Chilling Horror Short Stories Page 2

  When I looked back at Mamma, she was standing very still, arms outstretched, staring at the ceiling. Her mouth was open wide, and a torrent of black vomit (not vomit, vomit doesn’t writhe) spewed from it.

  I screamed and screamed and screamed.

  * * *

  Dr. Allison asks if the new pills have been helping. At first I don’t answer. I’m staring at the floor. One of the bugs has escaped. It’s meandering across the nylon weave.

  Formication is the medical term for the sensation of insects crawling in or under the skin. But it’s the itching that really bothers me. The medical term for this is pruritis.

  She asks again if the pills are helping.

  I answer in the affirmative.

  Dr. Allison follows my gaze, asks what I’m looking at.

  I change the subject.

  * * *

  The last time I saw Mamma, she was lying in an expensive woden box. Her hair was long and soft again (a wig), and makeup covered most of the holes in her skin. Neither, however, could disguise how hollow she was. Dad said she’d gotten so skinny because she stopped eating.

  The medical term for this is anorexia.

  But I knew better. She hadn’t stopped eating; she’d been eaten.

  During the service, a procession of tiny insects filed out of the casket and onto the floor. They looked like ants, but they weren’t; these were smaller. Harder. Meaner. They formed a quivering semi-circle around the coffin. Their soft hum was a nearly inaudible requiem. I pulled my feet up onto the pew and cried.

  * * *

  Dr. Allison is scribbling furiously on her yellow legal pad.

  I’ve never spoken about my mother before.

  * * *

  The funeral was bad, but nowhere near as bad as what happened that night.

  I was dreaming about Casey Nelson. In real life she was a redhead, but in my dream she had yellow hair like my mom, and her face was round and healthy, free from blemishes. Her eyes were lined by thick velvet lashes, and they glittered like geodes. Casey smiled as her lips whispered permission. I reached out and touched her, and she did the same, but where my hand closed around soft, pliable tissue, hers gripped flesh turned nearly to stone. I moaned and felt my crotch moisten.

  Casey looked at me, but she wasn’t smiling anymore, and her eyes had lost their mischievous sparkle. She released her grip and raised her hand to eye level. It had turned black. I shrank back in revulsion, only to realize it wasn’t just her hand – my groin was black, too…

  Necrosis is the medical term for premature tissue death.

  At first I didn’t think there could be anything worse than a lapful of necrotic penis, but as I reached a trembling hand down to examine my discolored genitals, I realized I was wrong. The stain didn’t just cover my withering erection; it was coming from inside. And it was spreading. Little blebs of darkness separated from the primary mass, budding off like spores. They sprouted legs and antennae and—

  I woke up, horrified to discover it wasn’t just a dream.

  The bugs were everywhere, clinging to my sheets, swarming over my thighs, marching up my belly toward my face and my silent, gaping mouth. I tumbled out of bed, knocking the lamp off the night stand; it clattered loudly but did not break. A few seconds later, the hallway light blinked on, and heavy, rapid footsteps climbed the stairs.

  The light worked the insects into a frenzy. Desperate to get back inside, they filled my eyes. My ears. My nose. I gagged and choked as they fled down my throat.

  That’s how Dad found me: writhing on the floor, choking on my own nocturnal issue.

  * * *

  I tell Dr. Allison that it’s my fault. That Mamma is dead because I couldn’t help her. My beard quivers and I tug at it, dislodging a handful of beetles in the process.

  Dr. Allison asks what I think I could have done to help Mamma. She doesn’t notice the insects tumble from my fingers and scurry toward her.

  I explain that the infestation is too much for a single person to accommodate. Mamma hadn’t been trying to kill me that day in the hospital, as I’d thought at the time. We’d shared the burden before, and she’d desperately needed to share it again, but I had been too afraid. I hadn’t understood.

