Hour 15: R.I.P (By Michael Cassera)

John was seated and strapped to the chair. In front of him were the victims of a horrible crime that they believed he committed. But he was innocent, and dumb. His poor decisions throughout the investigation and trial put him in this chair.

There were voices around him, but all he heard was the pounding in his head. All he felt was the wet sponge that was placed on top of his head and the black hood that covered his face. It smelled horrible. He innately knew many people died with this same hood over their heads.

The voices had stopped. Then, he felt it. Millions of electrons pushing through his skull into his brain. At first it felt like a huge burst, but then it seemed to have slowed down, like he could feel every electron passing through his skin, into his body. They flowed down his torso, through his legs and out his feet to the grounding plate below him. It didn’t hurt anymore. All he felt was movement.

Just as quickly as it had started, it stopped. He felt the restraints removed from his arms and legs. Finally, he felt the hood being pulled off his head. His vision was blurred. Someone was in front of him.

“Come on, we have to go!”

The urgency of the command made John get up. John looked around. Everybody was still there, but frozen and like ghosts, everybody except for the stranger who freed him.

The stranger spoke again, “They’re coming…Hurry!”

John finally spoke, “Am I dead?”

“Yes.” was the response. “Now we need to go, unless you want to go to Hell!”

Hour 14: Love Story

She feels bad, even though she really did love him.
She was certain it would work.

She really wanted it to.

It was love at first sight.
The type you hear about most of your life but never truly believe in.
The eyes that meet across the room and the whole world and time stop kind of love at first sight.

Their first touch was electric.

Their first kiss was like a wildfire.

No sex yet. She wanted to, oh, how she wanted to.
But she didn’t want him to see her scars, to see her naked.
She hadn’t shown her naked body to a man in a long time.
And this man was special. She didn’t want to scare him off.

It was love. Perfect love.

They’d stay up all night talking and laughing.
Telling stories and watching the clouds move on the night breeze.

She would have married him in a heartbeat.
He said he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.

She said he could, she knew a way.

When he drank the poison, it was a much more violent death than either of them expected.

She sat on the floor with him, as his mouth foamed and his limbs twitched.

When he finally died, she was relieved. Happy.

She waited.

Where was he?

She waited for days.
He never showed up.

Of course, how could she be so stupid?

Suicides go to Hell according to the Catholics.
And he was a Catholic.

She had died in a car accident, through no fault of her own.

The ladder in the trunk that her friend rear-ended went through the windshield and nearly cut her in half.

She feels bad about what happened.
She really did love the boy.

Hour 13: Clutch (By Kyle Willis)

Hell is a highway that cuts through the Southwestern U.S.

Brynn Edwards was 23.  Her mother was a teacher.  Her father was a doctor.  They molded her soul to match the sweet face that was framed by honey-blond hair.  

Twenty-three years of Heaven brought her straight to hell.

The car had clanked.  She had no idea what was wrong, but the thing just died.  Right in the middle of a desolate highway somewhere between Vegas and Salt Lake.  She’d cursed more in the last thirty minutes than she ever had in her whole life.

The cell service she’d paid a pretty penny for was defunct in this place.  Three calls into her boyfriend Jason had resulted in nothing but static.  

“No, motherfucker, I can NOT hear you now”.

She’d been flush with relief at the sight of the eighteen-wheeler approaching.  Its armor slightly fuzzy in the streams of heat rising off the asphalt.  It appeared just in the nick of time, as Brynn had started wondering what four hours of exposure to the elements would do to the spray tan she’d paid $50 for two days ago.

The trucker was named Elroy.  Burly, brawny, a red Nascar cap congealed to his scalp.  As she climbed into the truck, she noticed him trying to discreetly lick away a spot of tobacco that had crusted to his gray goatee while he’d enjoyed a burrito some one hundred miles back.  

Elroy leaned over to help Brynn get into the truck and secured.  He leaned too far and his foot slipped from the clutch.  The truck coughed and lunged forward, causing an awkward meeting of their heads.

