Category: horror
-
The Line – A Spoken Word Descent into Madness
I’ve done some wild things inside my head.
I’m not much of a talker–quiet type, really. I like to watch. Observe. Pick apart the patterns in people, in moments, in memories. I don’t always find something worth analyzing, though. And on those days, I go deeper. Inward. Looking for something else. Secrets. Mechanisms. Truths.
One time, I went searching for an off switch–just to see if my brain had one. I found it. It looked like a lever, tucked away in a quiet corner of myself. Being the curious sort, I flipped it.
Everything started shutting down. My thoughts dulled. A heavy fog rolled in behind my eyes. I felt like I was slipping into the deepest sleep imaginable. And then… I stopped breathing.
Panic hit like lightning. I clawed my way back to the lever and yanked it hard to ON.
Air rushed back into my lungs like floodwaters. I gasped. Trembled. Adrenaline surged through me like fire. I’d never felt so alive–and so close to not being alive. I never pulled that lever again.
But that wasn’t the only time I wandered too deep.
There was another place. A darker place. A corridor in my mind with no lights, no sound–just a presence. And there, etched like a scar into the mental floorboards, was a line.
I knew what it was the moment I saw it. No signs. No warnings. You just know. It was the threshold between sanity and madness.
There was a voice on the other side, faint but seductive. It beckoned. “Come see for yourself.”
And so, like a fool chasing forbidden knowledge, I crossed the line.
I ran headfirst into the abyss.
The screams were the first to greet me–children’s screams, full of panic, pleading, pain. Sounds I pray to forget. Then came the visions: twisted, unholy, splattered in crimson. The laughter–mine–wasn’t mine at all. It was fractured. Crooked.
I felt teeth in my mouth that didn’t belong to me. Felt the hunger. The thrill of violence. I saw myself smiling, wide and unnatural, as I tore and devoured and destroyed.
But something in me resisted.
I turned and ran. Hard. Blindly. Toward the line, praying it was still there.
When I crossed back, the silence was deafening. The relief… indescribable.
I never looked back.
I don’t want to know what happens if you stay on the other side too long.
I never searched for the line again.
I never will.
-
The Driving Game – A Deadly Late-Night Horror Story
No one knows who created the game. Maybe it started when the first cars rolled off the lot and took to the open road. Whoever invented it probably didn’t see this coming—or intend for it to end like this.
Harold Pfinster and his friends called it the game. It was simple. On any two-lane road, Driver A would pull up beside Driver B and drive alongside them, matching their speed. The goal was to make Driver B uncomfortable—force them to either speed up or slow down. When they did, Driver A would adjust accordingly, keeping pace. The fun was in the subtle pressure, in not letting the other car get away.
Harold liked to say he invented the game. No one he knew had heard of it before he started doing it, and his friends were surprised—and thrilled—when he taught it to them. It was fun, harmless, stupid fun.
Until one Friday night.
Harold and his three friends were out driving late, bored and restless. Their small town didn’t have anything cool for teens to do. At seventeen, eager for something more than sidewalks and gas stations, they were always looking for adventure.
“We could walk around Walmart again,” one of them said, without enthusiasm.
Harold, dark-haired and sharp-eyed, leaned back in the driver’s seat and looked into the rearview mirror. “Nah, man. That shit’s old. Why is there never anything to do around here?”
“Why don’t we just go to my place and hang out?” another offered. “This is getting boring.”
“I know,” Harold said with a sigh. “I just want to do something, you know? I wish there was a teen nightclub or something.”
“Yeah,” the third friend chimed in, “one that served beer to minors.”
“I’ve got beer at my place,” said the second friend. “My parents won’t notice.”
“Alright,” Harold said, turning onto the highway. “Guess I’m done.”
He picked up speed as they approached the turn—then slammed the brakes.
A black Ford Focus was crawling in front of them. Its windows were so tinted Harold wondered how the driver could even see out. And why the hell were they going 30 in a 55?
He laid on the horn. “Damn it! What is this guy doing?”
“Probably lost,” one friend guessed.
“Wish he’d get lost somewhere else,” Harold muttered.
He pulled into the other lane, ready to pass—when the second friend spoke up.
“Wait, Harold. Let’s play the game.”
“Yeah,” said the third, excited.
Harold smirked. “Alright, you guys. But it’s gonna be a long night if this guy’s really this slow.”
He dropped his speed to 30 and matched the Ford’s pace. The road was empty—flat, straight, and perfect for games… or speed traps. But no cops in sight.
