tossed right down the toilet because they chose to not believe me when I told them the lady was a she-wolf. All that did was solicit loud laughter from those who thought they knew it all, but in reality, knew nothing. Not even how to properly wipe their butts.
More than that they actually had the unmitigated gall to pin it all on me. That is why I was now on the lam and a wanted murderer. Only stopping her, and dragging her carcass back to the Lone Star State, would satisfy me.
I watched as she slowly led him out the door. This was not going to end splendidly for any of the three of us I feared. I carefully loaded my silver bullets into my firearm and chambered them. One thing I definitely am is a crack shot. I do not miss.
However, all I could do at the moment was wait to see where she dragged him off to, and unobserved, follow their footsteps. That is what I did. Right out to an abandoned mine shaft on the outskirts of town. She wasn't wasting any time with this one.
Making my way up to the damp, dark mine I could hear the two of them passionately smooching. I could also hear the moans of pleasure that overtook two lovers in the heat of passion. I waited.
I could not make my advance until she transformed herself into the she-wolf she was. That was the carcass I needed her to be when I dragged her back to Texas.
Finally, in what appeared a flash, she metamorphasized into a female wolf. The poor man, who now had her female reproductive organ penetrated, never knew what attacked him. But I sure did.
I had seen the grisly remains of her victim before. Hearing her howling I rushed into the mine, gun blazing. My aim was true, and the six rounds I put in her readily extinguished any form of life she may have been.
I looked at her victim. In no time she had ripped his throat out, and her sharp claws had shredded his naked body. Nothing I could do for the deceased. Then I turned my gaze to the she-wolf. Even in death she held a certain beauty.
Before I could make another move shadows bolted out of the far reaches of the mine and pounced on me. I never saw what came upon me until it was too late. I would spend eternity as one of them. No longer a man, but now a wolf. And, the big yellow moon shone brightly in the sky overhead.
It was howling time.
| Author Notes |
Be careful what you ask for. You just may get it.
Who says romance and horror don't mix? I always thought they did. Perhaps this will settle that little debate once and for all. Thanks MKFlood for the use of your picture. Goes so nicely with my little story. |
By Brett Matthew West
Judge Norman Johnson was dearly departed. He had been a crass, tough, old codger who would rather lock a convict away in the depths of Hell than have to hurt his bloodshot eyeballs looking at him.
The whole town knew he'd do it. He would smile behind his frown, then bring his gavel down. And, at least 500 times over the last fifty years, this commonplace event occurred.
Equally feared and respected the people of the town turned out in droves for his funeral services. That is, those who believed themselves to be much more important than they actually were. The short list included the Chief of Police and the Mayor. Both who were probably the biggest suck-ups to Judge Johnson.
Others in attendance were the City Aldermen and a variety of civic leaders. To not be there would automatically earn you a blacklisting and being ostracized from your highfalutin position in Glass Lake.
The funeral itself had all the bells and whistles of a Black Tie affair. Processional vehicles were lined up for three city blocks and full of mourners, or those pretending to put up the proper front.
Me, I had a little, fairly popular eatery on the outskirts of town. Nothing high and mighty mind you. I avoided those charades like they were the plague. But, my food's reputation was superb. So, I volunteered to cater the Wake.
No big deal. Not the first time I had fed a Dog and Pony Show of this caliber before. I had arrived at the banquet hall in the town's Civic Center earlier that morning with plenty of chores to do. An event of this nature always required certain amenities.
The carpeting in the hall had been freshly shampooed the night before. All the tables and chairs had been properly arranged in just the right fashion. Floral creations of various sizes adorned the tables, and the finest china had been chosen. I held no reservations about using only the very best of everything in how I had the arrangements made.
My meal of choice was an array of bright colored vegetables, mashed potatoes with the finest gravy you have ever eaten, hot buttered rolls, and a very special meat I had slaved over a hot stove all morning preparing. Nothing was too elaborate for the crowd I was responsible to feed that afternoon.
Oh, I had previously had my run-in with Judge Johnson. But, no one in Glass Lake knew anything about all those occasions. The old man did, and he had taken my little secret to the grave with him.
One of my ex-prison cellmates had turned me on to the wonders of cyanide while I was locked up tightly in the state's worst maximum security Hell hole. A place I had barely survived for ten long years before being released on parole, finding out where my old buddy Judge Johnson was to be found, and relocating where I could extract my sweet revenge.
Poisoning the Judge was a simple matter of slipping a capsule of cyanide I had absconded with into his whiskey sour he had drunk three nights before in my eatery. A place he frequented several times to "keep a close eye on me" he had said.
Now I don't have him to worry about any more, and I considered that to be a major case of good riddance. I would not miss the old coot one iota. And, with him out of the way I could get down to the business of living a normal life.
The careless Coroner's sloppy autopsy had missed the fact the Judge had been poisoned, and instead listed his untimely demise as a heart attack. The fact the old man was pushing eighty years old, and a ten thousand dollar bribe I had slipped the Coroner, ensured I would never have to worry about my little scheme being discovered.
That was just the beginning of my devious plan. I still had a trick or two up my sleeve before I would let my revenge on the Judge go. I had served hard time for a crime he knew damn well I had not committed!
His wife knew it too. But, after I had bedded her, that is one body that will never be found. I dismembered and disposed of her wart-covered remains fifteen years ago. Yes, I have spent the last twenty-five years systematically carrying out my plan. One I had severely paid for with every last drop of my own precious blood.
I carved the meat I had roasted and plated it into servings. I wanted all of my guests to be able to walk into the hall from the gravesite, sit down at the table as comfortably as possible, and enjoy their meal to the fullest.
That was exactly what the pigs were now doing. Cast your pearls before swine and watch how they devour them. And, I had plenty of my meat prepared for this occasion. I very seriously doubted if I could even come close to running out of it.
The compliments I heard from the participants about my cuisine were plenty. Succulent seemed to be their favorite description of my pride and joy platter of meat. And, each attendee ate their bellies full.
Now it was time for dessert. At the head of the table I carefully placed a silver serving tray. Slowly a sinister smile came to my face as I pulled the lid off the platter. And, every single one of the feasters immediately knew what my special meat was.
Because there on that platter lay the decapitated head of Judge Johnson. The same terrified expression on his shriveled up face that had been there when I had first started carving him alive.
Shocked by my foul evil deed, for a brief moment in time, you could hear a pin drop in the room as everyone of them grasped the full extent of what I had done.
Me? I just stood there holding that cover in my right hand. And, laughing the loudest evil sound ever made. The funniest part was I had shown this whole town of prudes for exactly what they were.
I had my sweet revenge!