“Sorry.  Foot came off the clutch.”

They’d exchanged pleasantries as they continued on the highway.  Elroy promised the existence of a small town twenty miles ahead where Brynn could recompose, get a tow, and be on her way to wherever she was going.  

Brynn was polite, but not transparent.  She was almost sure Elroy was an okay guy, but didn’t necessarily wasn’t to find him again in her rearview when she was on her way again.

The town finally came up.  Holiday Grove.  Elroy turned on the offramp and coasted down to the town entrance.

It was eerily empty.  There were nearly fifty cars in a parking corral.  Every door in the motel was wide open.  Smoke climbed from the diner.  But there wasn’t a single person in sight.

A mangled SUV occupied a section of the dirt road linking the highway to the hub of the town.  Parts were strewn about.  

Elroy and Brynn both went on high alert.  The truck came to a stop.  They both went quiet, surveying the surrounding area.  

A Highway Patrol substation was straight ahead.  The phone number was plastered on the window.  Brynn reached into her bag and pulled out the phone that had failed her earlier.  She dialed the number.

RING.  RING.  RING.  

The telephone in the sub station rang just behind the connection in Brynn’s ear.  No one was picking up.

Then.  A whistle.  Low.  Slow.  Monotone.  

It may have been the wind that was stirring up.  But that was debunked when another whistle followed.  The whistle was a line of communication.  From one person to another.  Or one thing to another.

CRASH!

A human hand shot through the driver’s side window and latched onto Elroy’s throat.  Digging into his veins and arteries.  Crimson streaming through its fingers.

Screams erupted from Brynn’s lungs as she hopped out of the truck and dropped down to the sand.  She looked under the truck and saw three pairs of legs at the driver’s side door.  The beings they belonged to seem to be clamoring for a piece of Elroy.

Brynn tucked herself into a hiding spot under the box of the truck.  Against.  

Elroy was gone.  But his body was still catching up to his permanent sleep.  He’d managed to keep his foot on the clutch this whole time.

But there was a twitch.  

His foot came off the clutch.  And the truck lurched forward.

Brynn scrambled.  She sensed the weight of the truck moving, but couldn’t get out in enough time.  The tires she’d hidden against betrayed her.  The truck was on a slight incline, and rolled backward.

Right over Brynn’s knees.  Crushing them.  

Brynn put a hand over mouth to muffle a scream in a last-ditch attempt to shield herself from the strange people ripping apart Elroy.  

But then her phone went off.  Jason was once again trying to reach her.

But they got her first.

Hour 12: Dealing with Demons

The priest lay dead on the floor when I walked in.

His head, twisted in a way that made my stomach feel the same.

If this man of the cloth failed, what chance does a two-bit hustler like myself have?

The little boy is possessed. That’s what his family said.
I didn’t really believe it until the dead priest.
I really believed it when he used my middle name, which I’ve never told anyone in twenty years.
I fully believed it when he sprayed me with shit and started levitating.

Sometimes, I guess, it takes a drastic experience to make a cynic like me come around.

I close the bedroom door behind me, locking out the crying parents and praying neighbors.

The boy sits on the edge of the bed frame, swinging his legs back and forth without a care.

“So, what’s up, champ? Got yourself a bit of a cold?”

The boy chuckles. I guess whatever has control has a sense of humor. Good. Maybe I can buy it a beer and it will move on without any trouble.

The boy starts coughing. Violently. I can see his ribs straining against his skin with each guttural cough.

He spits something at me.
Fleshly. Covered in blood. Hard.

“It’s a tumor.”

I flick it away from me. Disgusting. Like, really disgusting.

“That’s nice. Mind keeping stuff like that to yourself? Got a bit of a queasy stomach here, you stinkin’ up the room with shit, and all.”

He climbs off the bed, closer to me, looking into my eyes.
I know it won’t be good, whatever is going to happen next, but I can’t show fear.

