Frightmares: A Fistful of Flash Fiction Horror Read Online Free PDF Page A

don’t have that much on me. How about $200?”
    Always the hustler. He could’ve paid at least double that with a little under the dashboard scavenging.
    Ace ducked back under the hood, loosening the brake line which began to dribble like a pricked artery.
    “Give me the money.” Ace held out his hand. Glenn smiled broadly, slipping him two crumpled hundred-dollar bills before shifting the car into gear.
    Joseph Robert deSylva is attending college at the age of 57 and considers himself a broke English major. He lives in Santa Rosa, California and likes to write Rod Serling-type shorts.

A MODERN PROBLEM
     
    ROB SMALES
     
    Liam stumbled backwards as the knife ripped through the air directly in front of him, his hands raised in what he hoped was a calming manner.
    “Please—stay back!”
    Undeterred, the hulking figure advanced, red-rimmed eyes and weaving blade reflecting the faint glow from the streetlamp at the end of the alley. Knowing that he had to take control of the situation, Liam drew himself up to his full 5’3” height and tried to sound authoritative, the way cops do on TV.
    “Dude, I’m with the neighborhood watch, and I—”
    He jerked his head back, and the keen edge missed his eyes by mere inches.
    “The only watch I need is that watch on your wrist, motherf—”
    Liam backpedaled furiously to avoid another thrust.
    Omigod, I’m gonna die, he thought frantically as his buttocks slammed against the alley wall behind him.
    Nowhere to run.
    “You’ve got to listen to me,” Liam begged, hands held up in submission, “Junkies are dying , someone is killing you guys! There’s a modern-day Jack the Ripper, and I’m just trying to help–”
    Pain, hot and white, burned across his palm as the knife cut flesh. Liam cried out and hugged his hand to his stomach, blood splashing to the ground as he dropped to his knees.
    Jesus, my hand —
    “The only help I want is your watch and wallet, man,” growled the assailant as he towered over Liam, menacingly wielding the bloody knife. “I need a fix, and you’re gonna . . . ”
    The huge junkie’s voice seemed to fade, obscured by a sound. Liam thought it was the rushing in his ears, but it somehow changed. It was the sound of an exhalation, long and drawn-out, as if someone had been holding an impossibly large breath. Then he saw the lights.
    Behind and slightly above the junkie, two red discs illuminated, as if someone was blowing on coals. Seeing the discs, Liam froze; his mind going blank. There was fear, but it seemed so far away . . .
    “Are you listening to me?” the junkie snarled.
    He lunged forward, only to be yanked backwards into shadow, like a small dog at the end of his leash. One booted foot thrust into view even as the rest of the man was pulled into the gloom. The junkie’s foot kicked, twitching spasmodically in time to a crunching sound. Then a slurping sound. Then a sucking--
    Suddenly the discs he had seen were right in front of him. Eyes! They're eyes! he thought. Sharp talons of ice gripped his throat, pressing him to the wall, while his wounded hand was raised.
    “Yesss . . . ” Rancid breath washed over his face with the sepulchral voice, and a tongue (so cold!) lapped against his slashed palm. The grip tensed.
    “What!? This blood is clean . . . useless!”
    Liam was flung across the alley where he lay like a thing broken, eyes open but unseeing. Mind still thinking . . .
    Eyes! They’re eyes . . .
    They’re eyes . . .
    Eyes . . .
    Rob Smales graduated with a BA in English from Salem State College. Two decades later , after years of people saying he tells a good story, he is trying his hand at writing some of them down. “Playmate Wanted”, which appeared in issue #5 of Dark Moon Digest, was his first time in a print.

SEE JACK RUN
     
    L. A. TOBIN
     
    Before Jack can even think about running, it’s already too late.
    The Crenshaw boy holds Jack’s scrawny arm in his catcher’s mitt of a hand, pinning him to the