Morpheus Tales Flash Fiction Horror Special Ebook



  Flash Fiction Special 2009

  Editorial

  Fallout By Allan Leverone – Competition Winner

  The Nature of Evil By John B. Rosenman

  To The Victor Goes The Soil By Jezzy Wolfe

  Silk By Wayne Summers

  Purity By Lee Collins – Competition Entry

  Ms. Blicks By Karen L. Newman

  All in the Family By Sheldon S. Higdon

  Roach Hearts By Jonathan Carman – Competition Entry

  Lou By Ben Yesk

  The Day the Circus Came to Town By J.Y. Saville – Competition Entry

  The Nun By Lee Thompson

  Proving Ground By Mark Anthony Crittenden

  Momma’s Turn By Kevin Wallis

  The End of The Story By Paul Newman

  Cover By LeMat - https://superego-necropolis.deviantart.com/

  Proof-read By Writers Services - https://www.myspace.com/writersservices

  All material contained within the pages of this magazine and associated websites is copyright of Morpheus Tales. All. Rights Reserved. No material contained herein can be copied or otherwise used without the express permission of the copyright holders.

  Welcome to the Flash Fiction Special! We hope you like your horror fiction short and sweet!

  This is the second special issue we’ve released this year, 2009, and it was my favourite one to work on. Despite the other special issue being the Undead Special, a personal favourite area of genre material (loving the vampire zombie combo with a little extra mixed in), this issue was even more of a pleasure to work on.

  There are a few reasons for that, including some firsts!

  We ran the first Morpheus Tales Fiction competition for this issue, which was a major success and supplied four of the stories in this issue. We hope to be able to run many more competitions in the future.

  The Flash Fiction Special is also the first issue we will be giving away for FREE! It can be downloaded from our website:

  www.morpheustales.com

  Feel free to share it with your friends, send it to your buddies and your family, and anyone else who might be interested, and generally spread it around. This issue is completely free of charge. We only ask that you don’t change or amend or cut any of the material contained in this issue. It must be complete and in its original form.

  This issue also provided the easiest stories to read, as a busy editor with a full-time job and a small business to run, I find it much easier to grab five to fifteen minutes to read a flash story (less than 1000 words). I also enjoy the high-impact nature of the stories contained in this amazing issue, and I hope you do too!

  If you haven’t subscribed to Morpheus Tales Magazine yet, erm, why the hell not? Not only do we regularly give away great prizes to our subscribers, but you are guaranteed to receive your copy of the issue before it’s available to anyone else! Go to the website to order now:

  www.morpheustales.com/ordering.htm

  And be our friend on myspace and view the Morpheus Tales blog for regular updates:

  www.myspace.com/morpheustales

  Enjoy the issue!

  Adam

  No one comes here any more.

  At one time, in the not too distant past, we were one of the biggest attractions in a teeming metropolis filled with attractions – The Empire Circus! That, of course, was before the person carrying the “suitcase nuke” detonated it downtown and obliterated a six square mile area of one of the most densely populated cities in the world.

  But that’s not even the worst thing. Much worse than the nuclear explosion was the viral weapon that was released at the same time. It’s destroying people from the inside out, causing hideous physical mutations, and no one knows whether the virus is an airborne one or water-borne, or exactly how it is being transmitted.

  The authorities don’t know whether the bombing was done by a man or a woman because the guilty party was vaporized instantly, the lucky bastard. They don’t know whether it was a foreign or a domestic act of terrorism. Two dozen separate groups hurried to take the opportunity to claim responsibility for the act within the first ninety minutes, so it will take the authorities quite some time to whittle down the list and settle on a guilty party.

  For us, though, for the “survivors,” the search for the perpetrators is nothing more than an academic exercise; it has no impact on our lives, or what is left of them. Is there any point in assessing blame when radiation poisoning and a lethal bioweapon are killing those of us who remain? When eyes bleed and ears leak yellowish pus and the act of sneezing can break a rib and even something as simple as resting your head in your hands can cause a layer of blistered skin to slough off your face?