He kisses me on the forehead.

I see visions.
The boy contorting in pain. Coughing and vomiting blood.
Bones being ripped out of his back.
His stomach exploding inside of him.
Shitting his intestines into the toilet in one huge, hot, splash.

“You see?”

“Do I see what? That was some disgusting…I don’t know what that was.”

“They were his nightmares. His fears. That’s why he called me into him.”

He climbs back onto the bed and lights a cigarette.

“Where did you get those? You’re like…ten.”

“The priest. I made him bring them to me.”

I nod, like it makes sense. It doesn’t, but I can tell there is a bit of ten year old logic mixed in with this demon.

“So the tumor?”

“The boys. He was dying.”

“Got it. And where is he?”

“He’s a cat. That’s what he wanted. That was the trade. This body, which is deliciously falling apart and rotten, for his soul to be placed into the cat he’d watch from his bedroom window every night.”

“And he’s happy?”

“Look for yourself.”

I follow his ten year old pointed finger out the window.
Down in the street below a cat stops chewing on garbage and looks up at me.
It stretches, goes belly up, but keeps eye contact with me.

“Alright. Seems fair. Drink?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

I walk out of the house with the demon-in-a-kids—body. The parents are wailing and trying to stop him, but one look from the boy seems to set them right.

Out on the street, the cat purrs and circles our legs.
The boy reaches down and scratches it’s head, then lights a cigarette and points to the nearest bar.

Hour 11: The Power of Words

Graffiti has been popping up all over town.
Strange, foreign words in glow in the dark paint on windows and stores and garage doors.

No one knows what they mean, no one knows who the vandal or vandals are.

There is one thing they know: anyone who reads the words out loud disappears.

That’s what happened to Mark.

He read the words out loud. Then, poof, he was gone.

Now he’s standing in the dark. No light, what so ever can be seen. There’s a slight breeze he can feel against his skin. All of his skin.
His clothes are gone.

All of them.

He calls out.

Hello! Hello? Is anyone there? Or here?

Where here is, he doesn’t know.

There’s an absence of smell.

Just the breeze.

He feels what must be ground under his feet.
He takes a step.
It’s hard to keep balanced when you can’t see anything.

He moves slowly. One foot firmly planted at a time.

He’s getting cold.
He feels totally alone.

A soft popping noise. Like someone opening a can of soda behind him.

He jumps, startled, but still cannot see anything.

He repeats the words to himself – trying to figure out a meaning, trying to figure out what happened or where he is or what happened to his close.

He feels ashamed, walking around in the strange darkness fully naked.
He tries to sit, but as he lowers himself he is overcome with an acute sense of vertigo.

He can’t tell how long he’s been here.
The nothingness around him skews time and any sense of actual movement.

He begins to panic.

But then…a light.

A small light. Tiny. In the distance.

He walks towards it.

He runs towards it.

It’s no bigger than a pinhole but he knows it’s his salvation.

He runs.
The light is getting bigger, brighter.

He runs faster, at least he feels like he’s running faster.

He must get to the light, the light must be an exit.

He hits a wall.

He doesn’t see the wall, but he runs into it.

The light, now the size of a small hole, is still in front of him.

He runs his hands down the invisible hard surface.

The hole, the light is right in front of him.
He puts his finger in, feels a warm breeze on the other side.
The sides of the hole feel like brick.

His finger touches something wet, but it’s still too dark around him to see what it is.
He hopes it isn’t blood.

It takes a while for him to build enough courage, but he finally leans down and looks through the hole.

He sees a man, in clothes, looking strangely like himself staring at him.
Not directly at him, but in his direction.
The man is sounding out words, reading them, as if they were on a wall right in front of him.

The man finishes reading and disappears.

Mark feels his heart sink.
There’s no way out.

He doesn’t even know how big this dark place is.

He hears a sound behind him.
He can’t see anything, but he feels a presence near him. It’s a man.

