D.O.A. Extreme Horror Anthology (32 page)

Daddy returned and said that if I spend the whole day sitting in front of the computer anyway I don’t really need my legs and besides, if I don’t like his cock I might as well not feel anything at all down there. It will be best for the both of us. So tonight when he finished and I was still on all fours he took his bowie knife and slid it into my spine and fumbled in it a bit, like he does when a can won’t open. It felt like a tetanus shot in the small of my back and then there was nothing, as if my legs and privates just disappeared. I toppled foreword and heard him going to shower.

Well, maybe it really is for the best. It’s true that now I can’t walk at all, only crawl around like a run-over cat, but at least his prophecy came true; when he’s doing his thing in me, I can just look at the ceiling and plan my next web post.

The meaner guys told me to kill myself so I’m going to do just that. Some guy wrote that freezing felt like falling asleep so I thought it would be the best way. Tomorrow, when Daddy goes to hunt, I will crawl out into the snow, find some nice and quite spot and lie there and die. Hopefully, the wolves will find me before he does, but what do I care? Meat is meat is meat, and half of me is meat already.

Ciao guys!

Blood:

The below text has been transcribed from graffiti found on the inside walls of an abandoned hut in the Morskogen forest
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If Daddy wasn’t Satan, then he must have been guided by him. As soon as the feeling of nothingness started creeping up my belly, delightfully erasing the sensations of filth and shame that tainted every inch of my body, Daddy’s shadow fell over me. A fat and ugly shadow that smelled of carnage and lust. Without saying anything, he took me by the hair and dragged me all the way home while I was powerless to offer even token resistance. He put me to thaw in a hot bath and I felt tingling all over my torso and arms and feeling started to return to them. The feeling of pain, of course, because the water was too hot. All the while he was hammering something and I was pretty sure it was the computer, the only piece of earth in my Hell. After a while he returned, naked, like a great big hairy gorilla and sat behind me in the bath. “No more internet for you, young lady.” I felt his thick fingers playing with my breasts and then sliding up and closing on my neck. It hurt more and more, as if bolts of fire were shooting up and down my body, even into my legs and pelvis, which were just extra luggage as far as I was concerned. I tried to pull his paws away but just then I heard a loud crack and my useless hands dropped into the water.

The hammering was not the computer. The computer is safe and sound. Instead, Daddy nailed two large hooks into the wall of the tools shed. He put a bucket under them, and hanged me by my armpits, like a coat on a rack, to be used when needed and hung back when not. I felt like a marionette in the puppeteer’s suitcase, paralyzed as she is expecting her next humiliation. Sometimes I felt like a tiny person trapped inside the head of this dead thing. Yes, I no longer feel this body is my own; it is wholly Daddy’s. I’m just the caretaker that keeps it running for the owner. I still stare at the ceiling when the owner’s inside, enjoying the services, while I’m outside, wondering between stars (I haven’t seen the sky for so long I had forgotten how it looks), humans (did I ever see any? I only remember corpses and monsters) and the internet (I visited so many sites, but never enough!).

Daddy was tired one night and after he finished, he just remained on top of me, snoring while slowly suffocating me. After I got tired of the ceiling and the smell of stale sweat and the white dots started dancing, I examined him closely, possibly for the first time. He didn’t look like a God, or a demon, or even an animal. Just an aging man, mumbling obscenities in his sleep, his Adam’s apple going up and down irregularly, just like his butt does when he’s fucking me. I closed my teeth around it and pulled it with all my strength. There was a squishy tearing sound and it came out with his entire larynx and some veins and nerves dangling from it. With the bloody cylinder still clenched in my teeth, I watched as he woke up and fumbled for his neck. When he didn’t find it, he started staggering around, bleeding and vomiting all over the place. Eventually he fell on his back and looked at the ceiling. He looked really scared. I wondered what he saw in there. I wondered what such a primitive man could see in anything. Probably just a ceiling going dark, and dark, and darker...

After he stopped breathing, his monstrous cock shrunk until it turned into a harmless little thing, even smaller than his larynx, which was now mine. I think it was the first time I saw him without an erection and for me, this was the moment of ultimate victory—he will never rape anyone again, not with that fluffy little worm.