The Ford sped up to 55.
Harold adjusted immediately. Still side by side.
Then it sped up more.
“Oh, this guy’s gonna be fun,” Harold grinned.
“Don’t lose him,” said the first friend.
Harold didn’t.
The two cars danced the road together, speeding up, slowing down, until finally the Ford settled at the speed limit.
“Alright,” Harold said, relaxing. “That was fun. Let’s get out of here.”
He eased up on the gas, ready to slip behind the Ford.
But the Ford slowed down too.
“Oh,” Harold said, unfazed, “He still wants to play.”
So they kept going. But the fun started to fade. It was getting late.
“Come on, Harold,” said the third friend. “Give it up already.”
“He won’t leave us alone. I’m starting to get worried.”
“Hey,” said the second friend in the passenger seat. “He’s rolling his window down.”
The friend rolled his down too, leaning out to get a look at the driver.
Then—bang—a burst of light and sound.
A bullet tore through the passenger’s skull.
“Shit!” Harold screamed, swerving wildly as the friend’s brains sprayed across the interior. The car lurched, hit the Ford, and skidded off the road.
They slammed into the ditch and flipped onto their side.
Harold unclipped his seatbelt and shoved open the door. “You guys okay back there?” he called, his voice shaking.
“Yeah,” they answered, trembling. “But what about—”
“Don’t worry about him,” Harold said, already looking outside. “That guy… he’s coming over.”
The Ford was parked now. Its driver—a man in black, face masked—was walking toward them. A pistol dangled casually from his right hand.
“Oh, shit!” Harold scrambled out, trying to run.
Bang.
“Angh!” he collapsed, a searing pain in his leg. The man had shot him.
Friend One opened the back door to look out.
Bang.
He fell onto Friend Three, who screamed as he was shoved against the car door.
Harold rolled onto his back and watched, helpless, as the man stepped closer.
Bang.
Another shot into the back seat.
Everyone else was dead.
The man stood over Harold now. All Harold could see were his eyes—grey, cold, expressionless.
He moved with precision. Military. Calm. Professional.
Then he pulled down his mask.
“I won,” he said.
He raised the gun and pulled the trigger.
-
My Wife Was Replaced by a Mimic, and I Couldn’t Be Happier (Pt 3)
Proverbs 27: 15-16
15 A quarrelsome wife is like the dripping
of a leaky roof in a rainstorm;
16 restraining her is like restraining the wind
or grasping oil with the hand.
I Was Going to Kill Her, But She Made Me Dinner
The library wasn’t as helpful as I’d hoped.
The biggest problem was that I didn’t even know what I was dealing with. A mimic made the most sense—but that was more of a D&D term than a real-world classification. Native American folklore had plenty of stories about shapeshifters—beings that took human form to deceive, seduce, or stalk prey. But nothing with a checklist or a cure.
Still, I didn’t leave empty-handed.
Salt and iron seemed to be the most commonly suggested countermeasures. So I went to Home Depot. Where I discovered a new frustration: nothing is just iron anymore. It’s all steel. Alloy this, galvanized that.
I sighed. Loudly. Repeatedly. In the metal aisle. Like a man on the verge of losing a fight to metallurgy.
Eventually, I settled for a steel rod—close enough, I hoped—and grabbed a big bag of salt. I wasn’t sure what kind was best. Table salt? Sea salt? Himalayan pink?
At this point, I was overthinking it.
I figured if it came down to it, I could bash her in the head and pour salt in the wound. Felt like a backup plan from an exorcism manual written by the Supernatural show writers.
I sat in the car for a long time when I got home.
What the hell was I doing? Was it possible—even remotely—that this was Claire? That she hit her head or had some mountain retreat revelation and decided to be a better person?
It was unlikely. But not impossible.
Maybe I was just so miserable, so used to the worst version of her, that I couldn’t believe in the best version even if it walked through the door and made me bacon.
I stepped out of the car, gripping the paper bag like the nervous priest in Amityville, and walked into the house.
It smelled like pot roast.
The Thing in the Mirror
My stomach turned in confusion and hunger. Did I really have to kill her? Maybe she was Claire. Maybe the spa changed her.
The sound of the shower stopped as I walked into the bedroom. Light spilled out from under the bathroom door. I heard humming—at first garbled and wet, like someone gargling while trying to sing. Then it shifted, slowly, unnervingly, into Claire’s voice.
Then it changed again. It sounded like me.
She giggled.