The man speaks with Mark’s voice, breathless and scared.

They stand still, facing each other, when they hear their own voice coming quietly from the hole, reading the same mysterious words they had before.

Hour 10: Six Twenty (By Kyle Willis)

SIX TWENTY

It happened twice each day.

6:20.

It happened once night.

6:20.

She saw it in her dreams.  She felt it in her throat.  She would die at 6:20.

It happened twice each day.

6:18.

A two-minute warning.

In the morning, it pulled her from her sleep.  In the evening, it interrupted her dinner.

She prepared.  She braced.

6:22.

A two-minute recovery.

Ritualistic for the last seven years.

The seven years she’d survived since she’d first been warned.

It was a Thursday no more special than any other.

6:20 came and went.  Twice.

She pulled the coupon from her purse.

Loyalty rewarded her with a discount on the maroon scarf.

$6.40.

Her gut tightened.  She scanned the boutique.

No sign of danger.

She swiped her card.

Signed the receipt.

And left.

Checked every corner.

Vigilant.

She made it to her car.

Locked the doors.

Turned onto the main road.

The maroon scarf danced in the manufactured breeze from the A/C vent.

The disc she’d burned from her pop princess playlist started to skip.

Fear.  Preparation.  Fear.  Survival.  Fear.  Reward.  Fear.  Survival.

Rinse and repeat.

The obliterated dance beats became too much to bear.

Eject.

The car came to a pause at the intersection.

Heavily wooded.

The caffeinated jockey re-greeted his listeners at his return from the commercial break.

“AM 620.  All talk.  All the time.”

Her breath caught in her throat.

It wasn’t paranoia this time.

She never saw who belonged to the hands that pulled the maroon scarf taut against her throat.  

Larynx crushed.

Sleep that would never again be interrupted.

She never checked the backseat.

620.

Hour 9: The Brides

They said they were brides, but he could love them if he wanted to – their husband wouldn’t mind.

And, what did he care? They were three gorgeous women. Three gorgeous women sitting at the bus stop. Three gorgeous women sitting at the bus stop paying attention to him after an awful night.

So why not try and hook up with three gorgeous married women sitting at the bus stop paying attention to him?
No one would believe him, anyways…so why not go for it?

Okay, he says. Knowing full well it would be way too easy to fall in love with any one of the three.

The women giggle and spring up from the bench and hug him.

He feels the warmth of their bodies.

They play with his hair, and stroke his cheeks.

Come home with us, they plead. Come home with us and let’s play, they laugh and touch him.

Who knew that Halloween was such a lucky holiday?
Here he is, a twenty-something man. A man in his prime. Dejected and rejected from some shitty party with shitty people…and here he is, in the arms of three beautiful women…going home with them.

But what about your husband? He asks, finding it strange that they were married to the same guy, but hey, who was he to judge? He figures they are just swingers or in open relationships or something. People get up to all kinds of kinky stuff behind closed doors.

He tries to kiss one of them on the bus.

She laughs, and playfully pushes him away.

He wants to try again, maybe kiss another one, but isn’t sure if he should. Had he already shown preference? If he tries to kiss one of the other women, would the first woman feel rejected and he’d blow his chance at anything happening tonight?

They pull him off the bus. Singing and laughing. One of the girls is skipping ahead of them. You’re going to love our house, she sings out. You’re going to love us.

They lead him into their house. It’s simple, but bathed in a warm pink-orange light. They push him down onto an over-stuffed sofa and tell him to stay there and then they run into another room laughing and playfully shoving each other.

He takes his shoes off. In case something was about to happen, he didn’t want to have to try and get them off and look foolish.
Should he take his clothes off? He wonders.
No. No, that would be too forward.

The three women come back into the room.

His heart beats. He begins to sweat.
He tugs at the front of his pants, trying to hide an erection.

The three women come back into the room fully naked, curling their index fingers, asking him to follow them.