Rest in peace...or is that pieces?
| Author Notes |
Doctor Howler's Nightmares have become a very popular series here on FanStory. Here is another one of them for you to enjoy. May all your meals be so tasty!
Thank you Lloyd C. Taylor for the use of your picture. It goes so nicely with my little story. |
By Brett Matthew West
SPECIAL NOTE FOR MY BRITISH EMPIRE READERS:
There was no malice towards Prince William intended in this Nightmare. He just happened to be the one I had this Nightmare about. I do believe he will one day make a fine king. So, do not be unsettled by my using him in this Nightmare. I would like to believe even he would smile should he be afforded the opportunity to read it -- Doctor I. B. Howler
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To date I have posted 16 of my twisted Nightmares on this site and you, my readers, have made them all at least "Recognized". So as you can see they are becoming rather popular.
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The night was pitch black. The fog surrounding Windsor Castle was thick and soupy. This was the location I did not want to be. However, here I was fighting the premonition that haunted every fiber of my being for at least the last hundred years.
It wasn't hard to recognize the danger lurking. Seven dead corpses in the last three days left no doubt a bat was on the loose. They were all creatures of the night that dared venture out after the warning decree had been sounded.
Me? I had no choice. It was my duty to roam the marshes and woods around the king's palace and protect it with my very life. And, so, I would do just that.
I had been the captain of the guard since I can not remember when. I had even protected the king when he was a mere newborn prince. I had seen him grow further and further away from the common people of our country, into the dictatorial tyrant he had become, while occupying the throne his lineage possessed.
Cruel, and without mercy, or even the smallest thread of decency about him, the king was quick to throw even his most loyal subjects into the depths of his tortuous dungeon, where mutilations were common place.
He delighted in having them stretched on the rack until their joints painfully popped out of place, and then, a little bit further. He even placed some of them in iron masks for the slightest offenses. Feared by all, the king hoarded whatever he wanted.
However, the last straw was when he started boiling women in oil simply for his amusement. It was then I knew what I had to do. And, so, I returned to my ancestrial home after a brief holiday, and resumed my proper place in his realm.
The gypsy I consulted before departing on my sojourn had told me not to go to Transylvania. Eerie things were happening there. But, I ignored her cautions and traveled anyway. Granted, the time I spent perusing with my close associate, the Wolf, had been a pleasant excursion. Still, many unspeakable evil events transpired there.
Now my beloved London was under a sinister siege. That made my blood run rampant and I knew the horrendous activities of the depraved king must be halted.
I possessed easy access to his lair, and all that lay within it. My movements around the grounds would not be challenged. My authority intact, I was well respected by all. But, I could sense the king was becoming suspicious of me.
Night after night I carried out my plan. Carefully following every detail so as to not get thrown off course. And, day after day, I observed King William Arthur Philip Louis, in all his shining glory, conduct his bloody reign. One that would soon be brought to a screeching halt.
The king was splendidly adorned in his royal blue robe he proudly wore. His bejeweled gold crown sat on top of his half-bald head. And, the features I always admired the most about him, his diamond blue eyes, sparkled. It was these features that portrayed the handsomeness of his youthful face.
King William could have been England's most popular, and famous, king of them all. But, instead, he had become a bad seed that needed eradicating. He did not realize how near his demise was. And, he would never expect me, of all people, to be the member of his court to bring him down.
But, I had watched too many of his innocent subjects suffer horribly at his hand. I had heard their shrieks and agonizing screeches. Some deserved their fate. Most did not. One by one I had loosed them from their terror. Now, their loyalty belonged to me.
And, I had visions of grandeur of my own. For too many years I had been at the beck and call of these highfalutin Windsors. But, that was soon to be changed. My secret revolution had been underway long before I sojourned to Transylvania.
Eliminating the king would seal my destiny. Why should I remain nothing but a pawn to be manipulated for his pleasure?
I originally devised my scheme when his father occupied the throne. I wanted nothing more than to force him to abdicate but only ended up in his prison for treason. There I faced the gallows. But, I received a last second reprieve because I managed to get a message through to him that a plot had been devised to murder his beloved queen.
The gallows, much to his dismay, would not have been my end. There is but one method to stop me and that involves a wooden stake. But, my true nature was not known. I had never revealed myself before my travels to Transylvania. And, since returning, I had an unsatisfiable appetite for blood. Seven victims were a mere beginning.
Now it was time to reveal myself to the king. Quiet as a church mouse I entered his chambers without delay. There he sat on his throne oblivious to the plight that would soon befall him. No one else was present.
Instantaneously, I transformed into a bat. The suddenly terrified expression on his face was priceless. His first response was to loudly call for his royal guards. They would be of no further service to him.
"Call all your little heart desires, William," I tauntingly hissed at him, then told him, "your loyal subjects are under my control now. They are presently being held at bay by several associates of mine."
"It was you who attacked those peasants," he replied, uttering the word as though it was way below his dignity to even speak it, and realizing the fate that awaited him as well.
"Yes, William. It was I who attacked them," I confessed without any remorse, "and, soon, all of England will be mine!"
He threw his scepter at me in fear. I caught it in mid-air and easily crushed it with one hand telling him, "William, you are powerless to stop me."
In desperation he asked, "Why do you turn against me?"
He moved backwards unsure of where he was in the chambers and too scared to care.
I moved towards him once more hissing loudly. But, did not answer his inquiry.
He quickly surveyed the room and realized he was trapped with no escape. I backed him into a corner, wrapped my outstretched arms and cape around him, and sank my fangs deep into his neck drinking in his life blood.
England was mine. The army of undead I had gathered on my holiday in Transylvania ensured I possessed it. They were ready, and at my command.
| Author Notes |
Prince William is an extremely popular young royal who should one day make a fine king for the British Empire.
For my British Empire readers: No malice towards Prince William intended by this writing. He just happened to be who I had this Nightmare about. And as I stated, I create my Nightmares from actual ones the good Doctor has. So, do not be put off by my story. If it offends any of my British Empire readers know that was not the intention. I, Doctor Howler, welcome all comments pertaining to my Nightmares. So, let me know what you think about them. Thank you suenethery for the use of your picture. It goes so nicely with my Nightmare. |
By Brett Matthew West
Drac And The Wolf
Drac called the Wolf on the telephone
Said "I'm tired of hunting all alone
So, let us team up one stormy night
A reign of terror to be our plight"
The Wolf said "I'd love to do just that
You grab your cape and I'll fetch my hat"
They sped off to Transylvania land
The wayward vampire and the Wolfman
Came upon a shack back in the wood
Sturdy and strong and hauntingly good
Found old Frankenstein still lived right there
Was happy to have them join his lair
Three of them plotted their evil plan
It'd be the envy of any man
They would howl, and bite, and rip apart
Every living soul that had a heart
That's just what they did for a long time
No one was safe from their life of crime
Then one day when the sky was all grey
Frankenstein travelled so far away
The jealous beast had an evil thought
The other two they would soon be caught
So he called his forces strong and fat
Against the cunning Wolf and the bat
The battle raged on one bloody night
Death and destruction. No pretty sight
Creatures lay dying along the shore
Frankenstein's army would be no more
Drac and the Wolf they went out one night
A reign of terror to be their plight
The Wolf turned on Drac and on the make
Through his heart he drove a wooden stake
HOWL!!!
| Author Notes |
Who can you trust to be your friend?
