The Rockery

..Jack stood looking out of the window in his dark bedroom, sipping from a mug of black coffee.  His wife, Mary, had spent many an afternoon staring out at the small garden, while working on her poems.  The garden, as small as it was, was once very beautiful.  A pebble path lined with roses of all colours, led to a small pond.  Lily pads bloomed on the surface, while golden fish swam below.  Passion flower and honeysuckle hugged the walls on either side, smothering the brickwork.
..Now the garden had fallen to ruin, unattended for many months.  John had hardly set foot in it since Mary’s death.  The pebbles where now blanketed with moss.  The passion flower and honeysuckle spreading in wild abandon.  The roses overgrown, spreading their lanky thorned branches across the path that led to the pond, where the increase in lily pads, and rapid growth of algae, had suffocated the starved fish.  But it was beyond all this that John focused his attention upon, as his mug trembled in his hand.
..The new rockery in the far right corner of the garden was still looking as good as it had fifteen months ago, when he had built it.  The ferns between  the sandy coloured rocks where bright and healthy.  This last edition to the garden had been in memory of his late wife, Mary, and upon one of the stones he had lovingly etched one of her last poems.

When the wind blows, She whispers my name,
When I try to answer, I do so in vain.
Wherever She blows from, She knows I am here,
As the whispers grow louder, I can sense they are near.

..Jack sometimes wondered whether he had misinterpreted that last poem, while watching over her rocky grave at the bottom of the garden.  Surely that poem had spoken of her wanting to die, and to be free to move on to whatever comes next.
..Jack often thought back to when he placed the pillow over her sleeping face.  Oh, how she struggled!  Her arms flailing at his face, her muffled screams.  Jack had figured that was just a natural reaction to being smothered, whether you wanted to die or not.  Still, the doubt was always there, gnawing at the back of his mind like a cranial rat.
..Jack took a big sip of coffee, and thought, ‘You are free now my angel’.  Taking a last gulp of his coffee, he added, ‘I only hope that’s what you wanted’.

