"Let's play a game. Find the clues. Escape the trap. Time is running out. Kill, Or be killed. Only one person can survive."
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"Sometimes hiding in the shadows has its perks. Have you ever felt as though you were being watched, that at any given moment someone is waiting for the right moment to pounce! the dread that comes along with the fear. Even in the comfort of your own home, the fear never leaving your side - this little creation pf mine is about those whom disregarded all of my warnings, all the signs, everything! No matter, there time will come soon, fear not dear reader, i assure you by the end of this you shall return to your life unscathed. You have my word." - M.B ~~~ Originally written on Wattpad under the title "short horror stories" now renamed "Touch"
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The Pestonan Palace set up high in the mountains yet low from the skies has been the trouble ones ever since. The cult created by a crazy, unknown feature whom appeared in the lives of 5 people, destroying their outlooks that'll stay printed as high class paintings hanging on the cream-painted walls; lonely and forgotten. A nun, a doctor, a pastor, a maid, a chef, an author, a prostitute... Locked in the same house, with one gun, one knife and one hidden truth. Who's the killer? Who did it?
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Era el humo ennegrecido que se extendía lentamente, Junto el frío espectante, Después del abandono del sol. Cuando la hierba era acariciada Susurrante balada cantaba el viento. Y no eran las lágrimas las que se ocultaban, Ante la visita de la sombría soledad.
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Nabigo si Alister na madala sa impyerno ang kaluluwa nina Ada at Apa dahil tinalo ito ng wagas na pag-ibig ng binata para sa kaibigang matagal na pa lang minamahal. Ngunit hindi matanggap ng lalaking may dilaw na mata ang kabiguan. Nangako itong magbabalik upang iharap ang kanilang kaluluwa sa kanyang panginoong Lucifer... sa anumang paraan! "Walang makatatakas kay Alister!" Umuugong nitong sigaw na sinundan ng mapanlinlang at tusong halakhak.
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He looked up at his apartment window after he’d gotten out of his truck, he didn’t know why, and saw Sadie sitting in the sill, staring down at him, it seemed. Hey, you little psychopath, he thought, as the snow fluttered down and clung to his face. Have you been a good girl?
He was relieved to find, a few minutes later, that she had: for nothing appeared amiss either in the kitchen or the living room. The bedroom, too, seemed in perfectly good order—although Sadie was no longer at the window, which did beg the question: Where on earth was she, exactly? He began calling out her name as he moved toward the bathroom, and was surprised by how little his voice sounded, how nervous.
“Sadie? Saaadie?”
He felt a wave of apprehension as he entered the bathroom, he wasn’t sure why, but was pleased to find it normal in every respect—there wasn’t even any discernible cat box odor. He laughed a little at his own paranoia. What had he expected? ‘REDRUM’ scrawled across the mirror in cat shit?
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That’s when she sees the Shape again. Sees it through the shattered passenger window—silhouetted against a flash of lightning, approaching over the desert hills, maneuvering impossibly.
"No …" she whimpers, as Frodo barks and howls.
Then a horn sounds and she faces forward—in time to avoid a head-on collision by mere seconds.
By the time she skids to a stop on the shoulder of the road, a man is running up to her, apologetic, out of breath, asking if she is okay. She gets out, shrieking and gesturing with her arms, completely hysterical.
"Did you see it? Did you see it?"
He catches her wrists in his hands and holds them—an overly intimate gesture she could be offended by, but isn’t.
"I saw a jet," he says, staring into her eyes, continuing to hold her hands. "A jet—they’re everywhere out here today. They must be doing maneuvers or something. It’s okay, all right? You’re okay."
She begins to calm down at last, however slightly. There’s something about him, something about his mild eyes and soft but firm hands, his shock of dark hair, his soothing voice. She senses something and looks up, sees a fighter jet flying right over the top of them—low enough that she can make out the rivets in its fuselage. It is there and gone before its sharp-edged whine even cuts the air.
"See?" he says, releasing her hands. "Just a jet."
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Naaygi found them waiting for her—as she somehow knew they would be—as the cage doors opened, their forward-facing eyes glinting the same hue as the lights in the sky and their dark, storm-colored bodies held absolutely still (even as another animal joined them and brought their number to four). She even knew somehow what they were; that they were a breed of carnosaur the “evolved” humans had called nanotyrannosaurs, the “Pygmy Tyrants,” and that one of them, the one with the brand upon its tail, the leader, even had a name—Napoleon, for he had been bounced forward and back in time via another alien species well before the Flashback and still bore the scars of his sojourn among the humans. She didn’t know how she knew these things, no more than she knew just where, within herself, Naaygi ended—and they, the lights in the sky, began. She just did; just as she knew that the Nano-Ts represented a queer offshoot of the dinosaur population that was altogether fleeter and deadlier and cannier than anything that had come before it.