Thanks helvi2 for the use of your picture. |
By Brett Matthew West
The Madly Insane Letter "X"
Hello! I am an "X". Bet you wish you could be an "X" too
I can make a shape the other letters cannot do
Just because I am different does not mean I should be abused
Kill the bastards! I am tired of not being used
Xerox this poem by the machinegun-toting, knife-throwing, blood-thirsty, madly insane letter "X"
| Author Notes |
The value of the letter "X" in writing is so often misunderstood that it has finally been driven insane.
Now all Hell is about to break loose. Better start using more letter "X's". You have been warned! This poem was written in Free Style. Thanks JessieSanArts for the use of your picture. |
By Brett Matthew West
What is this bloody knife doing in my hand? And, why is there a stab wound in you? It wasn't there when you went to sleep. Made you look. Didn't I? Now, tell me we're not real.
Hey, I didn't put it there. I couldn't have. I've been dead for eons, or so the stories go untold. That being true, then what am I doing in this house of yours?
I don't live here. I was entombed centuries ago. And, why won't that silvery, full Halloween moon let me rest in peace?
Up to three-hundred-and-sixty-four nights a year I can manage to stay buried in my tomb just starring up at the brown dirt that covers my coffin. Happy as a lark. But...
Being non-living has its advantages too, like the peaceful existence it provides, and the escape from the terrors of those still breathing air. Ones like you.
And, they call us nightmares. That's just their big, fancy, smancy term for creatures of the night. The real undead. And, my closest allies have always been outcasts like me, who walk the darkest shadows of the distant corners of your mind. Don't look, but, there's one behind you now!
Some of us mill about every time the sinking sun goes down, in various shapes and forms. You may not believe we exist. Oh, but, we are very real.
Just ask anyone who has had the misfortune of encountering one of us. They'll tell you. Bet you've meet us before too. Haven't you?
Your worst dreams are some of the places we most frequently haunt. And, Mister Sandman is definitely in cahoots with us. He's been a long time acquaintance of ours forever.
Those night terrors you have, you know what they are. Go ahead and honestly admit what you have endured...if you dare. Say, "One of us."
That big, comfy pillow you lay your pretty little head on, and those blankets you try to hide under, they won't protect you. All one of my associates has to say is "Boo!" and you wet your pants, or jump up in a cold sweat. Oh yes. That visit is very real and you know it.
Some times you can even find us gathered around a table, slamming ice cold brewskis down, and scheming our little get together with you. Let me tell you one of the finest pleasures we so very much enjoy, is once we set our sights on you, there is nothing at all you can do about it. Scary thought, isn't it?
In our dimension it is Halloween every night. And, we know you have to sleep some time. It is when you do we come prowling. There's no human life form we do not stalk. We find your weaknesses and we exploit them.
Maybe it's the fear of drowning. Perhaps you are scared to fall down and go BOOM! Oh, we're watching your every move, just to find that small chink in your armor, because that is where we will readily attack. And, knowing every human out there has some kind of fear brings such a wonderful, pleasant smile to our faces.
Midnight is our witching hour. See her ride her broom? She can be anywhere in the world, just like us. And, trauma is another one of our best friends.
Because, once you have a traumatic experience that only opens the door to your dreamworld wider for us to enter. Your weakest times are our most favorite ones to strike.
We are so real we can paralyze you with fright. Even little kiddies are vulnerable. Ever seen one of them go running down the hall crying for mommy and daddy in the middle of a still, calm night? You guessed it. That's because we've had too much fun terrorizing them.
While they're bawling their baby blues out, begging to sleep in the middle, we're in our realm of existence laughing hysterically at another successful raid. Oh, don't be so personally offended. It happens to the best of you, doesn't it? And, sometimes quite regularly.
What about those of you who are all alone? What easy targets you make. You know we're getting nearer when you hear things that go bump in the night. We'll also identify ourselves through noises, like creaking stairs, and eerie feelings. Before too long you know we're on our way to get you!
Sleep with the lights on. It only illuminates our path much clearer. Say you're brave. Are you really, now? That's a challenge we look forward to proving wrong. One of your strongest fallacies is music soothes the savage beast. However, it only excites us. Gets our creative juices flowing all the more. So, Rock On!
I see you rubbing your tired eyes over there. But, you're afraid to go to sleep now, aren't'cha? Because you don't know who's going to come and get you this time when you do. We can wait.
Nod off. That's all you have to do and you'll be in our clutches. Have you tried counting sheep? Works every time. Or maybe even counting backwards from one hundred. My money says you won't get down to ninety before you are snoring away.
A bloody knife. A strangulation. Or perhaps, just maybe, we'll pull out all the stops for you this one time.
No apologies necessary. We have something very special planned for you the next time you go to sleep.
Wait and see!
Nighty nite.
| Author Notes |
Doctor Howler has enjoyed his little vacation. But, now he is back in rare form with another special Bedtime Story for all the little kiddies out there to enjoy.
This one you will definitely want to read to them over and over again. Welcome to the wonderful world of nightmares. Thanks Angelheart for the use of your picture. It goes so nicely with my little story. If you dare! |
By Brett Matthew West
Doctor I.B. Howler here,
Oh, my, it's Halloween,
and time for a brand new Bedtime Story.
So, turn the lights down low,
lay your little head down on your soft, comfy pillow,
close those big ole peepers of yours,
and enjoy this frightfully good one
I wrote especially for you.
No hiding under the covers allowed now!