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© 2009 Neal Turner

Making up Numbers

..Every evening was the same for Jack Spence.  He’d come home from the factory, have a shower to wash off the sweat and grime he had built up in the blistering heat which radiated off the huge machines that injected the plastic into the moulds of bottle caps.  He would work a straight twelve hours checking bottle cap after bottle cap for defects and oil leakages.
..After showering and microwaving a meal for one, he would sit on his sofa, meal on his lap, and talk to his cat.
..‘Another hard day at the office?’  He would ask Winston, who would always sit by his side, his huge black body heaving as he purred, his white legs splayed out to the sides.  ‘Meet any nice lady cats while out on your travels?”  He would ask.  Winston seemed to roll his eyes as he yawned.  ‘Ah yes, I suppose you wouldn’t have much interest in the fairer sex, would you?  I’m sorry about that, but your better off without them, if you ask me.’  Jack looked into Winston’s eyes, which in turn watched Jack raise another fork-full of pasta to his mouth.  ‘Then again,’ Said Jack in between chewing, ‘You wouldn’t ask me, would you?  Who would?’
..Winston stood up from his place on the sofa, stretched, and left to find something a bit more interesting to play with.
..Jack would eat the rest of his meal in silence, wondering if this was all life had in store for him.  He had come to realise that some people were meant to have great social lives, with more money than they know what to do with, while others where merely there to make up the numbers.
..After a short, quiet night, Jake would clean up the dishes and head to bed, waiting for the next day to come.
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..One evening in late July, Jack Spence arrived home from work, as filthy and tired as any other evening.  He showered quickly, and microwaved a chicken curry.  As usual, Winston was waiting for him on the sofa, washing his paws erratically.
..‘You ok, Winston?’ asked Jack, sitting down beside the cat, with his curry on his knee.  ‘You look a bit…’  Jack stopped mid-sentence as he noticed the blood on all four of Winston’s legs.  Still he licked frantically at his bloodied paws.
..Jack put his plate on the floor and knelt beside his cat, gently taking his front left paw in his hand.  ‘What happened?’  He asked worriedly, looking closely at the blood soaked paws,  ‘We’d better get you to the vet.’
..‘No.’  Replied Winston in a deep rough voice.
..‘No?’  Yelled Jack, ‘Your hurt, we need to get you seen to.’
..‘No, you idiot.  I don’t need a vet.’  Replied Winston in between washing himself, ‘It’s not my blood.’  He stopped and looked up at Jack,  ‘Shit, I’ve really messed up this time, Jack.  You’ve got to help me clean it up.’
..‘I’ll run you a bath.’  Replied Jack, rising to his feet and heading to the door.
..‘Not clean me up, you moron, I can do that myself!’  Shouted Winston, heaving his great mass off the sofa.  ‘You’ve got to get rid of the bodies.’
..Jack stopped dead in his tracks, turned slowly, and stared at the black and white cat sitting in front of him.  ‘Bodies?’  Jack said quietly, ‘What bodies?  Where?  Other cats?’
..‘Just quit your inane babbling and follow me.’  Replied Winston, walking past Jack towards the front door, where he stood waiting.  ‘If you don’t mind, could you help me out here?’
..Jack rushed past and opened the front door of his flat.  Winston walked out into the dimly lit hallway, and approached the flat next door.  Jack followed his furry guide, and found the door of his neighbours flat was ajar.  Winston pushed the door open and walked in, Jack slowly following, afraid of what he might find.
..What he found was a ginger cat, lying on the kitchen floor in a pool of blood, with its throat torn out.
..‘Tinkles here hasn’t been paying protection as of late.  He thought that the new puppy his people had brought home would be protection enough.’  Winston gestured towards the large fridge in the corner of the kitchen, ‘If you take a look in the fridge you’ll see that was not the case.’
..Jack walked over to the fridge, being careful not to slip on the blood, and opened the door.  The sight of the Boxers head in between the butter and the lettuce was all too much for Jacks stomach, which he emptied onto the floor, beside the cats carcass.
..‘Jesus Christ, Jack.  I need you to be strong here.’  Said Winston as he walked over to Jacks side.  ‘It’s times like these I’m glad my nose doesn’t work anymore, let me tell you.  Look, I can’t do this by myself, I’m just one cat.’
..‘I’m sorry Winston,’  Jack replied, wiping his mouth with his shirt sleeve.  ‘We should be able to get this cleaned up before the Trumans come home.’
..‘I thought the same thing,’  Replied Winston as he walked out the kitchen.  ‘Except.  Except they came home early.’
..Jack followed Winston through to the living room, his heart beating like a steam engine through his chest.
..‘I couldn’t just let them go, having seen what they had seen, you know?’  Asked Winston.  Jack had a bad feeling he did know, and found that he was right to feel that way.
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..Mr and Mrs Truman where in their late sixties.  They were a quiet couple, always kept themselves to themselves, which suited Jack perfectly.  But now here they lay, Mr Truman beside the fire place, a gaping wound on his forehead, and deep scratches covering his face and arms.  Mrs Truman had obviously fallen back onto the oak coffee table, and had been brutally disembowelled.  Jack started to feel dizzy from the horrendous sight, and ran out the door back to his own flat, tears clouding his vision.
..‘Jack!’  Yelled Winston as he chased his owner back to their flat, ‘Get back here, you son of a bitch!’
..Jack slammed the door closed behind him and sunk to his knees, his head leaning against the door, tears streaming down his cheeks.  A sudden thud and frantic scratching at the door made Jack fall backwards in fright.
..‘Open the door, Jack!’  Screeched Winston, ‘Open the damn door and get out here!’
..The screeching stopped and all fell silent for a few seconds.  ‘They’ll think it was you, Jack.’  Came Winston’s deep voice, whispering through the door.  ‘Your prints are in there now, and there’s a trail of blood out here leading right to your door.’
..‘I’ll tell them what really happened.’  Sobbed Jack through the tears, knowing that no one would believe him.
..‘Come now Jack, you know that won’t work,’  Replied Winston, ‘Just let me in and we can talk this through together.’  The lock clicked and the door opened a fraction.  Winston pushed the door open and saw Jack walking into the living room.
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..‘You just need to calm down, ok?’  Said Winston as he joined Jack on the sofa, ‘I’m sorry, really I am, I didn’t want this to happen.’  Sighed Winston as he stepped onto Jacks knee.  ‘It’s just unavoidable sometimes.’
..Jack looked down at the big fat cat on his knee through blurred eyes, let out a deep sigh, and placed a hand on Winston’s big furry head, giving him a light ruffle.
..‘It was just a shock, that’s all.’  Said Jack.  They sat there for a few minutes in silence, like they had many times before, Jack stroking his cat, just how he liked it.
..‘Its just,’  Jack said, finally breaking the silence, ‘that I never knew what an evil little bastard you really are.’  Jack put more pressure into stroking Winston, and took a cigarette and a lighter out of a drawer in the small table next to the sofa.
..‘Don’t do that Jack, you haven’t smoked for weeks, don’t let me ruin it for you.’  Said Winston, starting to look uncomfortable under the weight of Jacks hand.  ‘I’m not truly evil, I’m still the same cat I always was.’  Pleaded Winston.
..Jack raised the cigarette to his mouth, ‘More fool me, then.’  He replied, raising the lighter, ‘I should have filled this place with gas a long time ago.’
..Suddenly realising what Jack had done, Winston struggled as Jack grabbed the scruff of his neck.
..‘No, Jack, don’t!’  Yelled Winston as he unsheathed his claws to get out of this death hold.
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..The lighter sparked.  The flame jumped to ignite the cigarette.  Jack took a deep lungful of smoke.  Winston ripped into Jacks leg, blood seeping up through his trousers.  Before the smoke could leave Jacks mouth, his flat was blown to thousands of pieces, every one of them roaring in flame.
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..Jack wasn’t there just to make up the numbers.

