Special thanks to Jessica Standifird for her editorial assistance. This week’s artwork is by Louis Staeble.
The Fear Bomb
by Jonathan Oak
When the fear bomb hit the city, everyone around Samuel was at first frozen with fear and then ecstatic with it, running blind with terror. But Samuel had been afraid for so long he hadn’t noticed a difference. He just continued taking calls. Though he did feel, unaccountably, less alone.
by Connor Powell
Poor boy. She’d caught him in her vegetable patch, kicking her prized pumpkins. She brought him in and made him stop moving. As each day passed he changed. Slowly, his head began to bloat. Finally the day came where she took him outside. It’d taken her three days to dig the hole, right in the centre of the vegetable patch. She dropped him in, and filled the hole with soil, leaving only his bulbous orange head above ground. Thick green vines spouted from the top of the child’s head, engorged by her tender care. She always grew the best pumpkins.
by John C. Mannone
Rain obscured the caution sign, but he kept speeding, maybe thinking about his girlfriend. He should’ve kept his eyes on the highway, not the box of roses on the seat for his date. Now, someone else’s red rose, stem and thorn, had been cut short. Her umbrella lay broken on the ground.
It’s Not Insomnia
by Anne Pem
Still scared in your boots there, kid? Wonderin’ why your fingers keep drippin’ red? Why you ain’t slept in days, Marty? It’s not insomnia. You wonderin’ why nothing seems real no more, boy? It’s cus it ain’t. No, you did not wrestle that gun from your daddy, hold it in your trembling hands, and point it right between his scared eyes like you planned. It was not your finger that pulled the trigger on him. You were too slow again. It ain’t daddy’s ghost keepin’ you up nights, kid. It’s you who’s haunting him.
I Bring Her Diamonds. My Hands are Full of Them
by Eric Robert Nolan
I bring her diamonds. My hands are full of them.
“Please,” she sobs heavily, “stop coming back.”
I had no money for diamonds, once.
When my car crashed, the exploding windshield sent diamonds rushing deep into me – my eyes, my throat – my hands – all shining in the moonlight. The pain was overwhelming. And then it stopped. And all I could think was I finally had something to give her.
Every full moon I come to her porch at midnight, to show her how they shine in my open hands. But every time she only holds her head and cries.
Can you believe we’re at twenty weeks already? This is the second installment of our month-long horror series. Keep sending those horror submissions in!
Special thanks to Jessica Standifird for her editorial assistance.
by Steve Bishop
At night there were sounds in the walls.
“Don’t worry,” said Mum. “Just an old house cooling.”
But a house doesn’t make footsteps. I made her come and listen, though all was quiet by then. Unconvinced, I investigated further. My bookcase came away from the wall too easily, and with sick inevitability Hardbacks, Ladybirds and Pelicans slipped onto the wooden floor ahead of the gunshot crash. Behind it, a door in the wall, and inside, a grubby crawl-space.
My missing Haribos and torch. A blanket and a creepy looking doll that looked like me. Made with my actual hair.
by Dan Howarth
The train sped on. Bullet sleek and direct. A tunnel yawned ahead, snatching all the light from the world. Artificial table lamps flickered making Wilson look up from his book. His fellow passengers were too engrossed in their phones to notice. The lights snuffled out, plunging the carriage into black. Wilson looked round in panic, breathless. Other passenger’s faces glowed garishly by the light of their tiny screens. Their faces were contorted, strange and bestial with feral eyes and twisted grins. One by one their screens turned off, and in the darkness, Wilson heard them all leave their seats.
by Joseph J. Patchen
Every morning Jack enjoyed two eggs over easy with his bacon, toast and juice. With the skillet sizzling and butter melting, Jack cracked open his eggs only to find two eyes in the yokes glaring back at him. And he knew that they knew what he had done. “What am I thinking?”’ he whispered. Jack ate heartily and laughed out loud, continuing to laugh as he left his apartment and strolled down the street. And that is where they found him: on the street with his eyes pecked out.
The New Girl
by Peter Lacy-Egis
The kids at school were frightened of Katie, dressed in black and with skin so pale even her lips were white. But what was worse, she smelled like rotting flesh. Ella only played with her because her mother said to be nice to the new girl.
