Twisted: A Collection of Short Horror Stories

Next Meal

NEXT MEAL

He first appeared on New Year's Eve.

He was just a shadow flitting at the corner of my eye. But he was there no matter what. Throughout the day, if I listened past the mundane sounds of everyday routine, I could hear soft footfalls that seemed to echo mine. 

At home, I would be paranoid, perhaps rightly so. Sometimes I saw a humanoid blur in the mirror, barely a noticeable smudge. And I felt a creeping sensation: like that of someone running an ice cube up your neck; like that of someone pricking your skin with a myriad of tiny needles. 

And the darkness. A moment of pure silence. A moment of solitude. A moment when the darkness, a deep velvet cloak, swallows you. A moment when anyone can intrude upon a vulnerable you.

That's when he escapes the fuzz. He used to be like an image that played on a static riddled TV, all blurry and flickering. But at night... I see him sit in the corner. His edges become sharper; clearer. Each night he gets stronger. I can feel his hunger emanating, like tentacles that seemed to wrap and choke me, rendering me lethargic and drained. 

His eyes. Two abysses- no, voids- that seems to draw in anything in his path. And every waking moment, no, every second, the fear creeps within me, slithering through my map of veins, chilling me to the bone. 

One day he will be strong enough. I can see it. He gains confidence. He moves closer, even if tentatively. 

One day he will reach me.

***

Icebergs. 

Cold.

Like the knife I have clutched behind my back. The blade is parallel to my skin; and the coolness penetrates me, making me suck the air in sharply. 

I know he's looking for me. I can feel him; hear him. He's muttering to himself, words raspy, like the smoke that drifts from the remnants of dying embers. 

He's there. 

Shiny. Pebbles. The tip of his boot. 

Clicks. Snaps. Squeaks. A mouse.

He's in front of me. It's time. 

I see his face, contorted by a nasty smirk that indicates that he's smug. His hands, like snakes, reaching for me.

That's when I plunge the knife into his neck. Always go for the jurgular. 

A volcano of blood. Spurting, spouting, dribbling, spraying anything. The scent of zinc. Taste of salt, copper. His face. Frozen. Paralysed in shock as he collapses in a mass. It takes a few more stabs to finish him off. 

I'm wearing scarlet gloves that are made of blood. But it's no matter; I can get myself cleaned up. And as for him... I still don't know what he is. But he's solid, and meaty, and beggars can't be choosers.

Besides, it's been a week since my last meal. And she wasn't that filling.