  Immediately following the initial explosion, as the dying lay screaming in the streets, when it became clear that there was more to the attack than “just” a nuclear blast, the entire island was segregated; quarantined, if you will. Panicked authorities made the decision to save the lives of the many by sacrificing the lives of the few. All of the bridges to the mainland were destroyed, blown to bits by fighter jets screaming over the city. Airports were bombed and tunnels flooded. There was no way in or out. We were alone. Utterly and hopelessly alone.

  In the span of just the past few weeks, the scene in the city has become a Darwinian struggle for survival of the fittest, of people butchering each other for food and water and shelter and clothing even as they suffer the ravages of radiation sickness and viral disease. The entire metropolitan area has become one gigantic freak show.

  The irony for those of us who remain is inescapable. People who used to flock through our gates to see the bearded lady or Joseph the Rat-Faced Boy or any of our other bizarre attractions now see much worse outside their shattered windows on a regular basis. The diseased rats which roam our grounds are becoming bolder and more aggressive by the day. And they are changing as well. I swear I saw one yesterday with two heads. That would have drawn some people to the Empire Circus in the old days!

  But now it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.

  Because no one comes here any more.

  “I recognized you, you know.”

  Olson looked up from his newspaper and saw a man about his age sitting across from him at the table. “Excuse me?”

  The man gave him a knowing smile. “I said, ‘I recognize you.’”

  Olson set down the paper. The holiday season had been busy, and he had worked late at the accountants’ office before stopping for a hamburger on the way home. The last thing he needed was some stranger who claimed to know him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “But I don’t know you.”

  A shrug. “I don’t know you either.”

  “Then what-”

  “I said I recognize you, not that I know you. To be precise, I’ve never met you before.”

  Uh-oh, some nut. But Olson was shy with people and didn’t say that. He looked down at his hamburger, which he’d barely touched. Maybe he should take it and go.

  The man’s smile widened, revealing sharp incisors. “Aren’t you going to ask me how I recognized you?”

  A Christmas carol, “Deck the Halls,” played faintly in the background. “Okay,” Olson asked, “how did you?”

  The man pointed at Olson’s tie. “It was your tie. It’s the exact same shade of green that he was wearing that day.”

  That who was wearing? Olson would have asked, but he made it a point to avoid uncomfortable, embarrassing situations. In fact, he had developed a sixth sense for them. So he didn’t ask, but the man continued on anyway.

  “I knew my wife was seeing someone,” he said. “I even hired a detecti
ve to snoop on her. But he found nothing. Then one day, I happened to see a man meet Kate in Brookside Park.” He stared at Olson’s tie. “Your tie is the exact same hue.”

  This was crazy, Olson thought. Who recognized someone by the colour of his tie? More seriously, though, this man was accusing him of having an affair with his wife, which was outright madness. The idea of him doing something so wrong and dangerous was unthinkable! Olson glanced about the neat, clean fast-food restaurant he sat in, seeing people eating sandwiches and enjoying the Christmas season. It all looked so safe and normal. And yet this complete stranger had invaded his life here and accused him of adultery with his wife.

  Olson gulped his Coke and put his hamburger back in its wrapper. “Nice talking to you,” he said, starting to rise.

  The stranger reached across the table, seized his arm, and pulled him back down. “Sit,” he said. “Stay and chew the fat with me.”

  Olson acquiesced. After all, he didn’t want to create a scene. He’d just sit here a little while longer and see what this man wanted, maybe make him understand that it was a case of mistaken identity. In the event matters did get, well, awkward, he’d just leave.

  The man leaned toward him. “Actually, to be precise, it wasn’t just the tie that helped me recognize you. It was also the way you eat your cow meat.”

  “The way I eat?”

