Nightmare Fuel: The Ultimate Collection of Short Horror Tales (3 page)

Wealth Comes At A Price

Bruce sat in his multi-million dollar apartment surrounded by the finest of the finest money could buy. A lavish, spacious apartment stuffed with exquisite furnishings and high-tech appliances. The leather at his rump squeaked as he rose to stare out his full length living room window. He overlooked the city of New York. Skyscrapers, the lights glowing in the dark night sky, honks and muffled conversation from the ground below. Even on the 90
th
floor in his penthouse apartment, the chitter chatter of pedestrians still travelled up to him. Albeit if this bothered him too much with the click of a button he could make the windows sound proof. He usually did this just before he retired to bed for the night. But he loved to look down at the lower life form scrambling like ants. Worried about paying bills, discussing their meagre insignificant lives as if they actually mattered.
When the only people that kept this world spinning were the wealthy and intellectual beings blessing this world with their godliness,
Bruce thought.

He knew people saw him as a rich, arrogant, selfish bastard, but he could care less. He may have trampled, back-stabbed, betrayed and conformed, but he didn't give a flying fuck. He was worth 4 billion dollars. He was admired by plenty, but hated by many. But he had everything he needed. Equally rich and powerful friends who understood that they were simply better than the scum of the planet who would be born and die without making any contribution to society. He had been shunned by his family and close friends, which at first did hurt. But that was before this epiphany. Satisfied and content with his day, he paced from the living room and entered the extravagant bedroom. Unimaginably expensive furniture and upholstery, and a projected screen covering the entire length of one wall. He shouted aloud a movie he wished to watch, and in less than a second it began to play on the wall opposite his bed. He lathered on expensive creams and lotions, polished his teeth with an electric toothbrush that most dentists couldn't even afford, then fell into bed cushioned by Egyptian silk sheets.

In what seemed like a matter of minutes he awoke to a strange noise; which was unusual. An aromatherapy machine started when weight was applied to the bed, which sent him spiralling into a deep slumber. But not tonight, as he noticed it was only 11:00pm by the projected clock flashing on the wall. He slipped out of bed and climbed into his silk pyjamas to investigate. He was worried the aromatherapy machine had malfunctioned.
Heads will roll!

He strolled into the foyer to see his guard dog also awake. Terror, as Bruce had named him, looked angry. His fangs were visible through his snarl, followed by a vicious growl.

“Oh shut the fuck up you useless piece of shit.”

Bruce loathed animals, but had been advised by a fellow billionaire that they were actually good to have should the advanced alarm system break. Terror was chained to the wall, but he was still able to reach the main entrance doors to attack intruders. But luckily Bruce was beyond his reach. Then no sooner than he thought that, did Terror begin thrashing against the chain, pulling it taught, testing its strength.

“Pfft you stupid mutt, I am the owner of this place, and you, you should recognise me! Now knock it off before I have you put down,” Bruce sneered.

But then the strangeness continued as Terror began to grow. His legs extended and bulked up, his body expanded and sprouted more hair, and his head contorted and grew to that of a wolf. Bruce was getting nervous. This was impossible, he knew that. It was defying all laws of science and biology. He questioned if he was dreaming, but when Terror broke free of the chain as it tore from the wall, Bruce wasn't willing to test that theory.

Bruce hauled into his bedroom and slammed the door shut just as the newly transformed wolf bashed into it.

“LOCK!” Bruce yelled.

At his command a recurrence of clicks and bolts sounded as multiple locks were engaged on the bedroom door. Bruce's heart was pounding in his chest, sweat leaking down his face. He hadn't dealt with this level of panic in years; his wealth freed him of all types of stress. He fretted that his heart couldn't take it after years of worry free bliss. The howls didn't help this as Terror growled louder and thrashed against the door repeatedly, pain not hindering his motivation whatsoever.