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Collateral Damage
To him there was nothing sweeter smelling
Than the aroma of a dead man's feet
That was the primary reason
He accepted a position
In the Coroner's Office
Cadavers excited him
Made his juices flow
And, If he had to kill his victims
To satisfy his lustful obsessions
So be it
In his mind they were nothing more
Than collateral damage
The little village of Hammer Mill
Was getting spooked
And not by the ghosts and goblins
That would soon be calling
At their front doors begging for candy
In a ramshackle cabin
On the outskirts of town
He stashed away his collection
Of scalpels he had gathered
For harvesting human organs
Especially hearts and livers
Delicacies he would pan fry
And dine on by a flickering
Candlelight
His chalice full of human blood
Some times he would even
Treasure the eyeballs
He gouged out of sockets
For a tasty snack
There was nothing wrong
With the human body
Anatomically speaking
He had dined on every part of it
Knew to sizzle the brains
To a golden crunch
Filet the torso
And make steaks out of the loins and thighs
Indeed, he was a fancy
connoisseur of the anatomy
Kept two freezers
Out back of the shed
Well stocked full of flesh
All varieties of it
Men, women, and children
He feasted on all of them
After he completed an autopsy
Which behind closed doors he did
On every stiff that entered the morgue
He always ensured the casket
Was closed so its empty contents
Could not be observed
At least fifty of them
Adorned the graveyard
And no one ever suspected
Their loved ones garnished his table
He operated his funeral parlor
In just that fashion
Once he even kept a severed head
High up on his mantel
That was until he finely
Tossed the thing into
A blazing fireplace one night
After it rotted
Now, it was Halloween
And he was throwing a party
He knew it would be
The talk of the town
Or, what was left
Of it afterwards
Which in his twisted mind
He didn't plan would be
Very much
His fun games would include
Bobbing for apples
...with razor blades in them
Oh, he would also pass out lots of candy
...cyanide-laced of course
He decided that should keep
His freezer full
For some time to come
Everybody in Hammer Mill
Would come to his party
For being the town's Coroner he was very popular
But, they would never leave again
After he poisoned the young ones
With his specially prepared candy
The old ones would be ripe
For the pickings
With his carving cutlery
One by one
He would attack them
He knew the spiked drinks
He served would render them
Defenseless
And, the mushroom-induced trip
They would be on would carry them
To their unforeseen destination
Jack o' lanterns
Possessing a wide
Variety of scary faces
Adorned his property
The pumpkin patch
Was full of pumpkins
The hayride was set
And the guests were
Steadily arriving
He stood on the front porch
Of his run down shack
With a mile wide
Grin on his face that said
"So very good to see you!"
If only his
Unsuspecting guests
Knew the fate
That awaited them all
Happy Halloween to all my little readers out there in Nightmare Land.
Doctor I.B. Howler
Nightmarologist
Until next time
Too-da-loo!
| Author Notes |
Doctor Howler believes his Bedtime Stories are suitable for children of all ages.
After reading them you may have a slightly different opinion than the good Doctor does. Doctor Howler says to join his Nightmares Fan Club just have a Big People read you one of his little Bedtime Stories every night before you go to sleep. SPECIAL NOTE: For those of you who may wonder about the unique formatting of this story it was deliberately done in an effort to display the insanity Doctor Howler can descend into from time to time. (It is not a poem in a story format). But, thanks for asking. |
By Brett Matthew West
(Welcome to my latest Nightmare. It comes directly from the Horror genre and proves once again that Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, to paraphrase William Congreve's proper expression in The Mourning Bride, 1697, of "Nor Hell a Fury, like a Woman scorned".) - Doctor I.B. Howler
The cage Linda Deavers was contained in seemed to mimic her. The room shifted with each echo of her desperate pleas and the walls panted. Startled by the sound, she could feel the presence in the pitch blackness. Then quick footsteps danced down the hallway.
The purple shadows held a quality of vastness but they would not hamper her. There would be no black pearls of worry. Tonight, Linda Deavers would celebrate her individuality.
Outstretched on his bare back, as far as his arms and legs would extend, Roger Balister struggled mightily against the leather thongs that bound his wrists and ankles, rubbing them raw. He could feel every painful piece of his rough-hewn stone bed of broken dreams.
Secluded in the Novak Caverns, Balister could hear the howling coyotes. He could also feel the biting ants begin to crawl all over his honey-covered body. Affairs of the heart constituted his past time. The affairs, that is, of cheating on Linda Deavers. How was he to know Melanie Janis was Linda's secret lover, or that the two women conspired his demise? Slow and torturous as the drama would unfold.
Balister loved Linda. Honestly and truly he did. But, Melanie caught his eye, too. That was back when he possessed a pair of them, before the hot poker Linda pierced him with extracted his left one the previous night. She promised he'd pay dearly for his crimes, one body part at a time!
There would be no escape because the dog collar Linda fastened tightly around Balister's neck was affixed to a choke chain, with the other end padlocked around the largest hemlock tree in the caverns. To avoid strangulation, and eliminate extra tension pinching off his windpipe, Balister could only lay as still as he possibly could.
Balister knew when the sun came up, Linda would appear with fresh-honed cutlery in hand to complete what she'd started. He could see dawn's early light illuminating the horizon.
Suddenly, twin car doors slammed shut. Straining to turn his head in the direction the noises came from, Balister immediately observed Linda and Melanie rapidly approach like they were on a mission.
Linda straddled Balister's defenseless body at the waist. With a carving knife tightly gripped in both hands, she plunged the blade deep inside his chest. Balister felt the shank slice him wide open to the mid-rift.
Chanting incantations as she worked, Linda reached down with her hand and yanked Balister's internal organs out one at a time. Not contented to stop there, and drinking in the ecstasy with each delicious amputation, Linda delighted in her crowning achievement. Now, she and Melanie could live happily ever after.
Abandoning Balister's mutilated remains to rot away, or become fodder for the birds and wild beasts that roamed Novak Mountain, Linda placed her blood-soaked right arm around Melanie's shoulders. From out of nowhere, Melanie thrust a meat cleaver deep into Linda's skull.
As Linda crumpled to the ground in a heap beside Balister, Melanie walked away. Waiting for her at the base of the mountain was her newest flame, Teresa Bradshaw.
| Author Notes |
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
Topographical Terrain, by SCHATZLING, selected to compliment my Nightmare. So, thanks SCHATZLING, for the use of your picture. It goes so nicely with my Nightmare. |
By Brett Matthew West
Greetings to all my little kiddies!
This is Doctor I.B. Howler and welcome to my newest nightmare. It has been quite a while since I last created one to be told to all the little kiddies as they are being safely snuggled into their nice warm beds ready to drift off to Dreamland.
This nightmare tells the story of a young boy on an elevator ride. A journey he will never forget. What goes up...
Well, you'll see.
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He pushed the button for the nineteenth floor. The light illuminated in amber as the elevator door creaked closed and the car began it's ascent. Tommy Martin was going to visit his invalid grandmother.
Several weeks had passed since they last spent an afternoon together. Velma Evans always looked forward to Tommy's visits. That was because no one else ever called on her. He was such a good boy.
The elevator stopped on the eighth floor and the door opened up. A tall, dark-haired, stranger stepped on board. The door reclosed and the elevator started rising once more. An eerie silence filled the air.