  “Yes. Dainty little nibbles.” The man raised his hand and mimed Olson eating his hamburger. “Are you always that neat and mousy?” He shook his head. “Surely not in bed. Kate liked big bites in the sack. You couldn’t have kept her happy with neat little mousy nibbles.”

  Stunned, Olson watched his visitor pull napkins out of the holder, making an untidy mess on the table. Olson, who like to keep things neat, found this act deliberately goading. But even worse, the man had accused him of sinful acts that were quite beyond his nature. Despite Olson’s shock, one word came through clearly. “Liked? Did you say she liked it?”

  The man grinned, revealing his sharp incisors again. “Ho, ho, ho, indeed I did. Strictly past tense.” He leaned forward again. “I had to kill her, you know.”

  “Kill her?” He couldn’t continue.

  “Of course. Just as I’m going to kill you.”

  Olson tried to rise but couldn’t. The man’s eyes bored into him, sapping his will.

  “L-Look, mister,” Olson said, “this has gone far enough. I-I don’t know who you are, and I never even met your wife. This is a mistake. For your information, I’ve been married seventeen years to the same woman. I’ve never once looked at anyone else.”

  “Sure,” the man said. “That’s what the first two said.”

  “Release the dogs!” Forty nine canines tore into the night, teeth bared, hackles raised in unison. Doug shook his fist in the air. “Tonight we will not be defeated! They’ll pay for what they’ve done!”

  The men stood back and watched the foxhounds disappear into dark fields, fearlessly pursuing their elusive prey. Their torches, held high, illuminated the vegetable garden for about fifty feet. Sheriff Moses tapped Doug on the shoulder.

  “You know, we had plenty of them heavy duty flashlights back at the station. Don’t you think you’re overdoing it a bit? Drop just one of them torches and the whole damn harvest will be scorched.”

  Doug turned and flashed a shit-eating grin. “Sheriff, we done lost a dozen dogs to those demons. What happens if they get past our hounds? How we gonna protect ourselves with a bunch of Maglights? Throw ‘em at their heads?”

  The sheriff held up his hands and backed away. “Okay, okay. Whatever you say. You’re in charge here.”

  “Damn right I am,” Doug grumbled and leaned to the man at his side. “Don’t know what we do if this don’t work, Tommy.”

  Tommy held a torch in one hand, and a hoe in the other. He was a hard worker, but not the brightest bulb in the box. Twice already he’d scorched his hair when he held his torch too low. The bitter smell of burnt follicles still lingered in the air. “It’s gonna work this time. Barney Dog is the finest mutt I ever raised. If he don’t get ‘em, then I don’t know what will!”

  Doug prayed he was right.

  The town was under siege, terrorized by an army straight from the bowels of hell! He manned the frontlines, determined to defeat Satan’s legion before it took them all out.

  It came looking for food, ravaging people’s crops while they slept. Radishes, tomatoes, pole beans...first it was heads of cabbage, then it was heads of babies. Well, not yet, but it would be if Doug didn’t step in and take charge. So he rounded up all the farmers in the county and declared war on the monsters. So far, no luck. Them were some tricky bastards.

  A shrill yelp tore through the night, and everyone jumped except Tommy, who screamed, “Barney Dog, NOOO!” Then he took off into the field, waving his torch in the air and stumbling several times over produce.

  “Get back here, Tommy! It’s too late!” But Doug’s command went unheeded. “Damn fool boy gonna get himself killed!”

  He turned to the men and shouted, “Stay here and guard the home front! I’m goin’ in after him!” With that, Doug tore through the rows of squash, following the fireball bouncing in the direction of a distant corn field.

  Tommy was standing in a clearing when he caught up. They could hear the ruckus of growls and barks scattered throughout the stalks. Grabbing Tommy’s elbow, he spun him about face. “He can’t be saved, boy. Just let ‘im go! He died in battle. There’s honour in that.” Releasing his arm, he said softly, “Come on back to the others now. You’ll be safer there.”