Katie insisted they play outside even though it was late. Soon there was a rustling in the brush. Ella went to investigate and stumbled backwards upon seeing a tall dark, robed figure holding a scythe.
“Daddy!” shouted Katie, running toward him as he swung the scythe, pulled her in, and they were gone.
Something’s Wrong with the Cat
by Seth Oden
The Hendersons were still mourning seven months after Mrs. Henderson’s miscarriage. In that time their cat Muffin had gained considerable weight. They debated taking her to the vet, but in their depression they just let it go. Now poor Mittens was bloated to the size of a large watermelon, and lay panting near her water bowl. When Mr. Henderson sat beside the cat, he saw her midsection ripple as though something writhed inside. His hand on her belly, something pushed out from within, causing the cat to mewl loudly as its skin tore, and an infant’s hand reached through.
Microfiction Monday Magazine is proud to bring you the first set of micros in our month-long horror series. We are still actively seeking more horror submissions and artwork as well. Just click the submissions tab above to send your work our way.
Special thanks to Jessica Standifird for her editorial assistance.
by Jessica Shoemaker
Amongst the granite cliffs and redwoods, she was a tiny speck leaving tiny footprints on a path beside the river.
After three days, she was happy to spot another pair of prints. They sat and spoke of sunsets, stars, and solitude. She shared cashews. He offered her some tea.
While she gathered her gear, he pushed on ahead. She copied his gait along the trail, leaving tiny shoe prints inside of his until his tracks abruptly stopped. The feeling of being steeped in lead rapidly spread. Unable to move. Unable to scream. She watched him step slowly from the trees.
by Richard Jennis
The metal monster breathed poison. Slept in refuse, contended paws curling rhythmically, dagger-claws scraping the hard metal floor.
“It’s time, boy,” said the sad little man, nudging his favorite abomination lovingly and gesturing to the open door. The little metal man had himself been a hunter long ago, but grew disheartened from years of being eluded and dodged. His blade hand was slow, rusty like the underside of an old, cheap car. He was weak.
Now the metal monster did his bidding, dragged in rats and cats and street orphans. Lay panting excitedly, waiting for its loving master’s praise.
What Waits in the Shadows
by Joyce Frank
The candle burns low. The claw of the living dead scrapes the bowl, scooping a fun-sized Reese’s cup. Still they come, dragging their crosses and hatchets, adjusting their Hogwarts gowns.
Mom’s off for more candy.
“Leave the bowl and take the trash out back.”
In the amber fog of the floodlight, a shadow groans behind the dumpster, but Bobby won’t be frightened by a schoolmate.
“You don’t scare me Max,” he blusters, rushing the shadow. A wall of matted fur rears up on thick, muddy stumps. He inhales the fetid breath of a garbage-eating grizzly.
by Tyler Jones
When I fall asleep the walls of the house shift and change. When I wake up the rooms are different sizes. Framed pictures from the hallway now hang in the attic. The windows have all disappeared. Doors open up to other rooms but never lead outside. I’ve spent days wandering through this maze. Sometimes I can’t find a bed and I fall asleep on the floor. I hear the sound of an approaching storm. One hand on the wall, scraping my toes on the floor. I feel so weak each step leaves me exhausted. I still can’t find the kitchen.
A Thumping in the Night
by Marc D. Regan
Honey. Please get up. I need you. It’s too hard. Alone.
She stares at the ceiling. Two weeks. Catatonia, they say. Though you hate leaving her, when your baby’s been stolen, action is required. But you’re home.
And what’s banging?
You go to the basement door, hear a steady thumping. The dryer?
Baffled, cellar bulb burnt out, a flashlight finds the dryer. What’s in there, a basketball? Body tingling, you yank. A wretched stench gags you. No dryer light. Flashlight illuminating, you scream—because the sight is unimaginable, this horribly annihilated baby son.
And your wife stands behind you.
Microfiction Monday Magazine wants your horror microfiction for the month of October! Send us your scariest stories told in 100 words or less. See this week’s Microfiction stories for some examples. We also need artwork of all sorts—haunting artwork for October, and general artwork for other weeks. Microfiction submissions can be made through our online submission form and artwork submissions can be sent to firstname.lastname@example.org. All non-scary microfiction submitted will be considered for later editions.
Spread the word!