"What floor are you going to?" Tommy finally asked the man. He admired the three-piece, button-down, pleated suit that adorned the passenger.
"That does not matter, Tommy," he was told.
Being called by his first name unsettled the young teenager. Startled, he backed into the far corner of the car and kept his blue eyes trained on the man's every movement.
"Don't be frightened, Tommy," the gent calmly told him, "I know you're going to attend to your Grandma Evans."
'How does this intruder know so much about me?' Tommy wondered to himself. He'd never seen the guy before in his life.
Between the fourteenth and fifteenth floors the elevator jerked and came to a sudden stop. Tommy pushed the button for the nineteenth floor several times. The elevator refused to budge. It was stuck in place.
The interloper reached his hand into the breast pocket of his suit. Tommy wondered what he would extract. It didn't take long for him to find out. Suddenly, a shiny blade appeared.
Terrified, Tommy pounded on the button in a desperate attempt to restart the car moving again.
"Come on elevator!" he pleaded to no avail.
The man smiled. An icy expression crossed his sullen face. Unexpectedly, the elevator lurched and once more began to climb. It came to rest on the nineteenth floor and the door opened wide.
A pool of crimson covered the floor of the car as Tommy stepped off the elevator wearing his new suit. Red liquid ran down his chin. In his hand he held a blood-stained knife. He had just enjoyed dinner. His grandmother would make a tasty dessert.
Sleep tight my little kiddies.
Until the next time!
Dr. I.B. Howler
Nightmarologist
| Author Notes |
Doctor Howler's Nightmares have always been a popular series here on FanStory.
historical elevator, by supergold, selected to complement my nightmare. So, thanks supergold, for the use of your picture. It goes so nicely with my nightmare. |
By Brett Matthew West
Greetings!
Doctor I.B. Howler here presenting another one of my popular nightmares to all my little kiddies out there who are preparing to be tucked nice and warmly into your beddy-byes.
The idea for this nightmare came from the contest listing called "Too Far". The theme of which was "this time her boss had gone too far." My interpretation of this leaned towards a provocative Nightmare. After all, there's not too much more it could refer to. Maybe not getting a raise or having to work overtime when you have other plans. For me, there was only one angle to pursue.
Perhaps, I should caution you about the content of this Nightmare? Maybe, I won't. I wouldn't want to spoil your pleasure.
You'll see.
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This time her boss had gone too far, so she wrote "GOODBYE!" with her brightest lipstick right across his big, expensive, desk. A hot-pink stain was left behind. She spotted the trash receptacle out of the corner of her eye, reared back, and kicked it over spilling the debris everywhere. Not contented with the mess she'd created, she booted the litter all over the floor and sent her high-heeled shoe flying off her foot. It landed with a loud thud against the far wall of the office.
"Are you quite through throwing your hissy fit now?" David Gomindy smirked and asked his secretary.
He admired her spunk. He always did. That was one of the many reasons he'd selected her during the interview process to fill the void created by Janet Morrisette's departure. That, and the fact Mariah Nelson was a drop-dead gorgeous redheaded woodpecker if ever he saw one.
He really enjoyed the curvaceous shapeliness presented by her badonkadonk. He could stare at that full-moon shaped derriere all day long and not grow weary of the view. And, he did, too. Mariah knew well how to work her magic and drew her boss into the lair she had waiting for him.
She snarled, "You pathetic, cheap, SOB! I don't care if I have only been here for four months. I earned that raise!"
David Gomindy smiled broadly. He enjoyed seeing the veins as they popped out on the sides of Mariah's head. They looked like little horns and turned him on in a way he'd never experienced before. Mariah was all woman and knew how to work her wiles exquisitely.
"You want that raise, make mad passionate love to me right now and you'll get it," he promised her.
It wouldn't be the first time she'd slept her way to the top. He was a wild roller coaster she greatly pleasured in conquering. A rock solid mountain for her to climb. The fiery redhead could work the pole she danced on.
Mariah stopped and locked the office door. Quickly they undressed each other, tightly embraced, and pumped away. Ecstasy chilled her spine, sending shivers over her unclothed body. She knew before the hound came in heat her little tirade would explode into fanatical copulation. This wasn't their first rodeo. They had played the showdown scene before.
But, this time something was different. Securely fastened together, David heard what he thought was the whir of a vacuum aspiration machine being turned on. It grabbed him and squeezed tighter and tighter. Slowly, he felt himself being constricted and drawn inside Mariah's body.
Too late, his anguished last scream of "I want to live!" was heard as he disappeared.
This time her boss had gone too far.
Sleep tight my little kiddies!
Until the next time.
Dr. I. B. Howler
Nightmarologist
| Author Notes |
I suppose this is a bit of a social statement. Kind of an abortion in reverse.
I Want To Live, by MKFlood, selected to complement my Nightmare. So, thanks MKFlood, for the use of your picture. It goes so nicely with my Nightmare. |
By Brett Matthew West
Heck no, I did not wear a frigging mask. Why should I? In fact, when I received the e-mail from higher-ups, I torched the message with a butane lighter. Burned the order to a crisp, crackling, crunch, I did. A feeling of bliss washed over my being.
Before I go any further allow me to say salutations to all my little kid-a-roos out there. I won't let on where I've been hiding out, oh let's just say for the last sixty months. That's none and yen. But, I'm back. You missed me?
My name is Doctor I.B. Howler, Nightmarologist. My stories, Nightmares, as I prefer to call them, are suitable for children of all ages and should be graciously told to the whippersnappers as they are being put to bed. The younger the small fries are the better.
I am now the County Mortician. My sole responsibility is to make the dead become the very best versions of themselves they can be. After all, the better condition their organs are in the more cashola I make selling them on the Black Market. But, hush, that's our secret, okay?
I have created a lavish lifestyle for myself through the fruits of my hard labor. Over the years, I have touched many lives. My impact will not soon be forgotten. I've always believed if I can't be the favorite son, I'll be the prodigal one. Suits me way past a capital T. Know what I mean, Sherlock?
On the local news front, my best liked being Channel 6, KRAK-TV, the county has experienced a recent significant spike in overdoses. Probably from a wider availability of popular street drugs, like fentanyl. This beauty typically resulted in the user doing a fancified two-step of dizziness. These hilarious contortions often followed by their limp body crashing to the ground into a deep, dark, coma. Deep and dark. Two of the most chicest colors. That's when they pay me their final visit. I treat them all like long-lost cousins. They say family first, right?
There have been so many they outnumber more than those killed in car wrecks and by gunshots combined. Anything that keeps me employed and lines my pockets deeper, I'm all for. The other news I liked to hear about are opioid deaths. Their grim totals signaled a public health crisis in never before seen volumes. I just sat back, smiled, and took it all in. Ka-ching!