If that wasn't bad enough the entire room started to shake. Chunks of plaster crashed to the ground, furniture wobbled, and then the balcony doors smashed inwards. Tiny glass shards plummeted through the air and sprinkled on the wooden floor. Cracks ran across the walls and the wooden beams snapped randomly. Then to Bruce's horror the balcony collapsed, taking with it a huge segment of the wall and floor, leaving a gaping hole. This brought in a violent wind throwing furnishings around, and whipping the curtains into a vicious frenzy. He didn't waste any more time and launched himself into the en suite bathroom, and didn't even need to slam the door shut as the gale force winds did this for him. The vigour of this action made the wall shake, and even when fully closed, the door continued to rattle and test the threshold's tolerance. Using his marbles, he vaulted into the hot tub and sat praying the door would hold. He feared the door would be sucked off its hinges, along with everything in the bathroom, including himself. He envisioned the basin clunking from the wall, the large shower being sucked out, the toilet pried from the ground, and then finally him sailing from his apartment and into the air riding his tub down from his penthouse to a grizzly demise. But thus far he clung to the hope that this wouldn't happen. Which seemed very likely now that the earthquake had stopped. He sat, recovering, breathing, calming, and enjoying the silence and stillness. When suddenly water fell from the ceiling. Bubbles thrashed from above and fell onto Bruce. He tried to escape the tub but it was too slippery and the waterfall coming from above was too strong, it forced him to remain seated. This would have been worrying due to possibly drowning, but the shark that fell into the tub made worry seem like heaven, he was now terrified. He cursed having a tub big enough to fit him and what looked like a great white inside. It splashed into the water and thrashed on the spot upside down. But it was only a matter of time until it flipped itself over and began chowing on Bruce's bones. Bruce flopped and shook and tried with all his strength to leave the tub, but it was useless. Until he managed to throw an arm over the tub and somersault out onto the tile floor. His head cracked and vision instantly blacked out.

When he came too, the room was moist but the water had gone. It just looked as if the walls and floor had been glossed recently. He brought himself up feeling dazed and confused, and stared in the mirror. He was glad to see that apart from a few scratches and scrapes he was fine, but he was completely naked. The silk pyjamas had been torn free leaving his bare flesh exposed. His dick was hanging limp and scrotum shrivelled to the size of two peanuts. He vainly admired his toned body and tanned skin, and thanked the Lord for saving his highness. Until his skin began to peel away, followed by his hair falling out in clumps. He screamed so loud the mirror cracked. He was being peeled like an orange by an invisible force. Soon he was nothing more than muscle and bone. Although his wrapping had gone, he could still feel the utter anguish from his skin falling from his body. Everything felt surreal and nightmarish. Especially when a man wearing a dark robe appeared in the corner, holding an axe.
The Grim Reaper?
Bruce slipped and thwacked his head on the sink, his mind looming and a loud pulse beating in his skull.

“Time to pay for your sins Brucey,” the reaper whispered without moving his lips.  Come to think of it, Bruce couldn't even see any lips!

“Wh-what? I have no sins I am a God on this earth!” Bruce yelled, fear being overtaken by arrogance.

“You know deep down, that what you have done to achieve your wealth and power is the sheer definition of sinful,” again, a strange whisper, but no vocal movements.

Bruce went to speak and stopped, as he knew the reaper was right. But this didn't stop him trying to evade the Reaper. Bruce ran to the bathroom door and flung it open, racing to the bedroom and searching for his gun. He scurried to the night stand where he usually kept it in a hidden panel behind a drawer, but it was gone.

“Looking for this Brucey?” the reaper was hovering at the bathroom doorway, the gun floating in front of him, barrel aimed and ready to shoot the billionaire.

“Noooooo!” Bruce wasn't sure what he was thinking, but he ran.

He continued to run and leapt out of the bedroom hole and dived into the air. He was so stubborn he refused to die at the hands of the Grim Reaper. Even though now, he was definitely going to die. No amount of wealth or power could stop him from meeting his demise after falling down from his penthouse. But even though he knew he was going to die, he felt some amount of joy at fleeing the Reaper. Until the ground loomed before him, and the Reaper was stood waiting, looking up at his naked, skinless body. The Reaper knocked the base of his large axe on the city concrete and a huge cavity formed. It showed rock and boulder under the city, along with lava, fire, and people chained to cave walls being forced to work until their bodies gave way. He screamed one final scream, took one final breath, and then felt his last human feeling: his mortal coil whacking the concrete with a sickening crack of bone, and the noise of squidgy muscle flopping on the ground before splattering into oblivion.

“Wealth comes at a price Brucey,” said the Grim Reaper, before they were both swallowed by the dent and transported to hell.

Someone's Had Their Crazy Flakes

 Anne's blonde hair clung to her pale, sweaty face with her tongue working on the window. Five years ago Anne had been diagnosed with a very uncommon mental disorder known as alcrucia. A disease that breaks down the brain cells until the person is nothing more than a drooling infant with the thoughts and feelings of a child, trapped in the body of an adult. Anne had suffered a serious injury due to a car accident shortly before the diagnosis, which had accelerated this illness with almost superhuman speed. First came the lack of speech, then the decline in motivation. Shortly followed by the dissolution of understanding and inability to act out a simple task without failure or distraction. Dr. Ambrosia had been the one to provide the original diagnosis, advising she be detained in a mental facility until her dying day. He very much doubted a recovery due to both the ailment and its rapid progression. But one thing that the well-educated Doctor did not know, was that Anne was hiding a deep-seated maliciousness in her psyche. But with the mind of a child, was clueless as to how to act on these impulses. She couldn't eat a meal without an orderly. So devising an intricate scheme to murder was far beyond her capabilities. That is until one day, something inside the brain of Anne Foster ignited. A passion and determination to kill Doctor Ambrosia.

