FlashFeeD 1.25

Thanks for the continued creativity and community support.

Welcome back to the series of prompts driven by genres.

Write a Horror story based on the prompt, below.

 

Full rules here:

Stories will be limited to 2000 characters* (about 300 words), including the title.

*(The field itself will allow for 2050 characters, but this extra 50 characters is only to be used as contingency and it won't be increased).

Use the comment field to post stories, include your story title. Use the reply button on a particular story to provide positive feedback. Press the ‘like’ icon if you like a story.


 

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27 Replies to “FlashFeeD 1.25”

  1. It won’t stop.
    When it started, I figured it was ‘normally abnormal’, just the inevitable result of last night’s curry adventures. The Guinness alone would have had the same results but the Guinness persuaded me a vindaloo was the perfect end to the evening.
    This isn’t anywhere near normal. This isn’t even in the same postcode as normal. I can’t stop.
    I woke on the kitchen floor, which is entirely normal for Sunday morning. The pain that woke me wasn’t. You know when you’ve eaten a rat, but you swallowed it whole and it didn’t drown in your gastric juices and now it’s gnawing it’s way out? I’d have taken that over the spasm that got me up and staggering to the bathroom.
    I nearly made it in time.
    Oh man, the smell! I’m used to it now, but it was a physical thing: two fingers up my nose and two down my throat, which was a welcome distraction from the molten lava flowing out of me.
    It didn’t stop flowing.
    I knew I’d blocked the toilet when it rose high enough to touch… well, I jumped up. You would, right? Tripped over my trousers, banged my head on the floor and it was like Saturday night in my kitchen.
    It didn’t stop while I was out. I came to in a lake of it. I was hurting less, but it hadn’t even slowed down. It was still streaming out of me.
    I took my trousers off to… well, I had to take them off anyway, but I used them to block the gap under the door. There was no reason to contaminate the rest of the flat; I’d have a big enough cleaning bill as it was. I figured I might be able to get out of the window.
    I’ve never liked the landlord. Never. He’s a cheap bastard. I’ve been after him to get the window fixed since I moved in. It doesn’t open. And it’s safety glass, because I’m on the ground floor. I hammered at it but I’ve lost a lot of fluids. I’m weak. I didn’t even crack it.
    Even with the door blocked, there must be seepage, right? But now I’m knee deep and it’s still coming.
    My phone’s on the kitchen table.
    No one’s coming to my rescue.
    And it won’t stop.

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  2. Watching Me, Watching You, Aha

    I should’ve realised the marks of scuffed, muddy fingertips on the window was just the start. I should’ve been prepared, but Judy didn’t believe me, Dad didn’t believe me, so who would?
    The next night, early hours, I awoke to intense pressure on my chest. I gasped, scrabbling for the light.
    Looked down – to see the remnants of dirt on my duvet – then a flash by the window – and the handprint fading into dust.

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  3. His fingers leave a trail – the wet ashes of broken dreams. It’s a message. He’s waiting. Though I killed him and burned him and spread him to the howling wind, he STILL loves me. An eternal love, as cloying as the smoky stench of his presence just beyond the thin pane of glass that separates me from insanity. One night soon, he’ll come in.

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    1. Nice! Very powerful piece, which packs an emotional punch. Love the reference to the wet ashes of broken dreams – great image.

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  4. Bouquet

    There’s a room I know where the living meet the dead. There’s a panel of glass- just glass- that divides them and us.
    I go there from time to time to see him go past. Now and then he senses I’m there. He reaches out; paints me a red blossom on the glass with his palm. Then another, and another.
    And I’m at peace for a while watching his blood turn to flowers.

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  5. Ghost Hands

    “Don’t you get it, it wasn’t me!” Al protested, banging a battered hand against the table top.

    DI Stiles eyed the balled fist, considering. “I do understand – and under the law, you’ll understand, it was, clear and simple. The contract’s binding, the consideration period passed. You can’t hand them back, if you’ll forgive the phraseology.”

    “I asked for artistic,” Al protested.

    “You might say you got that, after a fashion. Their handiwork is distinctive, to experts in the field.” Their eyes met for a moment, before those of the officer faltered.

    “They have a life of their own,” Al muttered, his fingers twitching. The inspector took an extra precautionary extra step backwards from the detainee, with a glance towards the corner camera.

    “There is no legal distinction,” he said. “You and they are one. You bear responsibility for their actions. Such is the exchange.”

    “Then take them off!” Al exclaimed.

    “We aren’t authorised,” DI Stiles replied. “Besides, it wouldn’t negate matters.”

    “I’ll trade!”

    “With what?” the officer asked. “You’re spent in credit.”

    “Goddamn ghost hands!” Al shook his head, wringing the offending appendages. “How can I live with them?”

    “You get to live,” DI Stiles replied. “At least, until sentencing. Then, all bets are off. Yours is a landmark case. Who’s to say?”

    “I’m a prisoner either way,” Al said. He considered the palms of his hands. “They don’t even look like mine.”

