No Worries

I used to worry about everything. That’s how I ended up here, in this padded room. They tell me I’m not fit for the outside world. I used to worry they’d never let me out of here, but now I worry that one day they might. That’s my only worry now. They’ve taken all the others away. They don’t know that. I haven’t told them. I can’t let them think they’ve cured me. I can’t risk being released back into that shit hole of a world outside these walls. I’m happy here. Happier than I’ve been in a long time.

—

Sorry for being away so long, minions. I hope to start posting more frequently for you all. As always, thanks for you support, even though my stories are pretty infrequent as of late.

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His Greatest Mistake

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bulltot

Surrounded by the ruins of his childhood home, Griffin spun slowly, taking in the decay. A familiar noise—the laughter of a child, barely heard on the breeze—tickled his ears. The fears of his youth flooded back, and his arms prickled with goosebumps.

“I’m not afraid of you anymore,” he said, his voice cracking.

The laughter came again. Closer. Directly behind him.

He spun quickly, only to find himself face to face with… nothing. Absolutely nothing. He almost laughed at his foolishness. Ghosts aren’t real.

“When you leave this time, I’m coming too,” a voice whispered, again behind him.

—

Sometimes it’s better to leave the past in the past. And by sometimes I mean almost always, especially when it concerns a ghost who tormented you as a child.

Written for Friday Fictioneers.

Click here to read stories from the other Fictioneers.

Stopping for Fuel

PHOTO PROMPT © Kent Bonham

Paul finished pumping his gas and disappeared inside the shop to pay. Cash. Always cash.

When he stepped outside again, the trunk of his car stood open. His eyes calmly swept the area. There. Huddled in the arms of a trucker. He smirked and made a beeline for the girl. The trucker stepped between them.

“Hold it right there, buddy,” the hulking man said.

Paul pulled the gun tucked in his belt and put a bullet between the trucker’s eyes at point blank range.

“His death is on you,” he told her as he shoved her back into the trunk.

—

Paul is not a good man. Or maybe there is more to his story with this particular girl. Perhaps he is only doing what is necessary. Only time will tell I suppose.

Written for Friday Fictioneers.

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She Lied To Me

Crystal lied to me. I know she did. I don’t know why I feel that way, but I do. I don’t actually have proof that she lied, but I know she did. It’s one of those things you just know. You can feel it through your entire body. Even the marrow in my bones knows she lied to me. It’s pretty sure anyway. At least eighty percent sure. That’s good enough when it comes to lying. That’s what my mother always used to say. That’s why I got a wooden spoon across my backside so often. God, I hated that spoon.

Thing is she was wrong more than she was right. At least in the beginning. By the time it ended, I knew she wouldn’t believe me anyway, so I lied out my ass. Each one was larger and more elaborate than the last. They were the kinds of stories that could only be lies, but if I was going to get hit anyway why not make it interesting, right?

That’s how it was with Crystal. She had to be lying. At least I think so. I’m at least sixty percent sure she was lying. There’s no other explanation, really. She had to be lying.
Her story just didn’t jibe with reality. That’s how you get caught. That’s what
my mother always said. Thing is, my stories jibed perfectly in the beginning.
How couldn’t they have? I was telling the truth.

Crystal had to be lying. She knew that guy and something was definitely weird with their dynamic. I’m at least forty percent sure she was lying. There’s no way that was the first time they’d ever met. They knew each other. They got what they deserved.

But what if she didn’t know him? What if she wasn’t lying? No. She was lying. I’m at least twenty percent sure, and twenty percent is good enough, right?

I probably should have given her the benefit of the doubt. I should give her a call. I want to. I want her back. I shouldn’t have snapped like that.

I can’t call her though. She wouldn’t answer. How could she? She’s at the bottom of a lake with that piece of shit who tried to take her from me. Besides, she lied to me. I’m at least eighty percent sure. I think.

—

Just a quick, barely edited story for you today. What say you, Minion?

Also, If you aren’t aware: the newest volume of 100 Tiny Tales of Terror, Rotten Little Things, just hit the digital shelves. You should pick up a copy. I’d love to hear your thoughts.

US: http://a.co/9SGoWlq

UK: http://amzn.eu/7UrzDNi

They Haven’t Left Me Since

PHOTO PROMPT © Karuna

Filthy, and with matted hair, the children walked down the street. No one else seemed to notice them, so I approached. They stared at me through narrowed eyes. For three days they followed me everywhere, never saying a word, nor ingesting anything as far as I could tell.

By the end of that third day I’d had enough. When I confronted them, they still stared, unspeaking. Eventually, I’d become fed up and turned away. In unison, they finally spoke. Just three words. “Helen sent us.”

Helen was my wife, until the day I killed her.

They haven’t left me since.

—

Written for Friday Fictioneers.

Yes, I know. It’s been a long time since I’ve participated, but I’m back now, and I come bearing gifts.

Click here for stories from the other Fictioneers.