The Whistle

It’s Whatever by u/BusyBusyLizzy on r/scarystories

Angelic monster

A short horro story I wrote:)

TW: Blood & psychological horror

I've been such a coward.

Never before have I stooped this low.

Never before have I done something like this out of fear.

Yes, it's all because of a fear that can thoroughly be explained and the reason is an understandable one.

But somehow the feeling I got from doing it hasn't left me.

It's like it's slowly rubbing my back, poisoning my skin.

It has burned itself deep into my soul and the chills I got from that day still haven't disappeared in the slightest.

I dislike this feeling.

I hate this memory.

It feels like I will have to watch my back until my last breath.

That day I went with my students to do research on a strange cave that had been recently found, I'm a teacher you see.

We were driven there by the group that secretly had been holding my family hostage, I knew, but pretended not to and I was lucky that none of my students noticed.

The group wanted me to investigate this cave in order for more power.

It was said that monsters had been created from this cave.

The research I had done before had proven that somehow it's real.

That's when they found out.

My God, why did I have to find it?!

Why did I have to be the one to do this?

If I could go back in time...

Well it doesn't matter anymore now, everyone is dead.

All my students have been killed, every single one of them.

I still remember all their faces, I still remember their ideas, their wishes and the possible futures they could have had.

Well... I don't really want to go on about them anymore.

We found and caught the monster that was needed for the group's project. They needed a weapon and that's the one they wanted.

A monster that could destroy cities with ease.

Somehow the one we found looks much different from what had been foretold in the stories I had studied, no hairy paws or yellow eyes, but it was a monster nonetheless.

A monster of great skill and strength beyond that of a simple human being.

Now years later, the monster sits before me.

It has an almost angelic appearance, with white wings on its back like a lower class angel from the bible.

Its skin is dark grey, its form almost human, and covered with small white feathers, except for on its neck, face and claws. The head somehow has longer feathers growing out of it, like the hair on a human's head.

Its claws are like a combination of that from a bird and the hands of a person.

Having five 'fingers' on each hand that are more longer and slender than that of a human being and of course ending in sharp nails.

The other researchers and I have been unable to find out the gender of the creature, which is another strange thing. But then again, it's just a monster, nothing more, nothing less. It has already killed so many.

It snuffed out their lives like it was nothing and it will surely do so again.

Somehow, by continued teaching it has mastered the human language.

And now it sits before me, eerily calm.

There is a thick glass wall between us, since this monster is being used by the group as a weapon and is of course still a danger to everyone.

"Professor, what is it that you wanted to talk about?" the monster asks politely.

I can feel myself growing irritated by its tone.

Since when did it believe to address me by 'Professor'? That was reserved for my students, not this monstrosity.

Still I decide to let it slide for now, I don't want to anger it.

"Well..." I hesitate, while mustering up the courage: "It's about that day."

"I see." The monster looks down, does it remember? Does it feel guilt for what it has done?

"The day you found me, I assume." It guesses.

I nod: "That day I will never forget how you slaughtered my students." I almost growl at it whilst glaring.

"I didn't." It answers as if trying to hide its guilt.

I hate it.

I hate this monster.

"I want to know what went down there." I demand it: "How did you get there and why were you there?"

The monster hesitates for a moment but then begins to answer: "Well, I don't remember too much about that place. I believe that there are things I don't know about it at all."

"Be more clear."

"Yes, professor, I'm sorry."

"Quit calling me that." I guess I'm saying it now anyways.

It stops for a moment, almost looking shocked from my sudden burst of anger. Well it probably doesn't feel that anyway, I must have imagined it.

Then it nods as I sign to it that it should continue.

"From what I heard about the cave, it could be used as a way to conjure up monsters or demons."

"Go on."

"I don't think you would want to hear it."

"Continue." I say glaring at the monster.

It sighs in discomfort and then does as told: "I believe that there is something inside that cave that has the ability to turn something or someone who enters into a so-called monster."

"Yes, we noticed with the rat."

"Pro- erm, I mean sir, why did those students got sent inside? If you knew-."

I don't let it finish: "It was an emergency."