  Tommy shrugged and mumbled, “Okay,” shoulders slumped in defeat. Doug could hear sniffling at his back. Damn sissy, he thought.

  He saw them right as he got ready to enter the squash patch. Tiny pairs of red dots, glowing in between the butternuts. As he tried to formulate a plan of escape, more appeared. Must be a hundred of them fuckers, he realized. He’d left a load of dynamite back with the men, ready to be tossed if all else failed. Wouldn’t do them no good from the other side of the field, though. He whispered, “When I say ‘go’, you run like you’ve never run before.”

  From the corner of his eye he could see Tommy nodding nervously.

  Waiting a beat, he screamed, “GO! RUN!” Tommy shot ahead of him, squealing like a greased pig, but when Doug set to running, he tripped over some unruly vines and fell belly down in the soil. “Holy hellfire!” he screamed, as dozens of red-eyed rabbits slowly emerged from the vegetables.

  “Leave me be, you spawns of Satan!” He covered the back of his head with his hands just as they leapt. Little teeth tore into his flesh. Them rabbits ate good that night.

  But at least he died in battle. And there’s honour in that.

  Willowy wisps of cobweb on the ceiling and in the cornices wave like seaweed brushed by ocean currents. Chloe takes a broom and with one swipe clears a clump of web so large that she could knit a small child’s jumper with it.

  “They seem to appear overnight,” she thinks to herself on her way back to the kitchen with the broom.

  She returns to the bedroom and climbs into bed. The bedside lamp goes off. Thoughts of cobwebs dissolve into the random chaos of a middle-aged woman’s mind at bedtime. The covers are pulled up and her body is tucked into the foetal position. The wind through the leaves of the almond tree outside her window lulls her to sleep and soon she is dead to the world.

  It hasn’t even occurred to her that something must have built the web.

  In a dark corner between the drawers and the wall a tiny creature stirs. At first it is disoriented. It untangles its legs and scuttles back up the wall. For a long while it waits for another attack, alert and seething. Then, when the attack does not come, it turns around and looks down upon its sleeping foe.

  Creeping across the ceiling, one furry leg in front of another, it casts a monstrous shadow across the patches of moonlight which steal in through chinks in the bedroom curtains. A quick scu
ttle and then it stops. It is now directly over her. It can hear the slow and steady sounds of her gentle snoring.

  The back end of its abdomen kisses the plaster of the ceiling, attaching a small dot of glue. It waits a moment and then descends towards Chloe’s open mouth on a thin strand of silk. Its eyes are filled with images of the woman’s face. Its legs twitch with impatience.

  Not even a full minute has passed before the tips of the spider’s legs touch the pale skin of Chloe’s cheek. One leg slips inside her open mouth but the spider quickly retracts it. Instinct tells the spider that if the victim can’t see, it can’t fight.

  So it starts with her eyes; weaving a fine mesh over each lid which sets hard and closes them forever. The strands are continuous. Its back legs work like pistons to pull more and more fine threads from its abdomen. As it scuttles around Chloe’s head it takes the thread with it. Minutes turn into hours but the spider works tirelessly to exact its revenge.

  And soon it is joined by others. From corners and gaps in the plaster they come. The room is alive with movement and Chloe sleeps obliviously. Her head is soon off the pillow, suspended by a hundred strands of silk which have been attached to the ceiling. Back and forth they go, and bit by bit Chloe’s body is lifted from the mattress. As each hour passes there is less of Chloe’s body and more silk.

  One brazen arachnid deposits a sack of eggs in Chloe’s mouth. The sleeping woman brushes the tiny silk sack aside with a flick of her tongue so the spider bites it. It doesn’t pay to mess with Miss Black Widow.

  Chloe wakes up, only she can’t open her eyes. She panics. She tries to move but can’t. Within her silken cocoon she wriggles and twists, but her body is suspended; her arms and legs held together by the silk of a hundred spiders.