Bites Collection: Thirty Bite-Sized Horror Stories Read online

  BITES COLLECTION

  Thirty Bite-Sized Horror Stories

  © Darcy Coates 2015

  CONTENTS

  1: Footsteps in the Night

  2: The Dog’s Grave Digger

  3: Flotsam

  4: The Last Bus

  5: House for Sale

  6: Abandoned

  7: Radio

  8: The Resident

  9: Bogrot

  10: Beanie’s Fast Food

  11: Ghost Town

  12: 99 Messages

  13: After Closing

  14: Bunker

  15: What Lives in the Woods

  16: Quarantine

  17: Room for Rent

  18: The Woman in the Morgue

  19: Great Aunt Enid

  20: Overheard

  21: The Cleaners

  22: Left Behind

  23: Diagen

  24: Undeparted

  25: Hazard Lights

  26: Snow Hunting

  27: Host

  28: The Empty Church

  29: In the Space Above the Wardrobe

  30: The Sightless

  1

  Footsteps in the Night

  Denise woke from her dream like she was clawing her way out of a deep, dark lake. Her brain felt sluggish, and she couldn’t immediately understand what had disturbed her. Then sounds filtered through: footsteps, shuffling on the cold tile floors of her kitchen.

  Bernard mustn’t be able to sleep. Again.

  Denise stretched a hand behind herself and felt the familiar indent in the mattress. It was cold; her husband must have been up for a while. She wished he’d come back to bed; after thirty years of marriage, she found it hard to fall asleep without company.

  What time is it? Denise rolled forward to reach the lamp. Her fingers brushed a bottle, knocking it off the edge of the bedside table. The bottle’s contents rattled as it hit the floor. What’s that?

  She already knew what it was, though. Sleeping pills. Her mind, still filled with that deep-water sensation, couldn’t remember why she had sleeping pills on her bedside table. She’d never suffered from insomnia. That was Bernard’s quarter.

  The footsteps moved from the kitchen to the loungeroom in a path Denise was intimately familiar with. Every night he stalked through their home, searching, perhaps, for some kind of relief from his own mind. He always took the same route. From the hallway to the kitchen to the loungeroom to the hallway to the spare room, then back again. Denise was so used to it that it almost never disturbed her any more.

  It’s different tonight, though. He wasn’t taking his usual care to move quietly, and his feet scraped over the carpet to produce harsh shhh, shhh, shhh sounds.

  Denise’s fingers found the lamp’s button. The shadows scattered to the deepest corners of the room as the familiar shapes were illuminated. Her bureau, the beautiful wooden table that normally held her trinkets and a vase of fake flowers, was a mess. Someone had scattered the contents to the ground. Denise frowned. Who? And why did I go to bed without tidying it?

  A faint, blurred memory rose in her mind. She saw herself sweeping her forearm across the table, knocking off the makeup Bernard had given her, the silver brushes Bernard had given her, even the cherished necklace he’d bought her on their thirtieth anniversary.

  Denise bent over the edge of the bed to pick up the bottle she’d knocked to the floor. It was unexpectedly light. She shook it, and found it was only half-full. I’ve been taking them for a few days, then. They must be the reason my head’s so foggy. I can’t remember…

  The shuffling footsteps moved through the loungeroom. Denise imagined her husband, his sagging face cold and distant as he gazed out of the full-length window towards the swaying black trees that lined their driveway. He always looked grim when the insomnia had him in its grip. Once, not long after their marriage, she’d asked him why he looked that way. He’d stared at her for a long time, but hadn’t answered.

  Shhh, shhh, shhh. Bare feet dragged over the carpet as Bernard’s well-worn path took him past their bedroom. His silhouette appeared in the doorway, too far from her lamp for his features to find any relief, and finally his pacing stopped.

  Denise thought he might be ready to come back to bed, but he didn’t enter the room. Shadows obscured his face, but she could make out the shock of thin, messy hair and the outline of his crumpled clothes.