I was powerless that day, I couldn't do anything. It's not my fault.

"So, then do you remember entering the cave?"

To my displeasure the monster shakes its head: "No I don't. There are no memories from before I awoke."

"Awoke?"

"The moment I heard their screams."

"Well you are the monster of that place after all."

"Sir, I actually don't believe that to be the case."

Annoyed, I look at it: "And what the hell does that mean?"

"Like some of the other scientists say, I don't believe to have come from there, nor am I the creature you have been looking for. I'm just too different."

"They are just toying with you, giving you false hope, you're a monster after all."

Is it just me or did it seem slightly annoyed when I called it what I did?

No that can't be.

For a moment it remains silent.

"But then, isn't the monster in this situation yourself?" The monster then asks me as if it was something completely normal.

"What?! No! You're the monster, you are the reason they died." I panic, wondering what it is trying to do to me..

"I didn't kill them. I tried to save them all."

"Bullshit! You killed them, you were covered in blood when we found you!" I yell as I feel my face growing red. Why would it say such terrible things?

Somehow the monster remains completely calm.

"I didn't kill them." It repeats: "I tried to save them, but the one who went rampant was already killing the others even before I awoke."

"SHUT UP!"

But the monster continues: "I saved one person though, the girl, one of your students, she left the cave alive."

Rage has filled my mind and I'm unable to think clearly.

"I didn't do anything wrong!!!" I yell, slamming my fist against the glass.

But then calmly the angelic monster throws the undeniable truth in my face:

"Wasn't it you who pulled the trigger?"

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meat4meat by wolfpaper

Transgender and Disabled Body Horror Anthology

meat4meat is a body horror anthology featuring a foreword by @cryptotheism, stories from eighteen disabled and/or transgender authors including Claudine Griggs (as featured in Netflix's Love Death Robots), @masonhawthorne, @horrorsong, @jayahult, and many more, illustrated by several other trans and/or disabled artists including @magistelle, @himecommunism, @receptor-modulator, and more!

I can’t go home. There are only a few places open this late and I am walking. I leave a trail of footprints in the powdery snow. The music hall in the middle of town is playing a local band no one has heard of and a single popup store sits outside. I go to the window. The clerk is on her phone in the small cramped cart. Her screen goes dark and she looks up. Her hair is deep brown and tied back so neat and boxy you’d think it was a nun’s habit.

“Hot chocolate,” I say.

The clerk is nonplussed. She takes my money. Her habit-like-hair is stiff and doesn’t shift as she nods and counts my ones. She moves from one end of the little cart to the other with a Styrofoam cup. 

She carries the sugar-thick hot chocolate in one hand and it lets out a thick steam. I am sure she made it too hot. She stops. Her gaze draws up and over my shoulder. Her pupils expand and shoulders rise almost to her ears.

She glances at my face and then away again. Her lips are thin and uncolored. She mouths the words like an unskilled ventriloquist, “do you need me to call someone?”

I shake my head and take the cup and the texture is squeaky and flakes off in my grip. I walk. My footprints mark the powder-white snow and my city only has a few places open at this time of night. My legs are numb with cold and my eyes ache from lack of sleep. I am grateful for the street lights which are all a pale blue color that is supposed to help the birds. I am a bird person, I think, if I was going to be anything.

Cars pass and I am grateful for those too. I reach the street of little cramped stores, one after the next. A fabric store. A second-hand book store. Florists and boutique shoe shops. All too charming to be supportive. The Walmart is just outside our small town limits and I can’t go home.

Across the street, the pub has lowlights on and voices rumble like a thunderstorm from within. I don’t think the rest of the town likes the pub. The bar has one long window made up of colored glass in muted reds and blues and yellows. It reminds me of church windows and leaves the impression of making up for it. Making up for being what it is.

I square my shoulders and push my way in. The air is warm and floor a good type of dark wood. The tables are full enough to be considered a party–or, what I imagine a party to be like. I hadn’t noticed the dusting of snow on my hoodie, and shook it off like dandruff.