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© 2009 Neal Turner

Every Action

..I was once told that every action has an equal and opposite reaction.  I don’t know how other people feel about this, but it scares the hell out of me.  Knowing that every time I safely cross the road, someone else is hit be a car and killed.  Every time I walk down a flight of stairs, someone else falls and breaks their neck.  Every second I am still alive, someone else dies.

..He is a very unhappy man, as you may have figured.  He suffers from extreme paranoia, and he truly believes that when something happens to him, the opposite happens to someone else.  Also, when something doesn’t happen to him, it happens to someone else.  He feels responsible for horrible things that are happening to people all over the world.

..I took the train into town a couple of weeks ago.  That evening I heard on the news that a train had been derailed and fifty seven people died, fourteen injured.  Is that a coincidence?  That the very same day I had a safe train journey, others were killed in a train crash?  I know it isn’t.  The guilt that I feel for just being alive is eating me from the inside, like a gnawing cancer.

..He came to tell me of this great idea he had had, which would help save people from harm.  When he told me of this idea, I immediately knew that  it was a very bad idea, but he would not listen to anything I had to say against it.

..I decided that I would get myself into “accidents”, in order to save other people having to get hurt.  I’ve been hit by a few cars now, broken a few bones, had some nasty cuts and sprains.  It made me happy to think how many people I was helping.  Until I realised one thing.  I am walking away from each of these “accidents”.  Each time I survive one, someone else does not.  I am now causing even more people to die.  I can’t live my life like this, my life isn’t worth so many other peoples lives.  That’s when I came up with my greatest plan.  I would kill myself, so someone else will get to live.

..When he first told me about his “greatest plan”, I had already seen it coming.  I knew he wouldn’t be able to keep going on, the guilt was too much for him to deal with, and in his eyes he was doing a great thing.  But then he told me the details of this plan…

..Just killing myself won’t be enough though.  After all the people who have died because I have not, I’m going to have to make a grand gesture.  I am going to kill myself in the nastiest, most gruesome way there is to die.  I need to be ripped apart, burned, stabbed, and all very, very slowly, drawing out the agony as long as possible.  I dare say I’ll go mad with the pain, but if I can save one person from dieing a horrible, horrible, death, then it will be worth it.