  She tells me that this is a major breakthrough. That the insects are just a representation of suppressed guilt. That all I have to do is learn to accept that I am blameless in my mother’s death, and the bugs will go away.

  The itch is almost unbearable now.

  * * *

  After that night, Dad and I didn’t talk much. He assured me that what had happened was just a normal part of growing up, and that Mamma’s death was responsible for transforming a normal, run-of-the-mill wet dream (the medical term is nocturnal emission) into the nightmare I had experienced. Whenever I tried to broach the subject of my affliction, Dad would just turn away and tell me to discuss it with Dr. Carlson. Then Dr. Leavett. Then Dr. Cotner. He was incapable of sharing the burden of my illness any further than financing its treatment.

  If he suspected anything when the Girl Scout disappeared while selling cookies on our block, he never said a word. Maybe because after that, things got better, a lot better. For a while.

  After nearly a decade of doctors and drugs, I stopped scratching and started sleeping again. That was the stretch where both Dad and I thought I was well enough to pursue a career in medicine after all. I moved out, enrolled in pre-med classes, and even took the MCAT. Scored damn well, too. I was out celebrating with some classmates who had also scored well when I felt the twinge.

  I always got a little anxious when something itched – I couldn’t help it, it was a conditioned response – but this was different. The tickle between my left index finger and thumb wasn’t the usual pruritoceptive itch (that’s the medical term for an itch originating in the skin) I’d learned to accept as part of normal human physiology. It was deeper, and as the weeks passed, it grew in both distribution and intensity.

  * * *

  I tell Dr. Allison that Mamma’s isn’t the only death I’m responsible for, and she frowns, the excitement of our “breakthrough” melting from her face. I tell her I lied about my roommate’s cat. That it had been an experiment because I felt so badly about the homeless woman. And the Girl Scout, especially since she’d been an accident.

  I stand and pull my shirt over my head, revealing constellations of angry red sores. I scratch at them, and Dr. Allison asks me to please return to my seat. Her face is calm, but her eyes are broadcasting an SOS to an empty ocean. She knows her secretary has gone home. There is nobody here to help her.

  I am the last patient of the week. Always have been. Always will be.

  * * *

  It was Dad’s birthday, and he invited me over for dinner. He’d been pressuring me about medical school applications, and that night, I finally mustered the courage to tell him what I’d known for the better part of the semester. That no matter what my MCAT scores had been, or how outstanding my letters of recommendation were, I would not be attending medical school the following fall. The only explanation necessary was for me to roll up my sleeves.

  When Dad saw those old familiar craters, his face became an amalgam of disappointment and rage, and we spent the rest of the evening in silence. I thought he might never speak to me again, but as I was leaving, he told me to expect a call from Dr. Allison’s office the following day.

  Cruising past City Park on my way home, the itch flared so intensely that I couldn’t resist the need to rub my shrieking eyeballs. If there had been anyone else on the road, I’d have caused an accident for sure. I piloted the vehicle into three parking spaces and rubbed and scratched until my eyelids were swollen and my cheeks were soaked with tears.

  I opened the door and tumbled out of the car. The cool autumn air acted as a salve against my hot, prickling skin, and it chased away the rank aura of failure that had shrouded me since realizing a normal life was forever beyond my reach. I didn’t dare get back in my car, so I walked, following the cement perimeter for about half a mile before the itch flared again.

  I’d never entered the park after dark before, but the insanity burning just beneath my skin compelled me to abandon the sidewalk and venture into the wooded area. The pricking discomfort dulled, but did not abate, as I trudged deeper into the park. At the center was a playground. A pair of swings twirled lazily in the gentle breeze, inviting me to sample the careless freedom of childhood. As I approached, a shape broke free from the shadows.

  I froze, fearful of what it might be, what it might want, but it was just a homeless woman. She asked if I had any spare change. I didn’t. If I had, I’d have given it to her. Not because of some altruistic impulse, but because as soon as she spoke, my skin ignited once again, and I knew if I didn’t put some distance between us it would be the end.