Who knew Halloween was a lucky holiday?

They take him down a hallway, undressed him as they go.

Playfully, but forcefully leading him into a dark room and onto a big, comfortable bed.

Do you like us, they ask? Are we beautiful? Could you love us?

He answers yes. Yes to every question they ask, aching to touch them. Any of them.

They light candles and more pink-orange light bathes the room and their naked bodies.

He can’t fight his arousal anymore.
He reaches out and grabs one of the women.

The other two push him down.

Uh-uh. Not until you marry us! Do you want to marry us?

Yes, he says. He would say yes to anything at this point.

They clap and hug each other.

Then we are all married! It will be such a happy life. You’ll love us forever and we will love you forever!

And…finally…a kiss.

A kiss.

It hurts him, but in a good way. Did she bite his lip?

He tastes a little blood, which surprises him as it increases his arousal.

Their hands move over his body. Up his legs and over his hips. Over the belly he wishes didn’t hold so much beer. Over his chest and shoulders.

And then around his throat.

He can’t breathe.

He thinks they are playing, but he really can’t breathe.

The pink-orange light becomes hazy and his head starts to hurt.

He can’t breathe.

All three women place their hands on this throat, leaning forward with all of their weight.

He’s trying to fight them off but they are so strong, too strong.

He can’t fight.
He can’t breathe.

Spots of light dance before his eyes.
His tongue feels huge.

Everything goes black.

He opens his eyes.

He’s not sure what time it is.

He sees pink-orange light and a big, comfortable, unmade bed.

A man cowers in the corner. Blue lips, bulging eyes, deep and dark bruises around his neck.

His own neck hurts.

He hears the women open the door.
The same purring noises they made when they were dragging him into the room.

They have another man.

He yells at them. What is this? You’re going to have sex with that guy with me in the room? With that other guy in the room? What’s wrong with you three?

They don’t hear him.

He watches as they undress and tease the new guy.

He watches as the new guy agrees to love them and marry them and be with them forever.
He watches as they kiss and choke and murder the new guy.

He watches as the spirit leaves the new guy.

He feels the bruises around his neck, they burn slightly.
He looks in the mirror – a dark purple ring around his throat, blue lips, bulging bloodshot eyes.

Behind him, the new guy appears, crying, gently touching the fresh bruise around his own neck.

Hour 8: Public Service Announcement (By Heather Lang)

Don’t let him fool you.
The clown’s oversized lips are not smiles n’ face paint.
His mouth is swollen; he’s licked his lips chapped and then raw.
He craves the meat of your children on the night after the year’s biggest sugar binge.
He wants to tie up the intestines of your sons & daughters, knot them up like pretty-in-pink, red, and purple balloon animals.
On Halloween Eve, the clown dreamt of your youngest brimming with M&Ms and Snickers Bars, your first born full of Swedish Fish and Skittles, and your middle child stuffed with Reece’s Pieces and Pixie Sticks.
Your kin has become the colorful pinatas the clown’s own father would never let him have.
Yes, now this grinning clown dreams of goblin girls and Batman boys, of cowboy kids and Harley Quinn teens.
The house with the toothbrushes will be the clown’s last stop.
If he smells minty fresh, you’re safe.

Hour 7: The Glass Jar

They brought her back from the old country. It was love at first sight.
There she was, in a little jar with big eyes, nice curves, and a soft green glow.

The shopkeeper said she was one of a kind. They would never find anything like her again.
Of course they bought her.

They brought her back to the states, fed her leaves and tiny pieces of meat and cheese. They had forgotten to ask what her kind eats, so they went through a series of trial and error until finally they figured out what she liked best – blood.

She was cute, by human standards. Long legs, perky breasts, wild eyes and a wolfish smile. The husband probably liked her more than he would admit and the wife felt strangely compelled to stare at her for hours on end.