..When he was found he was in a number of pieces, a lot of him had to be mopped up.  There was an ingenious system of pulleys and ropes, with blades to slowly saw off his limbs, other ropes tightening and twisting his body, and what appeared to be some kind of system to let acid drip very slowly onto various parts of his body.  As you can imagine, there was quite a mess.  The lengths he went to, to make sure that this was a horrible way to die were immense.  It must have taken a long time for him to die, and the pain must have been excruciating as he was slowly sliced and melted, yet no one reported any noise coming from his flat.  And he did all this, just so someone else wouldn’t have to go through it themselves.  It was his last apology to the world.
And with that, my plan was complete.  All it took was eight simple words.
Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.
Spoken into the right ear.

© 2009 Neal Turner

Most Vile of Creatures

‘They come in the night,’  Turk told his son as he tucked him into bed.  ‘They cut off your arms to use as backscratchers.’  He said, leaning in closer to his son, who was pulling the cover up to his eyes.  ‘They turn your hair into coats.  They take your teeth for pendants, your ears for good luck charms, all before they kill you and turn your insides into soup!’
..His son, Pon, pulled the covers over his head, shivering at the picture his Dad had painted for him.
..‘It’s ok son,’ Said Turk, as he pulled back the cover, giving Pon a kiss on the forehead, ‘I’ll protect you.  As long as you don’t wander in the dark of night, you’ll be fine.’
..‘You promise Daddy?’  Asked Pon, with a scared look in his eyes.
..‘Of course’ Turk replied softly.  ‘Now go to sleep little one.’
Pon closed his eyes and snuggled into his bed, as Turk blew out the candle on the small bedside table, and quietly left his son to his dreams.

..Pon was woken by a muffled scream, coming from the darkness beyond his window.  Quietly climbing out of bed, he walked over to the window and pushed it open.  By the faint glow of a dropped torch, Pon could see his neighbour, Fol, crawling across the ground, leaving a trail of blood behind him, weaving between the trees like a drunken slug.  Then Pon saw the monster, walking up to his fallen neighbour from behind, holding a severed arm.

..Crouching down, the strange creature grabbed Fol’s hair, dropping the gory arm and producing a rough blade.  He hacked away at Fol’s scalp, Pon’s neighbour screamed in pain as blood flowed down his face.
..The monster was hideous.  It was the ugliest thing Pon had ever seen.  It was covered in smooth pale pink skin, with most of its hair on top of its head.  It had only two arms, which only seemed to bend one way, and only two eyes.  There was no sign at all of any tentacles on his chest, how did it eat properly, Pon wondered.  He figured that the beasts small nostrils were to keep blood from spraying in them, as they tore into their prey.  The beast picked up the carcass, flung it over its shoulder, and walked back into the shadows of the trees.

..Pon crawled back into the security of his bed, got under the covers, and tried to shake the image of the monster tearing his neighbour to pieces.  Pon stroked his tentacles soothingly, and tried his best to sleep.