Mainly cut down in the prime of their lives, these dead are usually only twenty-five to fifty-five years old. Youth is served. Because younger organs fetch much more moolah in my realm of existence. The cockles of my heart are warmed by the downstream consequences of their demise, and those effects on whatever friends and families they leave behind.
Did I mention fentanyl works about one hundred times as powerfully as morphine? When added to other manufactured druggies in a cocktail, fentanyl is even stronger. But, who am I to moralize? Do I need to mention all the business I gather from those who snort cocaine, abuse meth, or consume too many pain pills? I feel no sympathy for them. None. I'll just stay at my autopsy table and await their arrival. Doubt if it shant be very long.
Oh the pleasure of marketing organs is such a national gold mine. Wouldn't you like to become my trusty assistant and wealthy beyond your wildest imagination?
No, I didn't wear a frigging mask. Why should I? I'm not the one who's dead and rotting away. All I can say is keep on doing what you're doing, my little kid-a-roos. See you soon. Wonder how many greenbacks you'll fetch me when we meet?
Sleep tight now.
Until the next time!
Doctor I.B. Howler
Nightmarologist
| Author Notes | Make them Laugh, by Cindy Sue Truman, selected to complement Dr. Howler's Nightmare. |
By Brett Matthew West
Doctor Howler believes his Nightmares are suitable for children of all ages and should be told to them right after they are tucked tightly in bed. After reading his Nightmare, you may have a slightly different opinion than the good doctor.
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Greetings my little kid-a-roos!
It is I, Doctor I.B. Howler, Nightmareologist, with my newest tale about a not so good samaritan and a river. Enjoy!
Brandon Barber sat alone on the bank of the isolated Reninger River. In his hand he held his stainless-steel magnum pistol with its precision grade barrel. The chamber of the weapon was empty because the halfwit failed to load its bullets that morning. Brandon noticed three large bull alligators in a pod drifted toward a woman sunbathing on a boulder in the middle of the estuary. He thought this peculiar because he knew large alligators preferred to roam alone.
Infatuated with the work of art he observed there, though he did not know her, the PTSD sufferer cupped his calloused hands to his reversed boat-shaped mouth. His big, dark red, upper lip, with its downward corners, protruded. Brandon's mouth reflected his pessimistic attitude, jitters, and most of all his lack of confidence.
In broken Spanish, he said to the woman, "Regreso enseguida!" This meant he would be right back.
He turned tail and raced at dangerously fast breakneck speed into the marsh behind him. Its waterlogged soils slowed his footsteps. Brandon stripped off his pullover shirt that contained an imprint of Spongebob Squarepants on the front and fought his way through the large and dense colonies of saltmeadow cordgrass.
Ants pulverized under his bare feet as Brandon took each forward stride. He located his target, a deceased fawn he'd spotted earlier that morning on his daily jog. Brandon realized the danger right away. Hordes of ants awaited his every movement.
"Holy crap, does this thing smell!" Brandon said out loud.
He grabbed the fawn by its tramp, right at the tip of its toe, and felt the thick keratin covering the appendage. Using his shirt, Brandon slapped ants away from its contorted hoof. With gusto, he started to drag the partially devoured carcass back to the river. If a portion of the fawn's entrails had not already been eaten away, Brandon would have been too wimpy to move the cadaver.
The barbaric legion of ants chased Brandon. He witnessed their formation shifted, and their densely-packed throng increased, as their army of warriors received new battle plans to deal with his intrusion. Some scaled Brandon's arms. Hurly-burly, he cuffed them off. A few remained. Their attacks made Brandon's arms ache. The pain did not faze him. Machocistic, he enjoyed the afflictions.
Brandon had one distinct advantage over his stalkers; long, gangly legs that moved forward with loose-jointed abandonment. When Brandon picked them up and put them down in galloping succession, he soon outdistanced his predators.
Coasting easy without expending much effort, the alligators swam pirouettes around the woman perched on the boulder in the middle of the river. Occasionally, their elongated snouts brushed the rock before they backed away. Brandon thought they looked like bouncing rubber balls. The kind he'd seen on Romper Room as a child. He wondered when one would make a strike at the woman. He knew it could occur at any moment.
Quickstepping, Brandon scurried to the nearest bank of the river and said, "Dinnertime, doofuses!"
He heave-hoed the remains of the fawn into the river. It landed in the boggy water. The alligators turned when they heard the yearling splash down in the loch.
"Swim to me. You have no other options," Brandon said.
The woman looked at the feasting trilogy of aggressive alligators upriver.
"Dive in the water!"
She thrust herself away from the boulder she roosted on. Her arms splashed the water with effort and her kicking feet threshed about wildly.
"So, you're not a good swimmer, mademoiselle? Hurry up, will you? We don't have all day. Those alligators could come any time."
Brandon applauded approval when she reached the river's bank. She stumbled up the embankment and fell on her face. Her awkward antics caused Brandon to chortle a gleeful laugh. He snared her hand, and with sudden violence, almost wrenched her arm off dragging her to a defoliated meadow.
"Stop it, you're hurting me!" she said.
The polished blade of a large hunting knife flashed in the sunlight. The woman quickly noticed its sharp, curved tip and how the handle of the weapon fit firm in Brandon's hand.
"I'm going to do so much more than hurt you, and, I'm going to start by amputating your breasts!"
For some reason the pretty woman's well defined cheekbones, and the tapered chin of her diamond-shaped face, made Brandon think of Tyra Banks. He remembered she was the first African-American television personality featured on his favorite Sports Illustrated: Swimsuit Issue magazine.
A violent primal scream incorporating expressed anger reverberated several times as a mass of black fur blasted out of the marsh reeds. The monstrous beast rose erect. Balancing its weight on its heels, the primate pounded on its massive chest with two fists of rage. The sound crescendoed as he squawked, "Hheeaagghh! Hheeaagghh! Hheeaagghh!"
Her legs wood stiff, the woman shuddered in awe of the screeching simian. Panic-stricken, she stumbled back and trembled as she lost her balance. Tears cascaded down her face. She pled, "NO! Please! Don't hurt me!"
"Dominic, the pleasure is all yours. Have at her," Brandon said. He turned to the woman and encoraged, "Run. It's your only chance."
He knew ferociously territorial simians often killed over boundary disputes. Here, on the grassy knoll of the swift Reninger River, had Dominic somehow perceived the strange woman a menace to eliminate? Loud thumps resounded in Dominic's head. His contracted heartbeat raged as his blood-red eyes locked on his target. Bile rose in the back of his throat.
