Two-Sentence Horror Stories

Secret Garden

The first day at her aunt Olive’s house, Ophelia had been afraid; by the last day, she was terrified.

She could see it through the window, dirt and boards and cracks in the glass; Olive’s garden had bloomed.

For Sale

Next time they come down here, I’ll kill them, Nervous swore and this time, he meant it.

Downstairs in the windowless basement, he had no way of seeing the “For Sale” sign pounded into the dry earth in the front yard.

Left Behind

“It’s not fair,” Cassandra sobbed, collapsing into her father’s stiff embrace.

Don had said he’d never leave her, but he’d done exactly that; she hadn’t even finished the operation!

Snuggle Buddies

“Goodnight, Porthos,” Cyd Roseland said as the bed dipped beneath the dog’s weight.

He was just thinking to himself that his old friend might need to go on a diet when he heard Porthos begin to bark in the hallway.


Ophelia’s Dolls

“Mama,” she said, quietly. I almost didn’t hear her; my mind had drifted, far away from the seemingly endless stretch of asphalt and sand, away from the hot vinyl seats that stuck and peeled away from my skin every time I moved. Away from my daughter, sitting quietly in the seat beside me, playing on the tablet she’d received for her last birthday.

“What is it, Ophelia?” I asked, glancing over at her. She was all but stabbing at the smudged screen with one delicate finger, her frustration apparent. I saw the familiar bright colors and dark lines of the dollhouse game she was too old to be playing, but I had given up on trying to convince her to find something more age appropriate. Better something too young for her than too old, I supposed. We passed another sign, warning us that we were almost upon Strangetown, and I sighed.

“My doll won’t stop crying.”

Continue reading “Ophelia’s Dolls”

The houses have no doors.

My name is Eleanor. That much I am sure of. Whatever else I tell you from here on out are the facts as I know them, but I cannot promise, with any certainty, that I am telling the truth. It’s not that I’m lying – it’s that reality is shifting. Changing shape.

Being replaced.

But for now, my name is Eleanor.

I live in a house I’ve never seen before, in a town that nobody can identify, with a young boy who says his name is Mr. Eli.

He is six-years-old, likes dinosaurs and aliens (“But not alien dinosaurs,” he tells me angrily, toys frozen mid-air in his white-knuckled fists. “The law forbids it.”), and has a monster under his bed he calls “Nana”. He is my son.

When I went to bed in my other life, I did not have a son.

I believe I do have family, though. Just not here… wherever “here” is. I have tried to contact them, but phone numbers are out of order; texts won’t send; e-mails come back “user unknown”; letters are returned unopened, a large red stamp across the front reading “UNAVAILABLE”.

I got through once. The man on the other end – my brother, James – said he didn’t have a sister, and hung up. I hit redial, but the phone number had been disconnected.

Excerpts taken from the diary of Angela Pleasant.

Had the dream again.

*                 *                 *

I think I’m running out of air.

My room smells funny. I asked Mom about it, thinking maybe she’d installed some new air freshener or something without my knowledge, but she insists that not only would she never (although she has before, which is why I asked), but she doesn’t know what I’m talking about. She says my room smells “fine”.

But there’s an earthy smell in here, something damp and almost… sweet? Not in a good way.

I’ve searched everything, even the closet, but there was nothing to find. I finally gave up and tried to open my window, but the wind was doing that howling thing again, and I couldn’t stand it. I had to close it again.

*                 *                 *

Still smelling it. Can’t find a source.

I’m afraid it’s in my head somewhere.

Something rotting and meaty inside of me.

I can’t get it out.

*                 *                 *

I take the pills to help me sleep.

I can’t manage without them. Sometimes, I can’t manage with them. But when they work, I burrow so deeply in the darkness that not even the nightmares (and I know they’re looking) can find me.

Rule of Rain, Chapter 4: Let the Games Begin

A couple of things about this “chapter”:

  1. This is actually only a half-chapter. Photoshop crashed the other night and killed the action I was using on these pictures. I really liked the action and the way it looked on this particular set of pictures, so rather than redo them in a new (and likely inferior) action set, I decided to just release the first half as is.
  2. This “chapter” uses a loooottt of game dialogue. A lot. Beware.