© 2008 Neal Turner

Joonx

Vince could feel it inside him.  He could feel it slithering through his intestines, like a conga eel through a shipwreck, in the dark depths of the sea.  It was a strange sensation, feeling the creatures ribbed body gliding though his internal organs.  Vince knew that he couldn’t vomit, although it was growing harder and harder not to, holding back the spasms that were shooting up from his stomach.
..‘You’re doing well,’ said the old lady sitting be Vince’s side, mopping his chest with cold water that smelt of stale urine.  She had insisted it wasn’t urine, but a mixture of special herbs and spices, but the smell still wasn’t helping his stomach.  She seemed a frail old thing, black lace covering her head and face. ‘The Joonx is almost in position.’
..‘How will you know when it is?’  Asked Vince, squirming on the hard mattress the old lady had led him to.
..‘I’ll know when you know.’  She replied, picking up some tattered cords to bind his wrists.  Vince had been told to let her do what she had to.  When he first saw the Joonx he had nearly turned and left, but he knew this was his only option now.
..‘How will I know?’ He asked, as the old lady tied his wrists and ankles to the bed.
..‘You will know.’  She replied, sitting back in her chair, dipping the cloth in the dire liquid, and mopping his stomach.  At that moment Vince felt a searing heat in his stomach, where the Joonx had settled only seconds previously.  He clenched his teeth and his fists, feeling his nails cutting into the palms of his hands, but the pain was overwhelmed by that of the Joonx in his stomach.  Through the unbearable heat, he could feel the slimy intruder gnawing at his flesh with its small sharp teeth.  Vince opened his eyes, and saw blood seeping up through his naval, mixing with the broth the old lady had applied.  The old lady was hunching over him, whispering to the Joonx, inches from his stomach.  She turned to look at Vince.
..‘Sit back, close your eyes.  It’s not over yet.’  She said in her soothing, grainy voice, and Vince did as he was bid.  For a second he thought the creature had stopped, and he was about to speak, as the heat in his stomach grew in intensity to such a degree, that he lost consciousness.

..When Vince awoke, he was lying on the bed, his hands and feet now free.  After a few seconds he realised all pain gone.  Sitting up, Vince felt a stabbing pain in his stomach, and looked down to see a fresh cut, stitched up and cleaned from the old lady’s concoction and his own blood.  Vince figured that was where she had to cut out the lifeless Joonx, after it had chewed away the cancer from his stomach.  There was no sign of the old lady while Vince stood up and pulled his shirt on.  He had paid her in advance, and she clearly hadn’t felt the need to hang around afterwards.  He put on his coat, and ventured out into the cold night air, grateful to the old lady for saving his life.  As he made his way down the alley, his thoughts turned to that weird creature, the Joonx, that he had swallowed, and had made its way to his stomach, where it had found the cancer and eaten away at it until all traces were gone.  He had been told the creature would die afterwards, which was a sad thought.  It might have been an ugly, disgusting thing, but it had saved his life.

..So Vince made his way home, knowing that he was now cancer free.  Unfortunately he was not Joonx free, and in 5-6 months he would be giving birth to a new generation of Joonx.  At that point, he would be praying for the cancer.

© 2008 Neal Turner

NEWS: Stories Published on MicroHorror.com

‘Black Puddle’ and ‘TickTock’ have been published on the excellent site http://www.microhorror.com

Micro Horror is a site dedicated to horror themed micro fiction. On the site you will find no story longer than 666 words, and with over a thousand stories free to read, you’ll have plenty to choose from!

TickTock

If Old Mr. Dane is anything, he is definitely old. No-one knows just how old, but the best guesses would be around one hundred and twenty years. One thing few people know is how he keeps on living. When he was in his eighties, Dane had his heart replaced with a clockwork heart of his own creation. Its is made out of copper and brass, attached to a brown leather harness, strapped around his chest. Brass pipes from the “heart” entering his chest. Although this marvellous contraption allows a prolonged life, there are a few setbacks…

..On a chain around old man Danes neck is an ornate key. With this key, he must wind the “heart” three rotations, every six hours. Or the clockwork will stop ticking, and his blood will stop flowing. Four times a day, he takes the key and turns it in the keyhole. Clickclickclick clickclickclick clickclickclick, and he can go on living for another six hours. He has done this every day, four times a day, for the last eighty six years.