I opened the door fast, a fistful of salt ready to fly.
I saw… something. A flash. A shape. Twisted. Jarring. Wrong.
And then it was gone.
I fumbled the salt, dropping it. She lunged at me—not to attack, but to hug me.
“Hubby!” she squealed, jumping into my arms like it was our wedding day.
I caught her. Reflex.
She kissed my cheek. “I missed you!”
“…Yeah,” I mumbled. “I missed you too.”
And I meant it. I missed this version of Claire—the woman who smiled, who kissed me, who made dinner. I’d never know what twisted her into the person she became.
Whatever this was, it wasn’t her. But it was doing a hell of a job pretending.
Dinner was quiet.
I’m pretty sure she saw the salt scattered on the bedroom floor. And the metal rod sticking out of the bag. And I’m absolutely sure she knew I saw her slip.
“This is amazing,” I said, digging into a second helping of roast.
She smiled softly, sipping her wine.
A Tender Confession
We didn’t say much after that. I think we both knew there wasn’t anything to say.
We migrated to the couch after dinner. She curled into my side like Claire used to do—before things got bad. I didn’t pull away.
Even knowing what she was, I didn’t feel threatened. I felt… weirdly calm. Maybe I was too exhausted from all the fear, too numbed by the surreal acceptance of what I’d seen.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, a motivational poster from the library whispered, “Serenity is acceptance of things you cannot change.”
Sure. That, or I’d finally lost it.
“Mark,” she said, “If I were a monster… would you still love me?”
I laughed. Nervously. She felt it.
“Isn’t the question supposed to be, ‘Would you still love me if I were a worm?’”
She didn’t answer.
I felt like an ass.
We were watching The Thing, of all movies. As she snuggled deeper into my chest, I wondered if she’d absorb me by the end credits.
Her voice lowered. Calm. Measured. Almost… vulnerable.
“So, hypothetically… let’s say I’m like the creature in this movie. Let’s say I was born in the mountains. I came across a woman who was… awful. So I took her place. Came back to her home and tried to do better.”
I blinked.
“Let’s say I’m not her. Let’s say you know I’m not her. But I’m trying. I’m trying not to be an ungrateful bitch.”
“This is hitting really close to home,” I chuckled.
“Is it?” she asked.
Her eyes searched mine. Genuinely curious. Genuinely scared.
Maybe scared I’d drive a rod into her skull the moment she closed her eyes.
Two Types of Monsters
“Well,” I said, stammering, “I mean… all hypothetical, right? Monsters aren’t real.”
She studied me.
“Let’s say either of us could kill the other at any moment. Would that really be so different from if I was her?”
I paused.
Claire hadn’t been violent. But she had been killing me slowly—draining our bank account, draining my patience, draining me.
And here was something else, something monstrous, asking for a chance.
Was this a confession?
We’d reached a threshold—an agreement, spoken in maybes and what-ifs.
I took a breath.
“Hypothetically… if you replaced my wife—if we could both kill each other at any moment—no, I don’t think that would be much different. Claire was terrible. But she wasn’t always. She changed. If you were a monster who replaced her, wouldn’t it make you more likely to kill me?”
Her eyes dropped. She looked… sad. Maybe it was a trick. A calculated illusion. Or maybe it wasn’t.
“However,” I continued. “You’ve tried harder in one day than she did in three years. She was killing me slowly. Spending money faster than I could earn. Never helped with anything.
“If you plan to ‘be good,’ like you said… then no, I wouldn’t kill you. And I wouldn’t divorce you, either. In fact… I might be able to accept you for what you are.”
She wrapped her very human arms around me. No claws. No tendrils. No teeth behind her eyes. Just soft skin and a faint, sweet scent.
She nuzzled into my neck.
“So… you won’t kick me out?”
I blinked.
That’s what she’s worried about? We were just talking about killing each other five seconds ago.
“I won’t kick you out,” I said.
What else could I say? We both understood. Quietly. Silently. This was our new normal.
We cuddled on the couch every night till this day.
My story is strange. Unbelievable. Probably unrelatable.
But if you’ve got a shitty spouse—
Maybe send them to the Smoky Mountain Resort.
Worst case?
They come back the same.Best case?
They don’t come back at all.And what shows up instead…
Might just be an improvement. -
My Wife Was Replaced by a Mimic, and I Couldn’t Be Happier (Pt 2)
Proverbs 27: 15-16
15 A quarrelsome wife is like the dripping
of a leaky roof in a rainstorm;
16 restraining her is like restraining the wind
or grasping oil with the hand.