The man behind the counter gives me a cursory look. He is a big man with a large mouth and wears frowns like he’s making up for something too. “Mark isn’t here,” he says in a further cursory manner. I shake my head and make my way to the counter. I hadn’t finished my hot chocolate and clutch the Styrofoam cup in both hands.

“Warm up?” I ask but Steven Plyer, the barkeep, is looking over my shoulder. He mouths to himself silently like he’s working out a math problem under his breath.

Two men, big and strapping, move away from the bar’s church-like window. They take seats at the end of the bar and Steven Plyer, the barkeep, leans over the counter. His pupils are ink-dipped coins. I fiddle with the ends of my sleeves. He looks over my shoulder just as I push my hot chocolate closer over the counter.

“There’s a whole world out there,” he says.

I close my eyes. “I know.”

“You don’t have to go.”

I shake my head and Steven Plyer takes my hot chocolate and disappears behind the swinging doors to the back. The rest of the men have moved away from the window and sit on either side of me. They murmur in voices too low to hear.

The oldest of them, a man that smells like leather, stands. His voice has a vibrating quality, unsmooth, dragging out the “a’s” like a regal sheep. “Do your parents know?”

Steven Plyer returns with my hot chocolate steaming and passes it to me with both hands. I get up because the old man needs my seat, I think. The first two men huddle by the front door, coats on and heads bent together like prayer, and I leave without them. The snow is no longer powder but inch-thick fluff. I kick up the fluff with each step and the silver hangs about me like fairy lights, I imagine. I take a sip of hot chocolate and it is too hot and too sweet and you can be grateful for that too.

The sidewalk ends and I walk alongside the side of the road just on the edge of the white line. I think I can see the lights of the Walmart beyond the lights of the city. Trees gather on either side and I miss the blue glow of the street lights and the concerned gaze of the clerk in her tiny cart. I wish she had come with me. I wish Steven Plyer had called me by name.

A solitary car passes and its stark white headlights blare against the night, more violent than kind, and I have to shield my eyes. The car is red and large and pulls to stop on the other side of the road. The window rolls down and a curly-haired woman sticks her head out. Her face is small and elfish and mouth pinches together at the corners. She wears a tight shirt buttoned up all the way to her throat like it might hold her in.

The head beams glow perpendicular to me and I regard the woman as she regards me. She is slow to speak. Slower than the men at the bar had been.

“Get in,” she says, buttoned-up to the throat and with eyes more tired than sad.

“No,” I say and take a sip from the hot chocolate. It’s cold.

Her windshields wipe away the snow and she looks over her dashboard. Her voice is breathy in the way of a Hollywood actress from a bygone era. “I’m worried.”

I nod. They all are. “That can be enough.”

Her mouth zips together into an angry line. She sticks her head out the window, close to a snarl, looking past me, and honks her horn in one long blast. I shy away from the noise and the too-brightness of her head beams. She drives with her head out the window, honking her horn over and over again as loud as she can.

I walk and there are no more cars. The snow settles over my shoulders and I don’t bother to dust off my hood or warm my hands. I leave the white line and walk in the middle of the road. The lights of the Walmart warm the night just outside of town and I can make out the outline of parked cars in the distance. They’re aren’t that many places open this late at night. 

I slow to a stop and sway a bit, like I'm drunk, I think, if this is what that's like. A second pair of footprints mark the snow in front of me. When had that happened? I tilt my head all the way back. The clouds are bright like daylight and snow growing heavy. I think it will all be glittering when the morning comes.

FIN

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My kidnappers didn’t know I was pregnant when they locked me in this cage

At least I’ll be able to eat soon.

2 Sentence horror story by u/traumafactory28 on Reddit.

A really silly story I wrote as a kid.

Killer Korner

When I told him what street I was going on, he shook his head and called me an idiot. I didn't care for his opinion though. He's just my boss. So I walked.

I liked walking. It calmed me down. I had done it through many streets.

But, I had never walked down this street before.

It was called Stonecrystal Lane. Sounds magical.

It's not.

Everyone in my town knows that. It was a small town, called GreevesVille.

No one in GreevesVille would go near Stonecrystal Lane. Why? Why don't you ask one of the twenty four dead bodies found on that street? That's right. It is a murder street. That's where it got it's nickname, Killer Korner.

