Assorted Spooky Shorts

Red

The man passed quietly through the forest, admiring its beauty. Leaves underfoot crunched and crinkled, a pleasant sound that sounded not unlike tearing parchment. The air was crisp and cold, and the light breeze tugged gently on his jacket.

Red.

The wind also lifted up the leaves around him. They danced and swirled in beautiful bursts of autumnal fire, before settling down to rest once more. Each leaf seemed to embrace him, to welcome him, circling and spinning around the man, landing in his hair and forming a circlet of scarlet.

Red.

He was the king of the trees, and a king needed a scepter. The man had one. A shovel, rusted and somewhat damp. He dragged it behind him, as it left a single, shallow track through the leaves. His fingers barely hung onto the shovel, he felt distanced from it. It did not exist. Instead, the man tried to focus on the path ahead of him, not on the mysterious liquid seeping from his fingertips to the shovel's handle.

Red.

It was just a bit of berry juice. Raspberry, or maybe cranberry. Yes. Cranberry juice was his favorite, you see. Bitter and tangy, the flavors mixed and whirled in his mouth until they joined as one. He had drank a little a bit earlier, but it didn't taste quite like cranberry juice. After he finished it off, the world spun around him and he felt all warm inside. The earth rushed up to meet him, and he didn't remember anything past that. Well, he didn't remember memories. He remembered colors.

Especially red.

He liked red. Red was the color of ferocity, voracity, and passion. Red was the color of the warmest flames, but it could also be the color of the richest leaves, the sweetest fruits, and the darkest thoughts. He remembered more. He remembered the red of his drink that night, the red of the other man's mouth as noise poured out, the red that clouded his vision as the bottle he clutched smashed against a table. The red that dripped from the-

No, no more remembering. Just leaves and the path ahead. But the thoughts and memories coiled around him, invading his mind. The red of the distant police lights, accented by the occasional wail of a siren. The red that seeped into the earth, buried with fear and rusted metal. The red on his hands, on his coat, on his quivering skin that didn't wash off with just lake water. Red only washed off with medicine, with alcohol and pills, with sugar and smoke. But it never truly went away. The only way to get rid of red was with more red. With a quivering hand, the man lifted the glistening pistol from his jacket pocket to his head. He took a breath and-

Stopped. Autumn painted the trees with red, and the leaves spiraled around their trunks before falling to the ground to rest. The world was washed with scarlet, and the man looked around, admiring its beauty, its wonder, its convolution of color, especially the red.