  I told her I wasn’t carrying any cash (no, not even a few cents for a cup of coffee) and brushed past her, my interest in the swings gone. Her next proposition stopped me in my tracks. She offered to blow me.

  The medical term for this is fellatio.

  In all my years, I’d never had a girlfriend, had not so much as kissed a girl, or a guy for that matter, opting instead to avoid any and all forms of sexual stimulation as if they might spell death – if not for me, then for the object of my desire. The only desire within me at that moment was to relieve the horrible itch. Despite my disgust, I knew that if it wasn’t now, it would be later, and I really did feel badly about the Girl Scout. I even kept one of her MISSING posters folded between the pages of my dad’s old Diagnostic and Statistical Manual, next to a copy of Mamma’s death certificate.


  With the flavor of bile creeping up my throat, I turned to face the woman and accepted.

  * * *

  I explain to Dr. Allison that what I really need is somebody to share this burden with me. Someone who understands my pain. A kindred spirit. A mother.

  I’m crying, choked sobs of anguish and pain drowning out the indifferent tick of the clock. They’re pouring out of me now, black perspiration streaming from my pores, infested tears squeezing from my eyes. Dr. Allison screams and leaps from her seat. Swatting away the first troops of the oncoming arthropod assault, she dives for the alarm switch under her desk. I snatch the paperweight and swing, striking her in the temple. There is a sound like a hard-boiled egg rolling over a granite countertop, and Dr. Allison crumples to the ground. The bugs on the carpet race toward her and disappear into an expanding pool of blood.

  I remove the remainder of my clothing and move over Dr. Allison’s unconscious form. I tell her I’m sorry, call her “Mamma” (the words materialize without a conscious thought), and then I descend, the swarm erupting, tearing through my skin, rising from my body like smoke above a raging fire. Sweet, blessed relief.

  I call this cycle of agony and release ecdysis. This, however, is not a medical term, but an entomological one; there is no medical term for what I am.

  When it’s over, I flip through the stack of files on Dr. Allison’s desk, searching until I find the one that belongs to the dark-haired woman with the dead son. All I need is the first page: the intake form with her name, address, and phone number.

  I wipe the tears from my face and get dressed before taking one last look at the half-consumed pile of flesh that used to be my therapist. The sores on my skin are gone now, replaced by raw, healthy tissue, but the insects tumble over Dr. Allison like grains of black sand – humming, burrowing, feeding. By morning there will be nothing left. My stomach churns and I think I’ll never eat again, though I know from experience it isn’t true. I didn’t want to hurt her, but Dr. Allison was no different than the Girl Scout, or the homeless woman, or my roommate’s poor, stupid cat – all fit for consumption, but not for habitation. Despite her best efforts, she never could have helped me.

  As I turn to leave, I glance down at the photograph in the bottom corner of the intake sheet clutched in my left hand and hope for both our sakes that next time will be different.

  The Damned Thing

  Ambrose Bierce

  By THE light of a tallow candle, which had been placed on one end of a rough table, a man was reading something written in a book. It was an old account book, greatly worn; and the writing was not, apparently, very legible, for the man sometimes held the page close to the flame of the candle to get a stronger light upon it. The shadow of the book would then throw into obscur­ity a half of the room, darkening a number of faces and figures; for besides the reader, eight other men were present. Seven of them sat against the rough log walls, silent and motionless, and, the room being small, not very far from the table. By ex­tending an arm any one of them could have touched the eighth man, who lay on the table, face upward, partly covered by a sheet, his arms at his sides. He was dead.