And thus she bowed to them, her avengers, her killers—their killers, the lights in the sky—the rain running in rivulets down her body as she dropped to her knees and touched her forehead to the pavement, a pavement which ran red with blood and was strewn with the dismembered, disemboweled corpses of at least fifty men and women.
And then she whispered to them in a language older than words, Follow me.
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There were three of them, their clawed hands and snouts covered in blood, only one of which had the strange comb of feathers that resembled a mohawk, and it was at precisely that instant that this one raised its head and apprehended her, its oil slick-colored crest rising and falling, its white eyes blinking—before it barked at the others as though issuing orders and rushed toward her, at which instant she climbed to her feet and swatted open the curtain to business class, and was about to sprint forward into first class when she realized there was a door directly next to her—a restroom!—and grabbed hold of its latch, which was locked. She pounded upon the door with her left fist even as she brought the revolver up with her right, and was about to squeeze off a shot at Mohawk’s snout, which had just appeared around the edge of the curtain, when the door suddenly opened and someone pulled her in—someone who quickly shut the hatch and locked it.
And then she was breathing heavily, trying to slow her heartrate which had raced out of control, as the raptors clawed at the door and gnashed their teeth, and a man in a pilot’s uniform placed his palm over her trembling gun hand and lowered the pistol slowly. Then everything just broke inside her and the tears started flowing, as she threw her arms around him and sobbed almost violently, all the while thinking how good it was, how very, very good, to no longer be alone.
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And then he was sliding down, down, leveling off briefly, then down again, and he couldn’t help but notice that the people he had planned to rule were fleeing now, and that the Nano-T had broken off its engagement with the tiger long enough to snap at them and give chase, and that in its absence the great feline had turned its mighty head to face the bottom of the slide and opened its maw, which was mottled pink and black, and that he was helpless to do anything but continue sliding toward it—until his kicking feet and legs were trapped between its terrible, curved fangs and its central incisors bit mercilessly into his abdomen (which crunched and splattered and was ripped in two as his bowels exploded outward and his heart and lungs and spleen steamed on contact with the air) and blood erupted from his mouth only to gurgle back inside and choke him. And then the darkness engulfed him completely and he felt himself slithering between its throat muscles and down its gullet—into the burning blackness of its stomach, where he saw by a brief and inexplicable light the dead face of the man the cat had eaten earlier in the day, and knew at last that he walked the earth no more.
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The fog is very thick now. Beth tums and walks back to her car, gets in. Frodo whimpers and whines. Beth pets him, comforts him. She glances at the rail car in front of her: the door with the graffiti on it is now open. She can see clean through the boxcar to the blazing white lights on the other side. She sits back, not sure what to make of this, and looks out her side window.
A masked figure clothed in surgery green is right outside the glass, peering in. It reaches through the partially open window and grabs her by the hair. Beth shrieks. Frodo goes berserk, snapping and barking. The figure wrestles with Beth violently; it is trying to inject her with something—a syringe full of yellow fluid. Suddenly another figure is at the passenger-side window, reaching through the gap, groping for the door handle. Frodo attacks its arm savagely, bloodying it, and it quickly withdraws. Beth puts the car into reverse, starts backing up—collides with the vehicle behind her. The tires of her car spin wildly; they are hopelessly pinned. There is a crash as the passenger-side window is smashed out. Another figure reaches in, zapping Frodo with a taser, debilitating him. The commotion distracts Beth just long enough so that the figure with the syringe is able to inject her. She grunts and moans in pain.
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A young girl’s obsession turns terrifying after her tragic death is witnessed by everyone at summer camp. All Melinda wanted in life was Zachary’s undivided attention. Didn’t matter to her that he was five years older or that he was her camp counsellor or even that he was gay. She wanted to be with him always. Now, in death, will she get her wish?
Queer Ghost Stories are standalone tales that can be read in any order. Download Spooky Little Girl Like You today!
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Ever since the Voices started, little Bonnie can't sleep anymore. Every night, they whisper through the walls of her room, casting a dark spell over someone in her family...preparing them for a rampage of gruesome murder. What if the only way for Bonnie to save her family is to destroy someone she loves? And what if the secret of the Voices is even deadlier and more terrifying than she can imagine? Don't miss this story by award-winning writer Robert Jeschonek, a master of shocking horror that really packs a punch.
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Dig into the cold earth, pull away the damp leaves and burrow deep down to uncover true darkness...
Face the horror of war-torn Germany with Edmund as he fights to rescue his family. Confront the same overwhelming dread as Cody, in the midst of a futuristic prison, is haunted by his past and desperate for a chance at redemption. Discover true monsters aboard a slaver’s ship on the high seas and witness a more twisted side to Christmas.
Uncover these and other bleak mysteries in Beneath the Ferny Tree.
