My Take On 2 Sentence Horror:

That night, I tossed and turned in my bed, sweating, as visions of the tooth-framed orifice in the center of my mother’s face descending on that sandwich visited my dreams over and over: the unsticking of the dry flesh of her lips as they parted, the soft click of her tongue as it released from the roof of her mouth and extended fully to wrap like a coil around the bread and meat before retracting quickly back between her mandibles. Every time the motions of her snatching the sandwich repeated, her teeth became elongated, sharper, glistening pearly white. A glint of light bounced off of her fangs, blinding me and sending a metallic ringing through my nerves. The sound of the food being swished around between her cheeks became an unbearable deafening static in my brain.

Read the full story below

open.substack.com

Tusk

Short story: a tense horror story about the monsters we hide at home

If you’re itching for strange macabre and gorey short horror stories may I recommend this anthology by Adam Cesare, author of my favorite book series ever. Some of these stories definitely made me feel a little queasy

So Cute You Could Die

I’ve never been a fan of babies. Actually, that’s putting it lightly.

But there’s few social taboos as huge as telling a parent that their newborn is anything less than beautiful. And, well, I find it hard not to be brutally honest when all babies resemble potatoes to me.

So when my social butterfly coworker Geraldine returned from maternity leave and started showing everyone a picture of her baby, I made sure to steer clear. Still, each water cooler break, my fellow employees’ transfixed reactions to her kid grew more sickly-sweet.

“Oh my gosh, you must be so proud” gushed sales rep Fiora, gazing down at the polaroid. “She’s so cute you could die!”

“How absolutely friggin precious!” sang file clerk Donny, holding up the photo to his face. “She’s so cute it just kills me!”

“Okay, you’re making my ovaries ache” trilled receptionist Mona, looking over the snapshot. “She’s cuter than a heart attack!”

At the time, I rolled my eyes at each of these effervescent displays and turned my attention back to my work. People often speak in those sorts of ridiculous exaggerations, so I thought nothing of it. Imagine my utter shock when I heard the news the following day.

Fiora, Donny and Mona had all been found dead in the parking garage, having seemingly suffered heart attacks the previous night.

It was an absolutely insane coincidence. All of them had looked at that baby photo of Geraldine’s and all had died in the same way, on the same day. I could draw no other conclusion: the picture of baby Brooklyn was cursed.

Sitting at my desk, barely concentrating, my mind jumped from possibility to possibility. Could her baby itself be some eldritch demon, killing people to hide its identity? Or was it harvesting their life source through the photo, to sustain itself?

My curiosity was simply too great to resist. I decided to finally glimpse this fatal frame for myself.

“Sure, I’ll look at your baby, Geraldine” I agreed as she thrust the picture out to me, too. Tentatively, I glanced down to see…

…a perfectly normal baby girl, sleeping in a cot. I felt fine. Nothing to indicate being cursed at all.

“Congratulations, Geraldine,” I replied, relieved. “She seems like a great daughter.”

Hours later as I’m leaving the office, I still can’t help but feel silly for believing there was ever a curse.

Suddenly, midway through unlocking my car, I feel a sharp prick in the side of my neck. I spin around in enough time to see Geraldine pulling a syringe out of me. Her eyes are incensed, her teeth gritted in maternal rage.

“What the hell!” I cry out as heart attack-inducing toxins surge through my body. Geraldine merely wags her finger.

“That’s the last time one of you idiots mistakes my baby son for a girl!”

This is a veryyyy short story I wrote probably a decade ago that might’ve been a good contender for r/shortscarystories if it was any good.

A Ticket

When John called me in this morning, I already knew why. A new case. That's what detective's do. They solve cases. Non-detectives can't even go near the crime scene.

It was a murder case. For the average person, this is some scary stuff. But with years of experience, you get used to it.

Everybody knows what a detective gets to do. It's like owning a ticket to investigate a crimes scene. Of course, it's all for work, and no play. But there is another advantage.

No one suspects the detective.

Genuinely didn’t know what to expect

Waste Not, Warrant Not

Knock knock.

I slightly open the door to my family’s house, enough to see a kind-looking woman with bunned hair and a notepad.

“Hi” she greets me warmly. “My name is Joan. I’m here from Child Protective Services. Are you Tara Lambert?”

“Y-yeah” I awkwardly answer, slouching in my pajamas as she observes our rundown home’s exterior.

“Is your mother—Tammy—here? I need to speak to her.”

“Yeah, sh-she’s here but…she sorta c-can’t come to the door easily.”

“Can I come inside then?”

Shyly, I unlatch the security latch and pull the door wide open. The social worker’s professional expression slips momentarily as she registers the state inside our hovel.

Everywhere around me in the hallway, living room, kitchen, bathroom and bedrooms, is a mountain of junk items. Old boxes, food containers, crumpled magazines, broken appliances, dirty clothing—you name it, piled up on every surface.

“Who’s here, Tara?” Mama snaps, her morbidly obese frame stirring in her chair as we sift over to her.

“Hi Tammy. I’m from CPS. I have a warrant from the Department of Social Services to conduct an investigation of your family’s living conditions.”