I used his larynx as a pen to write my story on the white sheet of his bed. When I ran out of ink I bit my tongue and when I ran out of space I pulled myself with my teeth. Falling didn’t hurt at all. “Look Daddy, I can go with no hands!” If someone ever comes upon this cabin, all he has to do is to read the writing on the bed and the floor, follow it to the still running computer, find a little book shoved under the mattress and recover the long lost teddy bear of a fucked up child. Then he’ll learn the story. Then he’ll be fucked up too.

I don’t feel hunger.

I don’t feel shame.

I don’t feel pain.

I think my story is over now.

Good Girls

R. Warren Smith

Jessica and Britney were twins. They were five years old and wore designer shirts and shorts under fashionable bib-style overalls. Each pouting, round face was framed in long brunette hair that set off their grim expressions and twinkling, brown eyes. Without a sound, they stood in the corner of the classroom kicking little Joe Hibberts into submission. He had stopped screaming and squirming several minutes ago, but the two girls continued kicking his limp body. After some time, they became bored as they realized Joe’s flattened head would no longer ooze out anymore blood or brains no matter how hard they kicked. Angered at the loss of a new toy, the twins turned and walked back to their desks. The rest of the class sat motionless and unaware in their seats. 

Sitting side by side in their own chairs, the girls chewed on their lower lips as if in great concentration and suddenly the rest of the children began to move, squirming in their chairs as the young teacher, Miss Figg, began to read aloud to them again. The entire class had sat like statues the whole time the twins had been killing Joe, not even seeming to breathe. And with a single thought, the twins had set their world into motion again. A little girl sitting directly in front of the twins turned to look at them. Her green eyes swept past them to Joe’s still form. With a shriek, she stood up and pointed to his body. The rest of the class turned and Miss Figg stood to look as tiny cries escaped a few of their lips. Miss Figg gasped. She dropped her book and ran to the lifeless boy.

As she moved past the twins, Jessica stuck her leg out and sent Miss Figg flying to the floor. Britney turned and locked her gaze on the rest of the class as Jessica jumped on top of the teacher. She grabbed Miss Fig by her long blonde hair and beat the teacher’s head against the floor.

While Miss Figg’s brutal thrashing continued, the rest of the class seemed to be hypnotized by Britney as she slowly walked from one child to another and stabbed each of them in an eye with a long letter opener that she had withdrawn from one of her overall pockets. After a few minutes, every child was sprawled on the floor in expanding pools of blood. 

Miss Figg screamed in pain and fear as she fought to get Jessica off her back. Finally, she managed to get to her knees and throw Jessica off only to have Britney jump onto her and claw at Miss Figg’s eyes. Britney forced her back to the ground and slammed the teacher’s head against the hard floor. Jessica quickly returned to her sister’s side with a pair of scissors and stabbed the teacher over and over again in her abdomen, smiling broadly as ear-splitting shrieks filled the room. Both girls kept up their assault until the teacher lay as still as the rest of the class.

The lights dimmed throwing the dead children into the shadows as if they had never existed. The light shrunk till it surrounded the two blood-drenched girls. They stood up in the spot of intense light, each holding the other by a hand. In the surrounding darkness, a door opened and several men wearing white lab coats entered. A few went to Joe, while another team surrounded Miss Figg. They probed both bodies with various pliers, scalpels, and digital equipment.

As the teams worked, two more men entered and stood before the twins. Both were bald, wore dark sunglasses, and were attired in sharp, black suits with white shirts and dark ties. They stared down at the twins with blank expressions. The twins returned the gaze. In the moment of silence that followed, the surrounding technicians looked uncomfortably out of the corners of their eyes at the four figures standing in the intense light. But none of them stopped working.   

Suddenly, the taller of the two men stepped forward and slapped Britney to the ground.

“Don’t try your head games on us, girl!” he ordered in a sharp, controlled voice. “You’re games work on the weak, but never make that mistake with me or my associate. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Britney whispered as she stood back up, tears welling in her dark, brown eyes. Silently, Jessica reached out and hugged her.