Five years in a small white room, padded walls, plastic furniture, and mushy tasteless food had been the motivation for Anne to accomplish something other than eating a meal unassisted. To end a human life. But not just any, just the person that committed her to this wretched place. He came by once a month to check on any progress, but after five years saw it as a waste of time, but a part of his job nonetheless. He loathed her company. Anne would excrete in front of him, lick walls, expose her modesty, among other things. After years of personal meetings month after month, he came to learn that keeping a fair distance, and staying stood, stopped this insane behaviour. But today as he entered he witnessed something most unusual, she was sat drawing a picture that wasn't completely terrible. Normally the page would be filled with infantile scribblings, holes, and torn edges; not today. Anne sat, peaceful and content, focusing solely on one task. Doctor Ambrosia was astounded. Was she on her way to mental health? He had to approach with caution as to not hinder this miraculous event. The human mind was a delicate part of the body, temperamental and complicated. Too much stress or trauma and it shuts down. Too much change in a short period of time has the same effect. So he gently teetered over to Anne and sat opposite the table from her. Another unbelievable sight was the plate resting aside the crayons. The food had been eaten and wasn't spread on the walls. The cutlery hadn't been snapped but was neatly placed in the centre of the plate. 
What the hell was going on? 
In all his years he'd never seen such a fast advancement. There was no excrement piled on the linoleum, no rancid urine lingering in the air from a moist bed sheet, hair hadn't been yanked out, the white jumpsuit hadn't been removed, no spit was in globules on the window pane. Just when a smile spread taut across his clean shaven, but wrinkly face, he noticed something.

He had initially believed the sketch to be that of a rose garden. But at second glance, he could see that wasn't the case. It was an illustration of a man laid on the ground, covered in blood. A woman was straddling him, wielding a pointed object coated in crimson. Doctor Ambrosia's heart skipped a beat when he saw the victim was wearing a medical coat, and in one hand held a wooden board with papers on. The other hand tightly gripped a pen. Both items he currently held.

“W....w...what is that Anne?” Doctor Ambrosia stuttered nervously.

He wasn't expecting an answer as she hadn't uttered a single coherent word in over five years. Anne did communicate through looks and facial expressions, though. Sometimes the expressions were difficult to read, but it was better than blankness. Today, Anne's expression was as clear as day. Her face was stiff and eyes were squinting hard. Doctor Ambrosia began to stand, maintaining eye contact. Anne's nostrils flared and teeth clenched as she leapt at him. The Doctor screamed like a banshee as Anne bashed into him, knocking him onto the floor. No sooner than his back hit the linoleum did a sting tingle at his neck. His eyes fell down upon a pen protruding from his gullet. Anne began to laugh hysterically, twisting the pen like a wrench. Red spurted from his neck as he gargled and choked on his own blood.

“Son...”

She yanked the pen out and let more blood flow freely.

“Of....”

Dark burgundy drizzled down and caught got in thick chest hairs.

“A....”

Anne lifted the pen behind her and grinned.

“Bitch!”

She brought it down and pierced his left eyeball. A squish bounced off the walls as it popped and let more redness drool down his face.

Blood dotted the walls, screams echoed and rebounded from every surface, insidious giggling resounded, squelching reverberated. Yet the yells of the Doctor went unnoticed, all sound absorbed into the padding, ironically. Even Anne could appreciate the irony. Which made her giggles mutate into witch-like cackles that terrified the fading consciousness of Doctor Ambrosia. His vision blurred, being that of Anne wearing an inhumane smile and vengeful eyes. His one functioning eye blacked out completely and now everything was gone. The pain tapered off. But the sounds, the horrid explosion of noises, continued even as his other senses became void.

Suddenly Anne decided it would be amusing to dress in the Doctor's clothing. So she peeled off his soiled attire covered in red stains and placed them over her patient clothes.

“Judging by the hole in your throat and eyeball, I would declare you dead and I diagnose the treatment to be hell!” Anne laughed hysterically at her own joke, truly psychotic.

She played doctor for hours until a hoard of workers rushed in and dragged Anne from the wet corpse of Doctor Ambrosia. Even though she was strapped into the electric chair and pounded with hundreds of volts, she continued to chuckle. The electricity sizzled and smoke filled the air, all the while Anne's laughter prevailed.