  The man with the book was not reading aloud, and no one spoke; all seemed to be waiting for something to occur; the dead man only was without expectation. From the blank dark­ness outside came in, through the aperture that served for a window, all the ever unfamiliar noises of night in the wilderness – the long, nameless note of a distant coyote; the stilly pulsing thrill of tireless insects in trees; strange cries of night birds, so different from those of the birds of day; the drone of great blundering beetles, and all that mysterious chorus of small sounds that seem always to have been but half heard when they have suddenly ceased, as if conscious of an indiscre­tion. But nothing of all this was noted in that company; its members were not overmuch addicted to idle interest in mat­ters of no practical importance; that was obvious in every line of their rugged faces – obvious even in the dim light of the single candle. They were evidently men of the vicinity – farmers and woodmen.

  The person reading was a trifle different; one would have said of him that he was of the world, worldly, albeit there was that in his attire which attested a certain fellowship with the organisms of his environment. His coat would hardly have passed muster in San Francisco: his footgear was not of urban origin, and the hat that lay by him on the floor (he was the only one uncovered) was such that if one had considered it as an article of mere personal adornment he would have missed its meaning. In countenance the man was rather prepossessing, with just a hint of sternness; though that he may have assumed or cultivated, as appropriate to one in authority. For he was a coroner. It was by virtue of his office that he had possession of the book in which he was reading; it had been found among the dead man’s effects – in his cabin, where the inquest was now taking place.

  When the coroner had finished reading he put the book into his breast pocket. At that moment the door was pushed open and a young man entered. He, clearly, was not of mountain birth and breeding: he was clad as those who dwell in cities. His clothing was dusty, however, as from travel. He had, in fact, been riding hard to attend the inquest.

  The coroner nodded; no one else greeted him.

  “We have waited for you,” said the coroner. “It is necessary to have done with this business tonight.”

  The young man smiled. “I am sorry to have kept you,” he said. “I went away, not to evade your summons, but to post to my newspaper an account of what I suppose I am called back to relate.”

  The coroner smiled.

  “The account that you posted to your newspaper,” he said, “differs probably from that which you will give here under oath.”

  “That,” replied the other, rather hotly and with a visible flush, “is as you choose. I used manifold paper and have a copy of what I sent. It was not written as news, for it is incredible, but as fiction. It may go as a part of my testimony under oath.”

  “But you say it is incredible.”

  “That is nothing to you, sir, if I also swear that it is true.”

  The coroner was apparently not greatly affected by the young man’s manifest resentment. He was silent for some mo­ments, his eyes upon the floor. The men about the sides of the cabin talked in whispers, but seldom withdrew their gaze from the face of the corpse. Presently the coroner lifted his eyes and said: “We will resume the inquest.”

  The men removed their hats. The witness was sworn.

  “What is your name?” the coroner asked.

  “William Harker.”

  “Age?”

  “Twenty-seven.”

  “You knew the deceased, Hugh Morgan?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were with him when he died?”

  “Near him.”

  “How did that happen – your presence, I mean?”

  “I was visiting him at this place to shoot and fish. A part of my purpose, however, was to study him, and his odd, solitary way of life. He seemed a good model for a character in fiction. I sometimes write stories.”

  “I sometimes read them.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Stories in general – not yours.”

  Some of the jurors laughed. Against a sombre background humor shows high lights. Soldiers in the intervals of battle laugh easily, and a jest in the death chamber conquers by surprise.

  “Relate the circumstances of this man’s death,” said the cor­oner. “You may use any notes or memoranda that you please.”

  The witness understood. Pulling a manuscript from his breast pocket he held it near the candle, and turning the leaves until he found the passage that he wanted, began to read.

  “… The sun had hardly risen when we left the house. We were looking for quail, each with a shotgun, but we had only one dog. Morgan said that our best ground was beyond a certain ridge that he pointed out, and we crossed it by a trail through the chaparral. On the other side was comparatively level ground, thickly covered with wild oats. As we emerged from the chaparral, Morgan was but a few yards in advance. Sud­denly, we heard, at a little distance to our right, and partly in front, a noise as of some animal thrashing about in the bushes, which we could see were violently agitated.