The two men turned and conferred in hushed voices for a minute before turning back to the girls. The shorter man crouched down and removed his sunglasses. There was a smile on his lips, but his stark blue eyes were as cold as ice. The twins trembled silently before him.

“You both did a great job,” the man stated affably. “Mrs. Cleckley?”

A very prim looking woman wearing a subdued skirt and immaculately pressed blouse strode through the door on shining, high-heeled shoes. She gazed sternly at Jessica and Britney through horn-rimmed glasses.

“Why don’t you go with Miss Cleckley and have a bowl of ice cream?” the crouching man offered. “I think you’ve earned that, don’t you?”

“Yeah!” both girls shouted gleefully, their tears and the blood seemingly forgotten, and headed out the door, being shepherded by the redoubtable Mrs. Cleckley, who was already directing them toward the bathroom to get cleaned up.

“Well, what do you think, Dean?” The crouching man stood back up and looked around the room.

Rubbing his temples, Dean replied, “I think we’ve got the perfect weapon in those two, Don. Britney is becoming adept at hammering into my mind. I wonder how long it will take them to surpass us?”

Looking at the bodies being carted away, Don stated “Who knows? In the end, they’ve got to be the best at what they are expected to do.” Looking at the two girls walking out of the room, he added, “The possibilities are limitless. At this age, they’ll be useful for anything. After all, who’s going to suspect little girls?”

With a smirk on his face, Dean observed, “When you put it that way, they certainly seem like good girls.”

Looking around the blood soaked room, Don stated, “They’ll be more than good enough for our needs.”

Without another word, the two men walked out of the room and closed the door. 

Saving Ralph

Alec Cizak

Billy Lloyd expectantly looked at the baby, sitting at the table. He had named it Ralph, despite the fact that it was a girl. He found her the same way he found all the children he had saved.

While looking for scraps in a dumpster behind the McDonald’s on Seventh and Western, he heard a rustling among the discarded wrappers and trays. Digging through the trash, he saw that someone had thrown out an infant girl. He guessed she was somewhere between six months and a year into her life.

“I’ll call you Ralph,” he said as he pulled her out.

Ralph was the name of a boy who used to dunk Billy’s head in the toilet in gym class, way back in grade school. Ralph laughed at him, made fun of the fact that he was overweight and that he smelled terrible because he couldn’t stop sweating. He insisted that Billy would never amount to anything but a slob on a couch, counting the sands in his own particular hour glass to the rhythm of crunching potato chips.

“Billy Lard-ass, Billy Lard-ass!” Ralph had gotten the whole school yard to chant it, over and over again.

Billy was a killer on the offensive line of his Pop Warner football team, but he never harmed anyone off of the field. Even jerks like Ralph. But when sixth grade rolled around, he finally confronted him:

“What’s your problem, Ralph?”

It was in the boy’s restroom and a crowd had gathered.

“My problem,” Ralph stated, “is that you take up too much space. You’re fat and ugly and slow and stupid.”

‘Slow’ had been a word attached to Billy by many. Teachers, psychologists, even his parents. He believed them and never tried to prove them wrong.

“Further,” Ralph continued, “when the rest of us are married and raising our children, we’re gonna be paying tax dollars to keep people like you comfortable in a trailer home somewhere just outside of town. So even though I won’t have to watch your worthless life vanish like bag of corn chips, your grubby hand will be taking money out of my wallet.”

Billy decided to end the torture right there. He rushed forward and swung his massive fist at Ralph’s bony face. Stepping aside to avoid the slow moving punch, Ralph stuck his foot out and simultaneously tripped and pushed Billy into a stall where he smacked his face against the back wall and fell down, right onto the bowl of the toilet. Ralph leaped over Billy’s massive frame and dunked his head into the water and brought his foot down on the flusher.

The other boys in the bathroom laughed and laughed and laughed.

Billy fought his way back up. “I’m gonna kill you!” He clenched his fists and charged for Ralph. A teacher walked in and broke up the fight and Billy never got his revenge.