    “Think of it this way,” DI Stiles said after a pause. “You’ve highlighted a fatal flaw in the system. That might be considered in mitigation.”

    “Fatal!” Al repeated. “Isn’t that right?” He swallowed. “Can’t I even switch?” His voice was small.

    “Your hands are gone,” DI Stiles told the man. “We’d struggle to trace such a nondescript item, even allowing the resources. You’re a creative soul though, from what I’ve seen. I’m sure you can conjured up your own solution.” The policeman raised a pointed eyebrow, before turning to leave.

    @FallIntoFiction

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  6. Jill and Carly ran to the bathroom as soon as they heard the scream. Lisa stood outside the bathroom door in a towel, shaking.

    “What the hell?” said Jill.

    “I… I just stepped out of the shower to get my shampoo. I forgot my shampoo. And…”

    Lisa fell into Carly arms, sobbing onto her shoulder.

    “What, Lees? What happened?”

    Lisa pointed to the bathroom door. It was slightly ajar. Jill looked at Carly, then opened the door enough to peer around. She caught her breath and pulled back.

    “What is it?” said Carly.

    “There’s…” But Jill had her hand to her mouth, her jaw suddenly paralyzed. Carly released herself from Lisa and gently pushed the bathroom door.

    The shower was still running, steam billowing from behind the glass door. On the door, a hand print, large and elongated, like someone had dragged their hand through the condensation. And behind the hand print, the silhouette of a person.

    “Who’s there?” said Carly, her voice trembling.

    “I saw one,” said Lisa.

    “One what?” Carly turned to look at her.

    “You know. Like that time with the fire, and I saw the number five. Five people died. Well, I saw the number one.”

    “What does that mean? Someone’s going to die?”

    “I’ve had enough,” said Carly, gripping Lisa’s wrist. “Let’s confront this thing together.” Lisa pulled back, but Jill grabbed her other hand.

    “I agree. Come on.”

    Together the three girls marched into the bathroom.

    “Okay, enough’s enough. Game’s over. Come out,” said Jill.

    “Three!” said Lisa.

    “Three?” Carly frowned. “You mean only one person’s going to survive?”

    Lisa shook her head, and stared up at the shower door.

    “Someone in this room is already dead.”

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  7. Once the camera beeped at me and I saw the battery level was down to a nominal third I knew it was time to go. The battery fell of a cliff with a few flash photographs, which was the only option in these urban industrial sites. I had enough to fill my blog at any rate. Control rooms and some bat crazy pipework would go down a bomb on the site. Time to haul ass.

    Unfortunately this old printing works was something else. A proper maze. Dan would know the way out, he was better than me at all that spatial awareness crap. Once I found him.

    He’d gone left at the spiral staircase where I turned right; or maybe the other way around. I shouted out for him and got nothing but a sketchy echo back. I stuffed the camera in the rucksack and headed out. Dan normally only stayed a room or two away from me, the photography was my bag, he just enjoyed a wander and challenging health and safety norms.

    There was no sign of him in the next room. My torch found only my footprints. There was the drum in the corner which I’d snapped earlier and I was pretty sure that the next room was the spiral staircase one. Unusually I was proved right, but there was no sign of Dan.

    Until the scream. It’s strange how disconcerting a scream can be when you’ve not heard a sound but your own scuffing feet and your camera. It suddenly made the square basement rooms seem unearthly.

    I can’t tell you how long it took me to get to the next room, but I got there. I’d grabbed the camera and powered it up in case the flash could be useful. Or at least a photograph if it turned out Dan was playing silly beggars.

    The next room was backlit from the room beyond through a thick frosted window diffusing the light. There was no electricity in this building, someone had their own power.

    A bang made me jump and I saw a hand flush against the window. There was a smear of something dark. In the light how could I be sure? But it had to be blood. And that scream it had to be Dan.

    And if I didn’t run then I had to be next.

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  8. What is this? Where am I?

    I try to stand, but I feel dizzy and fall over. If only my head didn’t hurt so much… On all four on the floor, I vomit. It doesn’t make me feel better.

    I crawl, grab to something that skids away and I fall again. I hit my head. But I need to move.

    Why does it hurt so much?

    I finally stand. The wall wobbles. No, it’s me. I feel so bad.

    White corridors, oh so long. They never end.

    And there’s nobody else. I am alone.

    Am I?

    What was that?

    I saw something move, out of the corner of my eye. I turn too fast and a wave of nausea hits me. I almost fall once more. I fight vomit, but I fail.

    Keep on. Keep on. Movement soothes me. A bit.

    The movement, again. I step back, take a turn at a corridor where I thought I saw it.

    A corner, and I see it.

    Panic strikes me. It’s a monster, so hideous I don’t have words to describe it.

    I should run, but… but it stumbles towards me, and regardless of its terrible appearance, it doesn’t seem to threaten me. It looks like… it needs help?

    My own steps forward are slow, uncertain. I raise an arm, the monster does too…

    Oh my God.

    A mirror. It’s a mirror!

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