Short Scary Stories

A Problem With Ants

:: TUESDAY ::

When it finds food, a single ant leaves a chemical trail which allows fellow ants to reach the same location with considerable ease. The chemical trail is strengthened with each passing ant, and soon enough hundreds can be seen in merry procession between their undisclosed palace and the occasional leftover.
Renée knew this because she once saw it, years ago, on a British documentary. The show was hosted by one handsome gentlemen, one that, she was not afraid to admit, made her blush. She admitted it to her friend. She admitted it to her daughter. She admitted it to her husband. Such confessions made her friend uncomfortable, her daughter angry and her husband, well, they had no effect on her husband. All for the better, she thought.
These memories came to her when she saw the tiniest of ants probing her dining room table for a reason to bring back a few friends. If Renée were to let it go, the reason would soon present itself in the form of a freshly baked pear pie, cooling down on top of the table.
Renée was expecting a few visits in the following days, regarding the recent disappearance of her husband, and so she couldn't afford a problem with ants. That's why she gave the black intruder an easy climb to her thumb, she let it stroll around for a bit, she let it find her nail, and then, only then, she smashed it between two nails. She was able to hear the most subtle and smooth of cracking sounds escaping the poor bastard. Renée smiled. Her hearing was still in impeccable shape.

:: WEDNESDAY ::

When preparing an infusion, great care must be taken with the temperature of the water and the time during which the herbs are left to brew. Fresh tea leaves call for water well bellow the boiling point, and should not be brewed for more than two minutes. Black tea needs boiling water, and to sit in it for around three minutes. Other herbs are more tolerant. They can be brewed in boiling water for up to seven minutes.
Renée knew this because she once heard a woman explaining it in one of those afternoon shows. At that particular moment, her bag of white tea, already dipped in hot water for far longer than it should, would probably be no better than dirt. She would need to prepare a new pot once the call was over.
"And that's why I won't make it today," her daughter told her over the phone.
"That is quite a pity, Madeleine. I was looking forward to play with my grandson," Renée replied. "I made you both a most delicious pear pie."
"Will you forget about pie? We'll be there Saturday. What did the police say?"
"About what, my dear?"
"About what? Are you shitting me? You called the police, didn't you?"
"Madeleine, what have I told you time and again about your language?"
Her daughter was growing more impatient with each reply. "Have you called the police or not, mom?"
Renée hadn't. She saw no purpose to it, of course, but others would. Her daughter most of all, and she didn't want to upset her daughter, not in the slightest. "I am about to. You have no worries, no worries at all. How are things going for you with all the teaching?"
"My teaching? I don't believe this. Father is missing, mom! Why are you always like this?"
At that moment, Renée noticed something wrong on top of her table, something wrong with her delicious pear pie. "You have a safe flight now, you ear?" she distraughtly told her daughter.
"For fuck's sake, mom! I will call the police! Are you listening? I will do it, I will do it right now."
"You do that, you do just that, my dear," Renée replied, just before hanging up the phone. Her eyes were on all those black dots moving on top of the table, all those black dots moving all around the covered pie plate.
"Well, isn't that a pity," she told herself upon uncovering the pie and finding it swarming with ants.

:: THURSDAY ::

Port wine is a very sweet fortified wine that originates from the northern regions of Portugal. Although other countries produce wines similar to Port, they are not remotely comparable to the ones from those God blessed valleys that fall into the Douro river.
Renée knew this because her friend Justine brought her a few bottles of Ferreirinha from the liquor store. She didn't even know how to say it, Fe-rrei-ri-n-ha, but it was the most delicious wine she had ever tasted, and one of the most expensives too. It was when the police officer started to look handsomer than it deserved, that she knew she had one more serving than was wise. Justine started laughing in the living room as Renée escorted the officer out.
"So, your daughter called the police," said Justine, when they found themselves alone. "Not you?"
"So many wrong doings need their attention these days. I saw no reason to bother them."
"Alphonse was a sweet man, Renée. I am sure he deserved more. Most unlike my own husband. I told you what he did?" Renée drew a sympathetic smile and drank a bit more wine. She knew the story by heart. "He went all unfaithful with me."
"He did, didn't he?"
"With a women full of youth."
"Of course."
"Twenty something."
Renée corrected her. "Twenty three, you told me once. Or thrice."
"Twenty three. All firm in her bosom and quick on her panties." Renée laughed and Justine got up. "I feel indispose, Renée. I need to use your restroom."
As Justine slowly walked out of the room, Renée raised her glass against the sun and stopped laughing. "Alphonse had a few secrets of his own, you know?"
Justine shouted from the restroom. "Did he, now?"
Renée knew she was now on the verge of tossing out too much of what she held inside. It was that darn sweet Ferreirinha, slowly taking her by the hand where she didn't want to be taken, not with Justine, not with anyone. "He was having his way with children", she said. Renée heard a small shriek from the restroom as response. "I was appalled too when I found out."
"Oh, God!" shouted Justine.
"I confronted him, of course. No children, I told him. You must promise me, no children. And promise he did. He swore we would stop. Only he didn't."
"Oh, my God!" shouted Justine, louder than before.
"I found out he hadn't stop a few years later. Oh, what fury did I unleash upon him. He cried and sobbed in front of me, but I was filled with rage. We are not monsters, I told him. And I repeated it, again and again, as I punished him. We are not monsters, Alphonse!"
That was the moment Justine screamed from behind her. Renée felt a shiver racing from her fragile skull to her osteoporosed toes. What happened next happened so fast that Renée's hazed mind had trouble grasping it fully, and so only a few minutes after it was all over did she pick up the phone and called for an ambulance.