..One morning, in the early hours of a cold day in November, Old Mr. Dane was woken by the slamming of his front door. He sat up in bed and put his glasses on, reaching for the short blade he keeps behind his bed side table with the other hand. Rising from his bed, Dane realised something wasn’t right. His left hand reached up to his neck. The key was gone. Panic struck Dane like a club to the chest. Looking at the timer on his wristwatch, he saw he had only fifteen minutes before he would need to make another three turns. He threw on his musky dressing gown, and hobbled down stairs, blade in hand, heading straight for the front door. The cold air took him into it’s frozen embrace as he stepped out into the alleyway outside his house. Franticly looking left and right, he caught a glimpse of a shadow down one end, rushing out of sight. ‘Wait!’ Dane croaked, chasing as quickly as his tired legs would carry him. As he reached the corner, leading into a dead end, he heard a deep, breathy voice.
..‘Tick, tock. Tick, tock.’ Came the voice, though Dane could not make out who it belonged to.
..‘Who’s there?’ Dane asked, trying to put an edge of authority into his voice, ‘What have you done with my key? I’m warning you, give me it back now!’ Dane raised his short blade, the rising sun glinting off its polished surface.
..‘How long have you now, old man?’ Asked the mysterious voice, ‘Ten? Nine minutes? Thought you could avoid me forever did you?’ The voice seemed to be getting closer, but still no one could be seen. ‘Your time ran out a long time ago, Mr. Dane, and now I’m here to collect what’s mine.’
..Dane turned round to face a tall figure, dressed in a long black cloak, flowing in a non-existent breeze. ‘I… I have nothing of yours. You have my key.’ Replied Dane, his voice now barely a whisper, any edge now lost to the chilly morning air.
..‘Ah yes, your key.’ Replied the dark stranger, ‘I appear to have the key to your heart.’ His voice now took on a charming, yet menacing tone. ‘The ticking of that unnatural device has been mocking me for a long time. I’m sure you too will enjoy the silence when it comes.’
..‘Who are you?’ Asked Dane, as the alarm went off on his watch. One minute. ‘I need my key!’ Scared now, he lashed out with his blade, stabbing into the cloak, the cold steel finding nothing but fabric.
..Death took a long sigh, ‘I am the harvester of souls, old man, and yours is long overdue.’

..Silence filled the alleyway. There was no tick. There was no tock. Only the sound of a limp body hitting the cobbled street, and Death taking an old soul into the abyss of eternal darkness.

© 2008 Neal Turner

Black Puddle

The front door was bolted shut. The small filthy windows were also bolted, and behind thick black iron bars. There was no chimney. Nor was there an external door leading to the basement. There was no apparent way into the small house at all, but he knew that if he couldn’t get inside it, he may as well slit his wrists now. That would be a much more appealing way to die than what was install for him otherwise. He tried kicking in the front door, but there was no budge. He saw a large dead tree standing beside the small square house, and started to climb it to see if there was a way in on the flat roof. After carefully crawling along a rotting branch, he could see a trapdoor on the roof. He slowly got to his feet, and threw himself off the branch, landing clumsily, twisting his left ankle. Ignoring the pain, he stumbled to the trap door and pulled at the handle. Locked. Clenching his teeth, he stamped his right foot down onto the wood. Feeling it creak, he fell as pain surged through his sprained ankle. He gingerly stood up, feeling the cold night air against the sweat on his face. He stood for a few seconds, nostrils flared as he caught the smell of death on the breeze. With all his might he jumped onto the trapdoor, and straight through it, tumbling down a flight of moss covered stone stairs. The new surge of pain that flooded him as he tried to stand, his freshly broken ribs grinding against each other, made him forget about his ankle, and he fell against the wall. Grinding his teeth, he limped along the short corridor and opened the door at the end of it.

..The stench of mould and rot flooded his nostrils as he stumbled into a small dark room, partially lit by a single candle sitting on a stack of yellowed papers in one corner. He tripped on something and landed on a damp rotting rug, moisture rising between his fingers. In the flickering candle light he saw the thick black fluid dripping from his fingers. Blood from a cut to his temple dripped to join the black puddle on the floor. As he looked around the room, he became aware of another odour, mingling with the mould and rot. Again, it was the smell of death. At that moment he knew it was too late. He could feel the pressure building behind his eyes and in his ears, as a black liquid started running from them. The black liquid in his eyes made him blind. In his ears, it made him deaf. As he sank to the floor, all that was left was pain and the growing stench of rotting flesh, magnified by the loss of the other senses. He started choking and coughing up fluid as it filled his lungs, and filled his nose, leaving only pain and the feeling that someone was putting their hands on his shoulders. The last thing he knew, as his internal organs turned into a foul black soup, was that he was being pushed down, to join the black puddle.

© 2008 Neal Turner