Nosferatu

A shadowy figure flits across the village's main thoroughfare; darkened windows hold candles that were extinguished hours ago. 
It halts before a particular door, sniffing around the jamb. 
A growling sound emanates from its empty stomach. 
There's an infant in this house, It thinks, smacking its pallid lips. 
Infants are best. 
Taking care to remain silent, it turned the doorknob; the opened door creaked slightly. 
The child's scent grew more potent as it stepped into the main room. 
It howled in agony, as a silvery, moonlit blade cut through the darkness, wounding the creature deeply. 
There'd be no dinner... tonight.

Scar Tissue

The moment the little boy's eyes met his, he knew that the world was a sick place. 
The child disappeared beneath the crushing weight of the MRAP's wheels, and though the vehicle had no problem rolling over this tiny obstacle, his mind registered a small bump. 
Standing orders were to never stop the vehicle for anything, and he had obeyed those orders. 
What kind of person did following those orders make him? 
"Sir?" the clerk asked. 
"Hmm?" 
"Paper, or plastic?" 
The young boy that had triggered his horrid memory, had left with his mother a while ago, groceries in tow.

Saucy Jacky

Crimson pearls fell to the ground as she clutched at her throat; the only sound, an incessant gurgle. 
Her knees buckled, and she collapsed. 
The coppery scent of her blood filled the air, as the meticulous hands of her dark assailant went to work; his breathing was harried, and manic. 
With silent satisfaction, he stood back, and observed the macabre spectacle that he'd created. 
The hoofbeats which signaled the approach of his cab, sounded slow, and hesitant; his driver did not approve. 
Calmly, he straightened his cape, and hat, for there was more work to be done on this night.

The Scribbler

"Don't get too comfortable, Dave," Karl said evenly. "With ideas like yours, they'll fire you soon enough." 
Dave endured such comments from 'Star Employee' Karl Manning, daily; that would end, today. 
Focusing intensely, Dave doodled a stick figure in his favorite notepad. 
Underneath, he wrote 'Karl', and in a crude way, the figure did resemble his abusive co-worker. 
Sweat trickling down his brow, he drew an exploding heart in 'Karl's' chest, as the real Karl clutched at his chest, flopped to the floor, and died. 
Dave smiled, closing his notepad. 
Another rung in the corporate ladder had been scaled.

Daddy Knows Best

"Daddy, I heard it again," Lindsay complained. 
"What's that, sweetheart?" 
She sighed. "The crying! It woke me up!" 
"Lindsay, you were probably just dreaming." 
Unsatisfied, the child finished eating, and grumbled all the way to the bus stop. 
Back in the house, sipping his coffee, he heard the faint sound of crying, coming from below. 
"Damnit!" he exclaimed, heading to the basement. 
A young cheerleader was chained to the wall. 
"Wake her up again, and I'll cut out your tongue, and sew your mouth shut!" he hissed, tightening her ball-gag. 
"Raising little girls is tough, and you're not helping."

The Legend of 'Walter's End'

"I'll teach those damned kids!" Walter grumbled in the darkened intersection, leveling his shotgun.

Usually, the drag racers would decelerate, and hurl insults at the crazy old man; this time, his shaky grip resulted in a blast that blew out the right tire, causing the car to plow into 'Crazy Old Walter', killing him.

Locals believe that 'Crazy Old Walter' never left that place, and any speeding vehicle's right tire will be blown out, causing an accident.

Strangely, 'Walter's End' has been the site of many fatal crashes over the last seventy years.

That is the legend of 'Walter's End'.

The Insomniac

When I close my eyes, and drift off to sleep; that's when he comes. 
Stalking the moonlit streets, dealing death to those that he takes a fancy to. 
The police believe that it's me who's doing it, but it's not. 
I would never do such horrific things as he does to those poor souls. 
I've done my best to keep him at bay. I haven't slept in a week, but I'm so goddamned tired! 
It would be so much easier to deal with, if I had just a little bit of sleep. 
God, forgive me. 
I'm just... 
Too... 
Tired... 
To...

New Year, New You

Every year, he goes through this. Resolutions are nearly impossible to stick to, but he intends to do it this time. 
The wall is covered with trophies; remnants of the pattern he intends to leave behind. 
With the gentle hand of a museum curator, he wipes dust from one of them. 
"It's time for a change," he says, scanning for any other foreign matter on his prized possessions. 
Satisfied his collection was immaculately clean once again, he heads out of his den, leaving the row of severed male heads staring blankly at the walls. 
"This year, I'm switching to women."

Running Late

"Where the hell are they?" he bellowed, as he unceremoniously cleared his desk of papers, and garbage.

"I know I left them in here!"

Doubting himself, he left his office, Stormed through the living room, and began tossing the pillows, and cushions.

"Damn it to hell!"

Then, a lightning bolt of clarity struck him; he ran to the basement.

After clearing the remaining limbs of his latest victim from the second-hand examination table, he found his missing keys.

"Thank you, God!" he proclaimed, before running to his car.

Someone's got be on time to teach Sunday School, after all.

Trick Or Treat

Peering out my window, I can see the parade of little ghouls, and ghosts making their way through the neighborhood. 
They collect their treats, and watch their bags swell with each visited house. 
I clutch the bowl to my chest; waiting for my turn to bring my brand of Halloween into their tiny lives. 
Here they come! A ballerina, is it? and a ninja turtle; how adorable! 
"Trick or treat!" they cry happily, as I open the door, and dropped my treats into their bags. 
I cackle, thinking of their expressions, upon seeing the severed fingers among their candy loot.

Happy Birthday, To You

"...Happy birthday, to you," he sang, as he carried the tray bearing the candle-covered cake. 
An unused game of 'Pin the tail on the donkey' fluttered against the door as he passed. 
The children sat, party hats on their heads, as he distributed each frosted slice to its appropriate place. 
Dressing as a clown was meant to be entertaining, but these kids were each ten to twelve years old; had he made a poor choice in doing so? 
While taking pictures, he silently hoped that the cemeteries wouldn't trace the missing bodies to him, until the party was over.

Pandemic

It happened so quickly, no one was prepared; not even those that thought they were. 
First, they said, "Nothing to worry about. Go about your business." 
Then, they said, "Sure, it's bad, but it couldn't happen here, we have the infrastructure to handle it." 
But they didn't. 
Stores were ransacked, and emptied. People were attacked, and victimized whenever they ventured out. 
We were told, "Don't go outside, or you'll be shot." 
Airborne disease, and martial law; that was the 'new normal'. 
My kids are hungry; I'll risk the bullet, and the contagion. 
What? Oh, it's nothing; just a little cough.