They talked about letting her out of the jar. Letting her roam around the house free, but they were afraid the cat would get her. Mostly, though, they were afraid she’d escape and they’d never see her again.

Of course, the husband fell in love with her. He’d fantasize about her, imagine it was her and not his wife he was making love to.

The sex became angry, nearly violent, the longer his infatuation went on.

She seemed pleased with it, sitting in her jar, watching the couple go at it.

She began to whisper to them. To the wife more than the husband.
The wife, she could tell, was obviously jealous of her. She lusted for the long legs, the perky breasts. She probably looked like that once, or, maybe, she had never looked like that at all.

Oh, but you can! She said, her tiny voice barely audible from within the glass jar. I can give you whatever you want. I can grant wishes.

The wife was surprised. Had they bought a genie? She didn’t now this tiny thing could make wishes come true.

It’s simple, she said. I just need more nourishment. I’ve been in this jar for nearly fifty years. I’m weak.

When her husband had to work late, she sacrificed the cat. Opening the jar lid just enough to let the fresh blood pour in.
She watched.
She saw the little woman drink it up, moaning in pleasure, coating herself in the cat’s blood.

This is a good start. But it’s not enough.

The wife didn’t know what to do. She ran her hands over her own body. She used to think she was cute. Maybe a little too plump in some areas, but still cute. Her breasts were large, heavy, but not all that saggy. She had a pair of jeans that made her ass look fantastic. But, when she saw her in the jar, she knew what true beauty was. She wanted those breasts with the nipples that pointed straight out, those long legs with that most coveted gap between the thighs, that slight slope from the hips to the pubic bone that her husband had once mentioned he found incredibly sexy.

Her husband was no treat, himself. She knew if she could look like that, then she could do far better than him.

When her husband came home, tired and hungry, she began to seduce him.
He sat in the same chair he sat in every night for the last twenty years and waited for his dinner.
She brought it to him, like she’s always done, but this time, she was naked except for the small apron.

She stood in front of him, presenting his dinner, her breasts pushing against the apron fabric, peeking out at the sides. He seemed confused. She turned and he saw her bare ass as she walked away.

You can eat your dinner, or you can eat me, your choice. She said over her shoulder as she walked into the bedroom.

Like an animal he leapt up and chased after her, tearing his clothes off as he went.

I thought we’d try something a little different, she suggested.

He jumped onto the bed, waiting for this happy surprise.

She turned out the lights and lit some candles, watching him squirm with anticipation.

Confused, he watched her open the jar.

The little woman flew out and began to kiss his neck. Could his fantasy be a reality? He thought.
The thought didn’t last long.
His wife stabbed him in the throat.
The little woman gulped down his blood.
He tried to push her away, but he felt paralyzed.
His wife stood by, watching, smiling.

Was that enough? Can I look like you now?

The little woman wiped blood from her face, laughed and said No. You’re old, fat, and saggy. You can never look like me.
And she left.
She left the wife, naked and alone, looking down at the body that was once her husband.

Hour 6: Haunted House

She hears the gate scrape open every night.

Problem is, this house doesn’t have a gate.

Even so, it scrapes across the sidewalk every night.

She can see the white scratches it leaves on the sidewalk every morning.

There are also footsteps in the attic.
Heavy footsteps that slowly walk back and forth every night.
This house also does not have an attic.

She’s not scared.
She moved in last year, but she doesn’t feel afraid.

Once she tried to turn off a light that seemed to have been left on, but then couldn’t find that particular light the next morning.

Sometimes she hears voices.

They’re friendly, chatty, but not directed at her.
They talk amongst themselves in the next room.
Which is strange.
She lives in a studio apartment on the top floor of this building.
There is no next room.

Her landlord warned her.
It wasn’t really a warning, though.

More of an education.

The house is haunted. It’s haunted by another house.
The ground still holds memories from the buildings before.

A house haunting a house.
Nothing to be afraid of.

Every night, she says goodnight to her dog and to all of the others houses that were there before hers.