Dominic slammed his arm into the woman's head. The powerful blow shattered her skull. He bit into her face. His sharp canine teeth penetrated her flesh. Blood spouted from where her nose had been. Dominic ripped the woman's arms from her body and launched them like projectiles deep into the marsh. Brandon remained a safe distance in the background and cheered his foray on. Finally, Dominic severed the woman's legs leaving her torso where it laid.
Brandon understood the woman would have only survived if Dominic chose to allow her the mercy. Staring him in the eyes had been one of her fatal mistakes. Attempting to run away from him, another.
"You go hide in the marsh until our next victim comes along. I think I see someone walking this way in the distance," Brandon said.
Brandon Barber sat alone on the bank of the isolated Reninger River...and waited.
Until the next time.
Toodeloo my little kid-a-roos,
Doctor I. B. Howler, Nightmareologist
| Author Notes |
Call of the Wild, by eileen0204, selected to complement my story.
Doctor I. B. Howler, Nightmareologist, is one of my strangest muses. He believes his stories are suitable for children of all ages and should be told to them right after they are tucked tight in bed. After reading his tale you may have a slightly different opinion than the good doctor. If you would care to read any of the other 25 so far, and counting, Nightmares of Doctor I.B. Howler, Nightmareologist click on the blue numbers at the top of the page. |
By Brett Matthew West
I have never seen so much blood in all my life, have you got any towels?
What the hell did I need towels for? My bloodletting sacrifice had only just begun a couple hours ago. I planned on the sadistic torture to continue for a long time.
My previous studies of the ancient Mayan rituals referred to as chulel would come in handy and result in the horrific hemorrhagic shock of my victim. I possessed none of the Mayans' tools which included bone awls, obsidian blades, and maguey thorns from an agave-like plant. I had already slit his cheeks, lips, tongue, arms, chest, torso, and legs. The white bones of his ribs were exposed. I debated peeling the skin completely off his body.
Victim? Perhaps that remains too strong a word. I could consider others like trash, or perhaps the utterly ridiculous codswallop that lay bound before me. Thank you Collins English Thesaurus for that particular British slang term. In this situation, the insult fit well.
Kenny moaned in savage terror as I made my next incision across the bare shin of his leg. Twenty-three others over various portions of his body preceded the slash. Panic, in all its terrifying and shining glory, glowed on his mutilated face. Hysterical fear illuminated his eyes. His anxiety grew broader, and more palpable, with each ticking second. We had a lengthy road left to hoe.
"This is why I dragged your stinking carcass out here in the middle of this insignificant, podunk, Arizona desert, not far from Tombstone. You know what's funny, Kenny? A tombstone will be the only marker to prove your worthless existence ever occurred. Out here, no one can hear your shrieks no matter how high-pitched your wails become, just like you did to my baby girl, old buddy. Marlena was only twelve years of age."
"I'm sorry, George," Kenny cried. A stream of unstoppable tears cascaded from his eyes. His ragged breath grew harsh. I felt no sympathy as I watched him begin to drown in a sea of his own irresponsibility. However, I enjoyed the waterfall.
"Save your emotions, Kenny. You're going to need all the strength you can muster until you finally beg me to kill you dead. That, I fully intend to do, but not until you suffer much more than my daughter did, you pathetic son of a bitch!"
Drawn in tight, my lips formed a frown on my furrowed face. The inner corners of my eyebrows angled up. I lowered my gaze and turned away reaching for the pinchers and red hot lump of coal contained therein. Kenny's belly would soon be branded...again. I intended to burn right through the mucus lining in his stomach. The chains fastened to his wrists and ankles restrained Kenny to the sacrificial alter. My serrated hunting knife had removed his nose. The longer I left the coal in place, well, you get the picture. Kenny received much more than that.
"I trusted you, Kenny. At least enough to leave Marlena in your care while I had to leave town on short notice. And, you, you violated not only my trust, but Marlena's tender body in ways no girl should have to endure. I will never forgive you for your atrocious, lustful, actions. NEVER! I won't get graphic. You know what hell you put her through."
"I didn't mean to harm Marlena."
"You didn't mean to harm her no more than I intend to let you live for your vileness. Castration is coming up. Then, maybe, just maybe, I'll complete this task and put you out of my misery. Or, perhaps, I'll leave you barely alive, struggling for your last breath, and let the buzzards and coyotes feast on your remains."
"I was tried and found innocent."
"Not in my court. Here, I am the judge, the jury, and your executioner. You won't get off on a technicality like you did there. They should have convicted you, Kenny." I thrust out my hand to procure my knife for my next planned act. Its row of sharp points along a jagged edge functioned best in a back-and-forth, saw-like, cutting motion. Grasping the cutlery, I proclaimed, "Now, we shall continue."
I have never seen so much blood in all my life, but what in the hell did my murderous intentions need any towels for?
| Author Notes | Desert in brown, by Lucien van Oosten, selected to complement my posting. |
By Brett Matthew West
Greetings, my little kidda-roos! It is I, Doctor I.B. Howler, Nightmareologist. In my newest Nightmare, I tell a story about being trapped inside an elevator car. We've all been there. But, what happens if those doors don't reopen?
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Agitated in a noticeable manner as he kicked the wall of the elevator with his bull black wing-tipped Oxford, and talked out loud to pass the idle time away, George lamented, "Aw, New York City. The very definition of a concrete jungle personified. Hell, these damn skyscrapers tower over this town so tall they obscure any views you may otherwise ever see."
Once more, he punched the inside wall of the elevator in frustration. George wrung his wiry hands. In regret, he continued his tirade. "Good thing Central Park is right smack dab in the middle of this town." He scoffed, "Imagine, more than three hundred movies have been filmed there. Sure the hell wish I was in Central Park right now instead of being trapped inside this stupid elevator between the 68th and 69th floors...again!"
The only person inside the elevator, George depressed the button for his floor. The vain effort failed to achieve any good results. He caught his labored breath and fell back hard against the wall of the car, which had come to a screeching halt thirty minutes earlier with a harsh squeal. George remembered the lights flickered a menaced foreshadowing. He had to grab onto the handrail to prevent falling forward when the elevator jerked to its stop.
George tried to recall what he'd been told after he'd depressed the emergency button the first time. An unknown voice crackled a response.
He repeated the spiel he'd heard. "Humblest apologies for your inconvenience, sir. We are currently experiencing technical difficulties with our computer that operates the elevator you are in. Unfortunately, it may require a lengthy time before we will be able to assist you."
George asked himself, "A lengthy time? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
It felt like several hours dragged by while George waited. Unexpected, a deep resonated sound rang through the shaft of the elevator. He chalked it up to the ancient building settling on its foundation as they tended to do. The noises crescendoed louder. A sense of dread crept over George. He reached for his smartphone. The implement contained a deceased battery.