TW: None?

Continue reading “Rule of Rain, Chapter 4: Let the Games Begin”

Dear Lilith,

I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve decided to name my journal after you. I just like writing “Dear Lilith” better than “Dear Diary”. Who knows… maybe someday I’ll be able to give this to you, and you’ll finally get to know me. The me I became without you there to hold me together.

I should have started this sooner. There’s so much to catch up on now. It’s a little overwhelming.

I’m back in Pleasantview. What’s left of it, anyway. Back in our childhood home, with mom. If you’ve been watching the news, then you know about dad, but I’ll get to that eventually anyway.

I spend a lot of time in “my” room. It’s more like some generic, anonymous hotel room now, though. They even changed the paint. I try to sleep as much as I can, but the nightmares make it hard to really rest. Sometimes I lock myself in the bathroom and just sit in the bathtub, like we used to do when we were hiding from mom and dad. It’s significantly more lonely and pathetic without you, though. Like, it was special back then, when it was the two of us against the rest of them. Now, I’m just some twenty-seven year old lying in a bathtub, avoiding her mom/life/the past/everything.

I’m in therapy now. Mom’s idea. She thinks I need to talk to someone (not her) after everything that’s happened. All the deaths and sadness. I’m so fragile now.

In case you haven’t been keeping up:

About three months ago, Dad went out for a late night jog. Except not really. He went out for a late night with Kaylynn Langerak (I know you remember her) – she later confirmed this. Mom just kind of brushes it off, dismissing Kaylynn as “fame hungry” and a “slut”.

Maybe. But you knew Dad…

At some point on the way home, he decided to take a detour through the park, where he was killed and partially eaten.

When I first heard about that, I thought of you. I imagined you, being you, bringing that news to its natural conclusion, you leaning in and whispering something terrible and inappropriate, like “My other casket is a pooper scooper”.

I almost laughed. Standing there alone in my half-empty apartment, surrounded by boxes and packing tape and styrofoam peanuts, with the phone in my right hand, and mom’s voice making this weird snuffling, wheezing sound in my ear, telling me over and over that Dad was gone, dead, dead, gone, deadgonedead, and I almost laughed.

The knife in my left hand didn’t even make a sound when I dropped it. Styrofoam peanuts. It caught my bare foot, though, on the way down. That’s the only thing that kept me from losing it right there in the kitchen. That sudden shock of pain and my foot drooling blood, it kind of reset my sanity meter.

I remember that I sat down next to it. Right there on the floor, and I picked it up and I was still thinking that I might, but there was mom’s voice on the phone, begging me to come home.

So I put it in the nearest available box and taped it shut and came home on the train, and she was late picking me up.

But I can’t really be mad about it, can I? I have literally no room to talk here, because Dad died, and I almost laughed.

It eats at me. I feel so bad, because I don’t feel bad enough. He’s dead, I should feel something, even relief, but I don’t. There’s just a lot of nothing where the grief should be. Sometimes I forget all together.

My therapist (Don Lothario – remember him? He’s married to Cassandra now, so I guess we were wrong. I don’t think he remembered me, though) keeps wanting me to tell him about dad, to talk about what happened and how it affected me, but I can’t. Not with him. He wouldn’t understand. And I guess I’m a little ashamed of it – my apathy. My father’s dead. Our father. The man who never held us, never changed our diapers, never fed or bathed us. The man who didn’t really want any part of fatherhood until all the “gross” bits were over, and by then, what did we need him for? Who was he but a pushy stranger mom let yell at us?

I don’t know how to talk about it. I don’t know how to admit to people that he was a shitty, disinterested father who thought he could just step in and take over once all the hard work was done and we were self-sufficient enough to be fun for a while. I don’t know how to admit that I don’t really care that he’s gone.

I wish I could talk to you about this. Shit, I wish I could talk to anyone. The problem is that there isn’t anyone left. The problems I’m having… who would believe me, but you?

– Angela