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In retrospect, I wish I’d continued recording, for what I saw in that instant is difficult to describe, even now. Suffice it to say that it had a body like that of a manta ray—upon who’s tail the balloonist had been impaled—or a manta ray combined with a bat, albeit huge, and that it was covered with a kind of camouflage which reminded me of pictures I’d seen of Jupiter—just a roil of purples and pinks and browns. I suppose that was when it first hit me: the possibility that there might be a connection between this thing and the Jupiter 6 probe. That the probe might have brought something back, even if it had just been a sprinkling of microbes on its surface.
And then there was an explosion somewhere above us, the concussion of which rocked our balloon, and we all looked up to see Gas Monkey—my God, it was like the sun!—on fire; and yet that wasn’t all we saw, for as it dropped it became evident that there were more of the bat/manta ray things attached, suckling it as it fell, crawling upon it like flies. Then it passed us like some kind of great meteor—its occupants shrieking and calling out—and was gone below, the heat of it still painting our faces, its awful smell, which was the smell of rotten eggs, filling our nostrils.
And then we were just drifting, all of us crouched low in the basket … and the only sounds were those of Karen sobbing and my own pounding heart.
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The end of the world comes not by disease or nuclear weapons or a comet--or even zombies--but by a devastating time-storm and a proliferation of dinosaurs across the continents.
Everything happened at once as Samantha saw a blur on the monitor and Mohawk exploded into the cockpit, clamping his jaws about the stewardess’ head and forcing her against the instrument panel—his tail whipping about the compartment viciously, his mohawk of oil slick-colored feathers rising and falling.
He jerked his head once and half her face came away, the muscles stretching and snapping, her right eye being drug out by its stalk, her skull winking whitely, as Samantha pointed the gun and it was knocked from her hands. Then all was blood and chaos as Peter attempted to help Karen—who was likely dead already—and Samantha groped for the pistol, gripping it again even as the animal turned on her friend—but was held back, somehow, by his suddenly mighty hands.
And yet such was the violence of their struggle that she couldn’t get a clean shot—and so decided, as Karen’s hemorrhaging blood splattered the instruments and sprinkled her face and painted the windows with blotches of maroon, to do the only thing left, which was to point the pistol at the side window near Peter and fire.
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A murder victim makes a tasty feast for a family of flesh-eating maggots. But when the maggots become the murderer's next targets, their gruesome banquet turns into a killing field. Can a single courageous worm with a vision inspire the survivors to fight back? Perhaps a brilliant, twisted trick will bring down the monster and serve up the meat for a bloody new feast. And the maggots' moment of glory might give way to the dark fulfillment of their deepest, wildest secret. Don't miss this twisted horror tale with a difference. Welcome to the latest shocker from award-winning storyteller Robert Jeschonek, a master of mind-bending horror and dark fantasy.
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Naaygi found them waiting for her—as she somehow knew they would be—as the cage doors opened, their forward-facing eyes glinting the same hue as the lights in the sky and their dark, storm-colored bodies held absolutely still (even as another animal joined them and brought their number to four). She even knew somehow what they were; that they were a breed of carnosaur the “evolved” humans had called nanotyrannosaurs, the “Pygmy Tyrants,” and that one of them, the one with the brand upon its tail, the leader, even had a name—Napoleon, for he had been bounced forward and back in time via another alien species well before the Flashback and still bore the scars of his sojourn among the humans. She didn’t know how she knew these things, no more than she knew just where, within herself, Naaygi ended—and they, the lights in the sky, began. She just did; just as she knew that the Nano-Ts represented a queer offshoot of the dinosaur population that was altogether fleeter and deadlier and cannier than anything that had come before it.
And thus she bowed to them, her avengers, her killers—their killers, the lights in the sky—the rain running in rivulets down her body as she dropped to her knees and touched her forehead to the pavement, a pavement which ran red with blood and was strewn with the dismembered, disemboweled corpses of at least fifty men and women.
And then she whispered to them in a language older than words, Follow me.
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As it never had before the Flashback, the supermarket slept, mostly. Although its exterior was covered with creeper vines and mossy growths, its interior remained remarkably unchanged—even its power continued to hum. Still, the long lights that hung suspended over its aisles had largely gone dead; and of those that remained live, many had begun to flicker and fail. No humans walked the once-polished floors of the Ozark Food and Drug Supercenter, nor did they crowd the expansive front lot where they had once competed—sometimes violently—for parking space. And yet, from the markings on the signboards and multitudes of packages to the Christmas music drifting like fog up and down the aisles, their presence remained.
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Five new tales from the Flashback, from its initial outbreak to its effects months after. Featuring characters and situations that will feature prominently later in the series, Tales is both a prologue and supplement to Flashback Twilight. Essential reading for fans of the saga!
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