Short Horror Stories

Do you want a slice?

Try not to think about it, try not to think about it.

I keep on telling this to myself, but it has long since stopped working, now I'm only trying to keep myself sane.

In this room it is just me and the small coffee table before me holding up a roughly cut slice.

It pretends to be cake, but I know better.

On it stands grounded, a single candle, the only thing lighting up just enough to show the small table with its tiny, dancing flame.

The flame is doing that dance to annoy me, to provoke me into doing something I would not want.

Every time I breathe I can almost taste the sweet texture of crumbling dough and fruit melting on my tongue.

Every time I move even slightly I feel the warmth.

Inviting, trying to make me come closer.

Enticing me with sugary promises of relief.

Part of me wants to devour it in a single bite, to kill the hunger crippling my body, but I know it wouldn't be able to do that.

Everything about this is just immoral, for I know what it really is.

No matter how hungry I am, I can't eat it.

I try to keep myself from looking, but as I try to look at the ceiling my eyes pass by the object.

My stomach grumbles and burns after the quick gaze, I feel like throwing up.

The thing

I feel it looking at me, trying to use its fake sympathy on me.

The image it tries to create is too much like myself, first of all it's alone. A piece of something while the rest is missing.

Just like me...