Exasperated, a distraught George flung the phone against the wall. "Great! Completely cut off from the freaking outside world!"
He plopped down on the floor of the stalled elevator. The contraption shook as though it suffered a seizure. The overhead light extinguished. George was enveloped in total blackness. His heart raced.
To no avail, George tried to adjust his eyes to his surroundings. A movement made his blood run cold as if sieved over an iceberg in the far reaches of the Arctic Circle. Something red glared back at him. Unable to move, George froze.
Helpless, he knew he was alone with whatever hunted him. George's fear turned into desperation as the creature lunged to devour its meal. Penetrating fangs sank deep into George's neck. Warm, crimson liquid saturated the front of his white, button-down, shirt. Another workday in the Big Apple came to an end.
"That's a wrap!" The Director screamed into his megaphone.
Sleep tight my little kidda-roos!
Dr. I.B. Howler
Nightmareologist
| Author Notes |
Skyline!, by nikman, selected to complement my story.
Dr. Howler believes his Nightmares are suitable bedtime stories for children of all ages and should be told to them right after they are tucked in bed. After reading his Nightmare you may have a different opinion than the good Doctor does. |
By Brett Matthew West
Imminent danger on the wind, a virescent green sky began to blanket the coastal pueblo of Eldorado del Diaz. The air thickened with anticipation as the breeze started to build. The salty scent of the sea, the mustiness of decomposed driftwood, and the tranquil bouquet of earthy sand, could be smelled. Even stronger, the aroma of something much more sinister arose.
Hazardous storms were no strangers to the citizens of the peninsula. Somehow, this one felt different than others they experienced before as though the threat lived. Its intentions roared prolonged cries to anyone brave enough to listen.
Once more, like he'd done for several days, an ancient lightkeeper studied the horizon. The gathering clouds held the fixation of his stare. Many storms had come and gone during Manuel's watch over the beacon. None troubled him as this tempest did. Deep in his bones he sensed the chilled breath of the paradigm. A man of few words, Manuel could not turn loose of the feelings the disturbance raged deep inside him.
He asked the squall , "Your tendrils wish to ensnare our villa do they not? Somehow, you must not be allowed to inflict the terror you seek."
Each day the storm drew nearer to the unprotected hamlet. One by one, windows were boarded up, and anticipated necessary supplies stocked, as the townspeople huddled their bodies in small spaces in their meager cabanas. Silent moments slipped away. The storm's whispers appeared to magnify.
The Eldorado del Diaz Mercado was crowded. Fernando pushed his way into the marketplace. His unkempt dark-brown hair sprouted red streaks. He looked at the shopkeep. The two week growth on the man's griseled face needed a lathered shave. Fernando greeted him with a friendly wave, "Hola!"
He noticed the purple hand painted gorra, that resembled a baseball cap, on top of the hawker's bald head. Seated on a tree branch, a big-eyed owl gawked back at Fernando. The bambino had frequented the shop for twelve years since he was a tiny muchacho.
The merchant told Fernando, "The plantains hang off the basket in the corner. They are sweet like a banana but better fried. Help yourself my young amigo."
On his way to the mercado that morning, Fernando had encountered a stranger shilouetted by the shadows of an obscured passageway. Thin and bent over like a hunchback, the result of an abnormal spinal curvature, Fernando noticed the man's stone face and kangaroo black cloak. Unsure of any possible threat the man presented, he hesitated his approach.
A raspy voice said, "The storm is alive. You can feel it, can't you? It is coming for us!"
Fernando's head nodded. His heart raced in his chest. Puzzled by what he was told, he asked, "Who are you?"
"My name is Manuel. I am the keeper of the light. I have watched this storm approach for many days. Soon, it will arrive. Like other storms I have seen before, this one brings trouble."
"What do you mean trouble?"
A distance seemed to ignite in the lightkeeper's eyes. He replied, "The storm is an omen of the darkness to appear. It brings things that should not be." He paused, "Dangerous things better left unseen."
"What kind of things?"
The keeper studied Fernando with melancholy resignation that showed acceptance of the impending doom. He said, "The storm brings the shadows that lurk in darkness. It brings these to the surface. There, they are free to prey on the weak among us."
Fernando wanted to run away from the stranger, and the volatile storm, as well as the darkness its foreboding promised to produce. But, there was no escape. Try as hard as he may, Fernando could not cast his sight off the old man. He wondered, "How can you know so much about the storm?"
"I know," came the response.
His family's wares in hand, Fernando departed the Eldorado del Diaz Mercado. Along his way the wind from the nearby storm tousled his hair. Strands on the sides of his head brushed against the tops of his ears. The bangs fell to the side of the boy's forehead. Sea air seeped into the follicles and resulted in the look of beach waves.
A hard rain lashed the windows as Fernando arrived home. Soaked to the skin, he felt as though somebody stood over him and poured a bucket of water on top of his head. Fernando fought the angry and aggressive howling wind to close the front door behind him. The villa's lights flickered. As the night wore on, something that did not belong in the world of the living groaned. Events Manuel spoke about started to emerge.
Fernando discovered a sudden urge to seek shelter in the lighthouse. As he slowly made his way there he felt the presence of the coincidences Manuel warned him about. Fernando sensed them all around him. He pressed on and found Manuel on the landing atop the lighthouse steps.
Manuel said in delight, "You came. I thought I was the only one who could see the dangers of the storm."
"I had to see them for myself," Fernando replied.
Manuel's eyes filled with sadness when he said, "The storm is a portal to another world. It wants all of us to enter."
The storm bristled on making Fernando shiver. His knobby knees knocked together. His hands shook, and the bracelets around his wrist jingled. He asked, "What can we do?"
"We can not stop it. All we can do is try to keep the storm's darkness at bay, and not let it get too close, before we can safely get away."
The strength of the gale intensified as if it overheard their conversation and increased the challenge. Violent thunderclaps crashed and brilliant lightning bolts crackled around them. The relentless torrential onslaught continued. The ground below them trembled.
Fernando remained resolute. He knew if he gave in to his fear matters would become worse. He refused to be defeated by the forces of nature. Battered but unyielded, Fernando watched the storm slowly surrender. He saw the first rays of dawn pierce through the blackness.
The rain diminished. The fierceness of the wind subsided. Soon, the sun rose over the horizon of the ravaged landscape. Scarred by the vicious storm, Eldorado del Diaz had survived. Like the pueblo, and its newfound strength, Fernando knew he was capable of doing anything he set his mind to.
Sleep tight my little kidda-roos!
Dr. I.B. Howler
Nightmareologist
| Author Notes | Stormy Evening, by suzannethompson2, selected to complement my posting. |
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