“Get outta mah house now! Ain’t nothing to assess, mah daughter’s happy!”

“Ma’am, I can already see this environment is entirely unsuitable for raising a teenager,” states Joan. “It’s not hygienic.”

“You deaf? I said you needa get out now or-”

Before she can finish speaking, a gurgling screech reverberates through the waist-high trash around us.

Immediately, Joan is violently pulled into the heap.

“Oh God!” Joan shrieks. “Help! Something’s got my leg!”

She continues screaming, to no avail, as second and third tentacles emerge from the sea of clutter and latch onto her. With a sickening rip, Joan is torn limb from limb. Only once they’ve consumed her body do the brown tentacles retreat, like an octopus returning to a trench.

While my mama weeps for Joan, my face barely registers the carnage.

“You’re welcome” I tell Mama, tossing my phone across the garbage. “That anonymous tip I left with CPS brought a case worker to the house immediately. Talk about fast food.”

A look of horrified realisation spreads throughout Mama’s rounded face.

“You…you shouldn’t ave done that. She was a good person…you didn’t needa feed her to it.”

“The monster was born out of your hoarding, Mama” I hiss. “The sheer filth in here literally created it. If I don’t keep luring people here for it to eat, it’s gonna eat the fattest, most useless thing it can find—you.”

I shoot my mother a withering glare and she blanches, shameful.

“I just…don’t want you killin’ people, Tara.”

Leaving, I glance at the bloodied remains of the social worker on the trash mound, her notebook an addition to the junk.

“Well, Mama—someone has to clean up your mess.”

If you’re into the silly yet eerie strange rule trend on r/nosleep one of my favorites is this story about a cinema usher named Shaun who’s theater has some strange rules he needs to follow. I get why some people would find this repeated trope super annoying but I find some of these stories strangely riveting.

I Think Someone’s Watching Me Through the TV Reflection

I don’t know if anyone will believe me, and honestly, I don’t care anymore. I need to get this out somewhere.

I live alone in a small apartment. Nothing fancy—tiny kitchen, creaky floors, TV across from the couch, the usual. I’ve always liked having the TV on in the background. Static noise helps with the silence. Until last week.

It started with the reflection.

I was watching something late at night, the room mostly dark except for the flickering screen. I paused the episode to grab a snack. As I stood up, I saw it in the TV’s black screen—a shape. Behind me. In the hallway.

I spun around. Nothing. Just my coat hanging off a chair. I laughed it off. I really did.

But then the texts started.

Unknown Number:

do you always watch alone?

I blocked it. Of course I blocked it. But new numbers kept texting. Different ones. Always a little too specific.

Unknown Number:

the reflection likes you. you shouldn’t turn off the screen tonight.

I started unplugging the TV at night. But then the whispers began.

It’s not like they’re in the apartment. It’s like they’re in the silence. Behind the white noise. I turn off the fridge and they get louder. I leave the TV unplugged and the air feels heavier.

Last night, I gave in. I plugged the TV back in, just to see if it would stop.

And the screen was already on.

Static.

Except, it’s not random static. There’s a face in it. Barely visible, like it’s pressing against the glass from the other side. I swear it moved when I looked closer.

I’m not sleeping anymore.

If this is some prank, I don’t care. If this is real—I don’t know what it wants.

But if I go missing, check the reflection.

Short book review: There’s No Way I’d Die First

⭐️⭐️

I think this book had a lot of potential but it really just wasn’t it for me. My biggest issue that a lot of people on Goodreads agreed with was the political message…considering it’s supposed to be about racism, it’s painfully pro-rich. The villain had a point, this cast of characters were all spoiled brats who got their way and took advantage of other, nor do they ever acknowledge their privilege or admit their wrogdoing. These people are insanely rich btw, not upper middle class. I think when discussing intersectionality we need to acknowledge that people who are minorities and are also ultra rich will likely never understand or completely relate to the experience that everyone else faces. How the hell is the average reader supposed to root for and feel bad for these characters at all? The main character was super annoying because she kept insisting the cops will blame her for this bc she’s black…and then they don’t. Why even bother discussing the rampant racism in our judicial system when ur not even gonna show it? U make ur own character look like a paranoid annoying self-victim. And i couldn’t really give a shit about that either knowing her parents could easily bail her out a jail. Just seems insulting to the millions of black Americans who actually face this typa shit everyday and don’t have enough money to get out of it.

Also the clown’s name being Gabe instead of a clown name was a bizarre choice. And if he were a pennywise impersonator wouldn’t he just go by pennywise?

Whateva. 2 stars.

Just ignore it

One of the first stories I posted on wattpad.

On there I'm at 71 short horror stories right now, I'm not sure if I will ever post all of the stories I wrote before on tumblr, but here is one.

Word count: 1105

TW: Psychological horror

I look up at the old school building, just for a second I see the cracks. The surrounding plants around it have started growing inside. Some of the windows are broken.

The broken bell goes off and it almost sounds like a muffled scream.

I quickly go inside.