  “Bern?”

  A strange odour accompanied him. She’d smelt it before, she knew, and recently, but she couldn’t place where.

  She still cradled the bottle of sleeping pills in her hand, and she squeezed it as images flashed across her sluggish mind. The flowers, anachronistically bright, laying across the dark, polished wood. That’s what the smell is, she realised. He smells like those flowers.

  She saw herself sitting at the bureau and watching the tears run down her face, ruining the makeup, bleeding the black eyeliner and the rouge that had been intended to hide her paleness. She’d been surrounded by the gifts her husband had lavished on her, and it was intolerable, so she’d swept them off the table and watched them clatter to the ground.

  Then she remembered standing on a grassy swell, staring into a black hole as the polished wood was lowered into it, and she realised why she’d needed the sleeping tablets. They were the only thing that had been able to bring her rest after the funeral.

  After Bernard’s funeral.

  Denise turned towards the bedroom doorway, where the silhouetted man watched her.

  2

  The Dog’s Grave Digger

  Rick swerved a fraction of a second too late. His car’s tyres screamed as they left black tracks on the asphalt. Then there was a muffled thump, a jolt Rick felt move through his body, and the car rocked to a halt.

  For a moment, Rick didn’t dare do anything except breathe. Then he swore, loudly, and threw the door open.

  His car’s high beams sliced through the night darkness, leaving trails of pale gold on the road. He could see the markings from his tires spread out in a lazy loop, starting where he’d first seen the dog and ending three feet too late.

  Rick knelt beside his car and looked over the result of his accident. The lumpy, bloody clump of fur was definitely dead—the impact must have killed it instantly, thank goodness for small blessings—and was barely recognisable as a dog any more. Rick grimaced and felt around its neck, but it didn’t have a collar.

  A stray, then? It does look thin.

  Something about its nose, though, made him think it was a breed dog. It might have been a stray when he’d hit it—and he suspected it was; there weren’t any houses for a twenty-minute drive in each direction—but it had probably been someone’s pet at one time.

  Rick swore again and pulled off his jacket. He’d lost a dog of his own when he was a child. The driver hadn’t even stopped. The inhumanity had cut him deeply, and, even twenty years later, he couldn’t imagine leaving the animal on the side of the road. If it had belonged to a child, that child would have wanted its pet treated respectfully.

  The body mostly hung together, though one of the legs was only attached by a strip of flesh and a few muscles. Rick carefully moved it into his jacket—good thing I’m wearing the cheap one tonight—and lifted the bundle into the passenger seat.

  He hesitated then, halfway through the driver’s door, as he tried to decide what to do with the animal. He could take it to a vet, and hope they disposed of it kindly. Or he could take it home and bury it in his back yard. Or…

  Rick put the car into gear, a smile growing across his face as he remembered what he had stored in the trunk. He’d bought a full set
of gardening equipment the week before, and hadn’t gotten around to clearing it out of his car. In amongst the shears and spades and gloves was a shovel. And surrounding him was a forest.

  Yes, a burial in the woods, where its body will nurture the trees. It’s the best thing to do.

  Rick drove until he found a gap in the trees wide enough for him to manoeuvre the car into. He drove past it, then reversed, so that the back of the car would be facing the woods. He was able to get the car about twenty paces into the forest before it became too thick for him to continue. It wasn’t quite far enough to disguise his car if a wayward driver happened to look in his direction, but at least it was more private than leaving his vehicle on the road. He hoped no one would see him. Goodness knew what a passer-by might think if they saw a lone man digging a hole in the woods at a quarter past midnight.

  Rick turned the car off, smothering the headlights. The moon was full and bright, and the trees were sparse enough to let plenty of natural illumination through. The fallen pine needles crunched under his feet as he rounded his car and opened the boot. Inside were the tools laying on a tarpaulin. He took the shovel, walked ten paces to a clear patch of ground, and started digging.