The police say there could be other explanations than murder. Please, GreevesVille, the billions of stab marks found on the victims and I would like to disagree. Either they are too embarrassed to admit they can't find the killer, hiding the fact that they still go out in the middle of the night and cut people up, or just doesn't care. GreevesVille doesn't exactly have the best police force out there.

Maybe it seems childish to blame the police on these murders. Well maybe it is. But it's better than no theory at all, right?

Anyways, you're probably wondering why I'm going on a slaughter street. Hey, Slaughter Street.

That's good.

Anyway, everyone in this town would call it stupid. Well, maybe it is.

Maybe I shouldn't have walked into the depths of Killer Korner, hands shoved in my pockets, whistling as I completely ignored the warnings in my brain. But I had already decided, Hey, why not?

I meant, it's not like everybody who goes on the street get butchered up. Unless only twenty-four people have gone on that street, which is doubtful. It's not like it was called Killer Korner since day one, It was Stonecrystal Lane. And no way only twenty-four people would go on a street called Stonecrystal Lane in ten years. But, anyways...

Maybe I should've brought a weapon.

A pocket knife. A switch blade. Even a glass bottle to break the bottom when I hear something.

Maybe I shouldn't have gone unarmed.

Or at all.

But a murder hasn't been committed in two years. Of course, no one has been on that street in two years, but hey, maybe the killer got bored and left. Maybe.

It was when I heard a noise when I wanted that pocket knife. That switchblade. That glass bottle to break the end. But, all I had was a piece of string.

Then I realized how paranoid I was being. It was a leaf crunching under my feet.

I continued, though I still scanned the dump, hoping to find something to defend myself with. Who knows what could be laying around in a street kids dubbed Killer Korner.

I sucked in a nervous breath, and glanced around. Slaughter Street wasn't too bad. Yes, the eerie quietness does send chills down your spine, and the empty, broken down, abandoned houses sends a shiver through your bones. The loneliness making you want to dash off running.

But, if you ignore all that, it's not such a bad place. Then again, maybe it was a dump.

I continued my trek down the creepy street.

I heard a footsteps. And froze.

What was that?!

I slowly turned around.

Next time I decide to go down a street with the name of Killer Korner, please convince me not to. Convince me before I have a tall, masked, bloody being staring back at me. Before I'm staring at a white, blood-stained mask that covers everything except those dark, brown, blood-lustful eyes, and my petrified reflection staring back at me from a monstrous-sized knife.

It was when the hulking blade hurled towards me, a thought struck me before the sharp steel did:

It didn't matter what the street was called.

Stonecrystal Lane.

Killer Korner.

Slaughter Street.

GreeveVille's Butcher house.

Or even Gummy Bear Boulevard.

Those facts didn't mattered.

The facts that did matter, though, was that in a small town, on a small street, twenty-five corpses will have touched the dulled asphalt. No one to be punished for their macabre crime.

And if you ignore everyone's warnings, too, then well, twenty-six.

THIS ONE IS REALLY GOOD

Boys, Don't Play in Bunkers

“Boys, don’t play in the woods! If you get mauled, you could die out there.”

That was the warning parents in our town told kids like me and my friend Beckett.

Technically, we obeyed them.

About a mile into the woods near our street was an abandoned bomb shelter. In the middle of the clearing was a slanted door jutting out of the ground, with two outward swinging metal panels that could be deadlocked from inside.

The furnished bunker had been stocked by some insane doomsday prepper in the 90s before they deserted it. Beckett and I discovered it unattended ages ago, making it the perfect safe, secret weekend hangout for two 10 year olds.

In the fall of my 5th grade school year, my parents announced that we were moving.

For old time’s sake, Beckett and I decided to chill one last time in the bunker. Saddened, I said goodbye to the piles of canned food, bottled water, flush toilet and electric generator.

“Pity you won’t get to try all this stuff” Beckett sighed. “Someone could survive for like 3 months with all the things down here”.

“Maybe” I laughed doubtfully.

Afterwards, I bid goodbye to him, shut the bunker door and went home. My family moved across state the next day.