Inside the right classroom I take a seat at my table, it is a scratched old table with graffiti, not done by me.

Slowly the classroom fills with my 'classmates', these dolls with keys in their backs. They enter with their rattling keys and stiff movements. Opening and closing their wooden mouths, like they are talking to one another. I can't hear them, but I'm not interested anyway.

Lastly, the 'teacher' enters leaving its books on the desk and 'starting the lesson'.

I don't care to listen to the clacking of its mouth. It doesn't matter anyway, ignoring is for the best and pretending.

At some point the 'teacher' points at me and stops.

Carefully I stand and walk towards it, followed by the empty stares of the other painted wooden faces.

It is quiet.

It has always been quiet.

My 'teacher' seems to have stopped working, so I stand behind it and gently turn it's key until it starts working again.

Then just as quietly as before, I return to my seat.

I stare out of the window, without actually observing what is happening. Well nothing is happening really. Nothing ever is.

Just nature taking over this school, this empty building.

Even during break I just stare outside, while those dolls are clacking to each other.

If I go anywhere the dolls will be mean to me, they will sometimes throw things at me or clack mean things about me. So it is better just to remain in one place. They are defective.

I return home without looking back.

I live in an old dollhouse, it's almost completely empty and always silent.

I love the silence.

I enjoy the emptiness.

The rest of the house is just like the city with plants growing everywhere, inside and outside the buildings.

All buildings are slowly breaking apart and I just ignore it.

It's all fake anyway.

It's all useless anyway.

Nothing matters here, just that I do what I have to do and return 'home'.

The next day when I go to 'school', something strange happens.

The 'teacher' introduces a new 'classmate', another doll.

With a key and a painted face, just like any other.

It takes the empty seat next to me.

The new student seems to try to get my attention, but I just start doodling in my workbooks. Pretending I don't see or hear her.

The day passes by quite quickly, and I return to my old dollhouse.

I walk up the creaking stairs and past the rotting woodwork.

In my room I stare out of the hole in the roof, at the dark, starless abyss, most people call the sky.

And just like always, another day has passed.

The next day I do the same as all the previous days.

Stare out of the window, turn a key and return to my seat.

Then lunch comes around.

The new student is getting more annoying.

It has even started jumping in front of me to get my attention, which made the other dolls clack their mouths like they were laughing.

It's becoming more and more difficult.

Then suddenly it locks it's wooden hands around my wrist.

No matter how hard I struggle, It won't let me go.

Then it started walking and I am forced to follow.

We go up to the rooftop.

"I need you to listen." The voice coming out of the doll sounds vaguely human.

While blocking the only exit, it let's go of my wrist.

What does this thing want from me? None of them ever try to contact me as long as I ignore them, why does this one do?

The new student puts a hand under its chin, then a short click could be heard.

She removes her face, I guess she was wearing a mask.

I look at her face, her nose, her eyes, her eyebrows... Everything about her looks too familiar.

She looks like...

me...

Why does she look like me?

"I need to speak with you, please listen." She pleads with my voice.

I don't like where this is going and I take a step back. She doesn't seem to mind though.

"I need you to start looking around you and not ignore everything."

I remain silent.

"Remember what the doctor told us, about the ignoring of bullies and unfortunate situations? Well he was wrong."

I stay quiet and stare past her at the door, so close yet so far away. I just want to ignore her and continue my day.

"You can't ignore everything, you've already done that too much. You need help. You need to tell others about what's going on and learn not to just take everything."

So annoying.

"I don't care... I can just ignore it." I mumble to myself.

"Please don't." the other me pleads, her eyes starting to look red and watery.

I don't answer and take a few steps closer to the door.

"No you can't leave!" She yells.

I glare at her: "You're not supposed to exist. The doctor wasn't the only one who told me to just ignore it. Everything is better this way."

Defeated, she moves aside, her head hanging down: "S-so it has already gone this far... I see, it really is too late."

In silence I continue towards the door.

As my hand brushes the door handle she suddenly seems to want to give it one more try: "This whole city will collapse on top of us! It will kill us!"

"Then let it collapse. I can't go back to the time, when I still observed, when I still listened and I still felt everything. That time was hell. It was worse than death."

"But it is not too late. You can still get the help you need, before your world will collapse!"

"I don't want it."

I shove her aside and return to class.

The classroom looks more in disrepair than before we left, but I ignore it.

As school continues on, more cracks start appearing and I haven't seen the other me since I left her.

She probably won't return.

She must have left.

Given up entirely.

Well it's not like she could change my mind or anything.

She has no power over this place, unlike me.

I don't want to leave this place.

Yes, it's empty and it's lonely.

It might all be breaking apart, but this is my only safe haven. My own place of peace and quiet.

My own safe little world.

When the teacher stops working while pointing it's finger at me again, I turn the key on his back and return to my seat.

See, it all works perfectly fine.

I'm perfectly fine.

Nothing is wrong.

As long as I just ignore it all

And then at last the cracked walls can't hold the ceiling anymore.

I can hear its creaking.

But like always... I just ignore it.

No story today, appreciate this artwork

Art by Vincenzo Lamolinara