  The dirt was tightly packed, but not as bad as he’d been expecting. Even so, it was exhausting work, and he started sweating before the hole was deeper than his arm.

  It’s got to be deep enough, he thought, so the wild animals can’t smell it and dig it out.

  The air was frosty, and his breath plumed in front of his face every time he exhaled. He knew his fingers would have become numb if the exercise wasn’t pumping blood through them so quickly.

  A car came down the road, and Rick froze, aware of how guilty he’d look if he were seen. The car was travelling quickly, though, and passed Rick’s hiding place without slowing down.

  The road was rural and rarely-travelled, even during the day. Rick hadn’t passed any cars during the last ten minutes of his drive, so he didn’t expect to be disturbed again.

  He dug until the sweat stained the underarms and back of his t-shirt, and stuck his dark hair to his forehead. He’d made a good hole, he thought. A little larger than the dog would need, and deep enough that the bones wouldn’t come up for a long time. Everyone deserves peace.

  Panting, his limbs trembling from the exertion, Rick climbed out of the hole and turned back to the car. Instead of going to the jacket-wrapped bundle in the passenger seat, though, he went to the boot and pushed the tools off the tarpaulin. Then he grabbed the corner of the blue material and pulled it out of the boot, straining against the weight. Dead weight, he thought, and chuckled to himself as he hauled his baggage towards the hole.

  She’d go in with the tarpaulin, of course. A little extra insurance to protect her from being dug up. The tarpaulin couldn’t be traced back to him; he’d bought it two states away at the same time as the tools—a complete set, to ensure there was no suspicion—and paid with cash. As far as anyone knew, the last time he’d seen his wife was that morning, when she’d kissed him on the cheek and left for work. Her car would be found abandoned at the train station the following day.

  Rick gave the bundle a final shove and watched as it tumbled into the hole. Then he returned to the passenger seat of the car and drew the dog out with significantly more care. The dog had never cheated on him. The dog had never lied to him. In all likelihood, the dog had never even had a malicious thought. He knelt on the edge of the grave and laid the animal’s body on top of his wife’s, then set to pouring the mound of dirt over the pair of them.

  We all need rest.

  3

  Flotsam

  A body lay among the rock pools.

  Leisi froze, one hand clutching her beach bag, the other halfway through wiping strands of hair out of her eyes, as she stared at the shape.

  The bluff had a good view of the rock-dotted beach and dark, rolling ocean. When she’d left her hotel that morning, it had been a clear spring day. Blue skies, fluffy clouds and a warm breeze had encouraged her to keep her plans for a visit to the beach, even though the café waitress had warned bad weather was coming. The waitress had been right, of course; dark clouds had begun to gather not long after Leisi left the town.

  She hadn’t realised just how remote the beach would be. She lived in Sydney, where a hot day meant every sandy cove was packed with sunbathers and families. But this wasn’t Australia; it was New Zealand, and a good way out from the touristy areas. The beach looked like it almost never saw human intervention. She’d even passed a group of seals happily sunning themselves on the rocks a few kilometres back.

  Maybe that’s what the shape is: a seal. Sailors used to mistake them for mermaids, didn’t they?

  Leisi squinted at the shape.

  It was definitely human. There were no flippers or oily skin; but two arms, dragging through the rock pools as the waves nudged at the figure.

  Leisi turned to the path that led to the town, but hesitated. It was more than an hour’s walk back. Above her, thick clouds were converting the sky’s cornflower blue into grey as the storm swelled.

  The body rocked in a mesmerising cycle as the water lapped around it. She didn’t think it had caught on any rocks; if the tide pulled it out, it would be lost again, possibly forever.

  I can’t let that happen.

  The incline leading to the rocky shore was steep, and Leisi tightened her grip on her bag before sitting on the edge of the grassy overhang and swinging her feet over the edge. She slid down the slope, regained her feet, and jogged towards the shape swaying in the water.