I didn’t think about Beckett much after then. I’d made new friends and assumed he did too, which I imagined was why he never wrote.

In the winter of my 5th grade school year, that bunker suddenly re-enters my mind.

While opening a stationery cupboard in my classroom, the door jams. I can’t open it until I notice a chair blocking it from the outside. That’s when an insidious thought invades my head.

Could the same thing have happened to Beckett on that night? Could he be missing and alive in the bunker? I remember those words: “Someone could survive for 3 months down here”. Which means…

Immediately, I race from the school in panic, whizzing past confused students and teachers. Paranoid, I board a bus straight back to my hometown.

Reaching that sloped door on the forest floor, my worst fears are confirmed. A heavy boulder is perched on top, obscuring it. It must’ve rolled down the hill and pinned the door shut after I left. Adrenaline screeching, I throw myself at the boulder and heave it off.

Nothing could have prepared me for the unfathomable sight I see when I pry open the bulkheads. The boy I’d said goodbye to in the bunker is no more. In his place is a yellowed, emaciated, incoherent, balding, bearded…man.

While I went to college and became an elementary teacher, Beckett was trapped in that hole, screaming every night, completely alone.

If my mind ever recovers enough for me to teach 5th grade again, I’ll have a lesson for my schoolchildren.

Boys, don’t play in bunkers. If you get trapped, you could survive down there…

…for 20 years.

Childhood can be scary.

A collection of some of my hand-drawn horror looping animations!

My take on 2 sentence horror:

I was spending some quality time with my loving wife and kids.

Lamp.

Poor Comatose Souls

There are hospitals where people can hear the thoughts of coma patients.

When this technology was first invented, it came with caveats.

The first was that the machine only worked on a random handful of coma patients. This angered many heartbroken family members who’d excitedly waited for the technology.

The second was that the mind-scanning devices were not powered by electricity, but some proprietary secret.

Despite its exclusive, mysterious nature, this new technology yielded incredible results. Entire thoughts of a select few comatose were broadcast to their loved ones. Nostalgic memories, song lyrics and philosophical ruminations were streamed right from their brains into speakers, bringing closure to loved ones.

As an orderly at one of the few hospitals using this tech, I grew curious. Dr Wincott, the neuroscientist in charge of the comaprojection unit, was tightlipped and we were under strict orders never to pry for more info. If patients were a viable candidate for comaprojection, we’d project their thoughts.

But what about the rejected candidates? What would happen if the scanner was used on this majority? Surely it couldn’t worsen their situation if they’re already in a long-term coma?

One day my curiosity got the better of me. While doing my rounds, I snuck into the coma ward. I entered the room of one of the rejected coma patients, Mrs Flowers, a middle-aged woman in a coma for 3 years after being struck by a cyclist. Despite her long stay, she looked peaceful.

Nothing could’ve prepared me for what I heard from the speakers when I turned the mind-scanner on.

Howling, agonized, unrelenting screams. Minutes upon minutes of screaming. The sound was so guttural I nearly collapsed as Mrs Flowers’ comatose cries reverberated around the room.

By the time I switched it off, Dr Wincott had already been summoned by the cacophony.

“What the hell?!” I sputtered to him in the doorway. “Those were her screams! She’s conscious and suffering!”.

I pointed to her motionless in bed.

“That’s why it’s better not to use the device on most” Dr Wincott answered emotionlessly. “Some people are peaceful in comas. Their families pay top dollar to hear their thoughts. But most long-term patients are like Mrs Flowers.”

“Then why not pull the plug?! Raise the alarm about what they’re experiencing?!”

Dr Wincott just cackled, motioning to the scanner.

“What do you think is powering the tech in the first place? It’s those screams.”

I’d learned too much. As I tried to flee the building, I felt the sharp push of Dr Wincotts hands against my back. I tumbled down that flight of stairs…and straight into the coma I’m in now.

Within my comatose mind, I repeat this story to myself again and again on loop. Hoping someone uses the device on me and learns the truth. If you’re hearing this, please blow the whistle on Dr Wincott and comaprojection.

If you’re not, then it won’t be long until I’m screaming too.