  It was wearing dark blue clothes. Some sort of uniform, Leisi thought, though the fabric was tattered from being snagged in the rocky surf. He might have fallen from one of the freighters that circled the islands, or possibly even a cruise ship.

  As Leisi moved closer, the smell hit her. It was intense, making her stomach muscles clench and her throat restrict. She tried to breathe through her mouth, but the odour became stuck on her tongue.

  He’d been dead for a while. Under the torn clothes, his skin was bubbling—swelling—as bacteria worked on converting the flesh into gas. He lay face-down in the water, so she couldn’t see his expression, but his scalp had lost a lot of its hair.

  Get him onto the beach. Get him secured. Then go for help.

  Leisi knelt beside the body. The smell made her retch, and she pressed her right sleeve over her nose as she reached her spare hand towards the corpse.

  Thunder cracked overhead. It was close; so close that she’d certainly get drenched on the walk back to the town.

  Leisi squeezed her eyes until they were nearly closed, and touched the corpse’s shoulder. The cloth was cold and wet, and felt slimy under her fingers. She wanted to move back, to look away, but didn’t allow herself. Instead, she tightened her grip on the jacket, and pulled.

  The body was heavier than she’d expected. Its clothes caught in the rocks and its head lolled, spilling litres of water out of its open mouth and the holes pocking its skin. With the water came more of the smell.

  The smell.

  She’d never thought decaying human could be so overwhelming. Leisi gagged as she pulled the figure out of the water and dragged it further up the beach. She didn’t let herself stop until she’d reached the curve where the beach rose into the bluff, then she let go and stepped back with a gasp of relief.

  The body was missing a leg. Leisi’s heart dropped. She glanced at the water’s edge, where the limb had come free and floated, half-submerged, in the sea-foamed rock pool.

  I can’t just leave it there.

  Leisi approached the leg. The pants had stayed with the body, leaving the limb exposed. It looked ghastly; grey, bubbling, and eaten away in many sections where sea creatures had feasted. Touching the flesh was abhorrent. It was slimy and spongy, with just enough of the familiar fleshy texture to re-trigger Leisi’s gag reflex. She carried it up the beach as quickly as she could and left it beside the body.


  Another crack of thunder deafened her as the sky lit up. Leisi turned to the ocean, where the waves were rolling closer, growing in size, and breaking on the bank of rocks a little out from the shore. A huge, heavy rain drop hit her face.

  The waves would sweep into the cove as the storm grew. If the police decided to wait until after the storm, the body might be washed away by the time they reached the beach. Leisi stared at the water-logged corpse. It might have a family. And it deserves a proper funeral. I can’t let it be lost again.

  She searched along the shore for rocks. Most of them were too large to lift, but she was able to find half a dozen small stones which she wedged around the corpse to weigh it down. Will that be enough? What if it’s not? I should find something to bring back for the police to identify the body, at least.

  Leisi knelt beside the figure and held her breath while she searched its pockets. If he’d been carrying a wallet, it had been lost to the ocean. As she felt around the jacket something else came loose, and Leisi stared at it for a moment before deciding. That will have to do.

  She tugged the item free, then stepped away from the body, stifling her gag reflex, and carefully placed her prize into the beach bag. This way, even if the body’s gone by the time they find the beach, they’ll have something. Something to identify. Something to bury.

  The rain had started to fall in earnest. With a final glance at the body, Leisi scrambled up the slope. She reached the path at the top, wiped her wet hair out of her face, and began the long walk back to town, the corpse’s head tucked snugly into her beach bag.

  4

  The Last Bus

  Raj ground his teeth as he leaned his forehead on the bus timetable and tried to read the routes. The twenty-six, twenty-eight and forty stopped there, but it didn’t say which ones, if any, went to Calgary.

  He glanced at the houses lining the street. He didn’t like to think their occupants might be watching him; laughing, possibly, at how obviously confused he was. The familiar, tight feeling of humiliation built in his stomach, but he pushed it down.