Breakfast, Bacon, and a Monster in My House
I was wrenched from sleep by the relentless ringing of the doorbell. My head throbbed. Too much Jack.
Shit.
I rolled over and fumbled for my phone—1:03 PM. No excuse. I should’ve been up hours ago, but the whiskey and my dread about Claire’s return had done me in.
The doorbell kept going, but now the cadence had changed. Whoever was on the other side was… playing something. A rhythm.
It took me a second, but then I recognized it. Claire’s favorite song. I couldn’t remember the name, but the pattern was unmistakable. Tap-tap-tap… pause… tap-tap.
My skull felt like it was hosting a drumline. I muttered a curse under my breath and dragged myself from bed.
Who the hell was at my door? Some kid? I was going to kick their ass when I opened the door! Though at this rate, they’d have five minutes to escape while I went blind from the sunlight.
I staggered to the door, shielding my eyes like a vampire, and shouted, “I’m coming!” The doorbell stopped—Hallelujah! I cracked the door open with a groggy squint.
“Who is it?” I tried to keep my voice neutral, but irritation seeped through.
And there she was.
Claire.
Sort of.
She was smiling. Not the sarcastic, dismissive smirk she’d worn the past few years, but a real smile. Soft. Bright. The kind that once made me believe in things like fate.
“Hi, Hubby,” she said. “Did you miss me?”
Hubby? Where did that come from?
I instinctively moved to shut the door but paused. If I didn’t let her in, I knew I’d be dealing with another rendition of her doorbell symphony.
So, I opened the door wider.
She’s Not Claire—But She’s Perfect
She looked just like Claire had before the wedding. Not younger, just… lighter. Her eyes shimmered with warmth I hadn’t seen in ages. That glow reached into my chest and touched something brittle and forgotten.
It wasn’t Claire, but what the hell was it?
And it pushed me inside, gently guiding me backward, and closing the door behind us with a quiet click.
Alarms screamed in my mind. This is not Claire. This is something else. What did it want? What had it done with her? What was it going to do to me?
But before I could act, it ushered me to the couch and began massaging my shoulders.
“My poor Hubby,” it crooned. “Did you drink too much last night?”
I turned to look at it. The concern on its face seemed genuine. I nodded, doing my best to mask the fear prickling my skin. I needed to play along—at least until I figured out what it was.
“Don’t worry,” it said, gliding toward the kitchen. “I know just the thing for hangovers.”
I listened to the fridge open, the shuffling of containers, her voice softly humming with indecision.
I tried standing—bad idea. The room spun, and I collapsed back into the couch with a groan.
“Don’t move a muscle, Mark,” it called sweetly. “I’m going to take care of you.”
Like you took care of Claire?
My mind spiraled. Until something pulled me back.
Hash Browns, Bacon, and Unsettling Smiles
The smell.
Butter. Onion.
My stomach growled. I looked up and saw her at the stove, a skillet already sizzling. I hadn’t heard her chop anything.
I watched her like a hawk.
“No peeking, Hubby,” she said with a playful glance. She pulled potatoes from the cupboard, her movements fluid, practiced.
I turned away, staring at the wall, trying not to blink.
Then: bacon.
My mouth watered. The aroma wrapped around me like a spell. I dared to turn my head toward the kitchen.
“Stop peeking,” she giggled. “You’ll ruin the surprise. A girl’s got to have her secrets.”
Her voice was so pleasant… unnervingly pleasant.
I couldn’t forget what she really was. A Demon. A Skinwalker. Something sinister and out of the ordinary.
God—was she wearing Claire’s skin?
A thousand thoughts screamed through me. And then she set the plate down. Bacon, eggs, and hash browns.
“Go on, Mark. Eat up. You’ll feel better.”
She ran her fingers through my hair before slipping away to the laundry room.
Poison? Maybe. Did I care?
Whatever it was—if it wanted to kill me, wear me, feed off me—I was probably already doomed.
My stomach gurgled. I hadn’t eaten since the night before.
I took a bite of bacon.
Perfect. Chewy, crisp, juicy. Just the way I liked it. My God, I’m about to marry that thing.
It was delicious. Everything. I shook my head. It was going to happen, right? I was going to die. There was no escaping that thing… No, it didn’t want me to know it wasn’t Claire. It couldn’t show its hand yet. I had a chance, but could I kill whatever it was?
I glanced back at the laundry room.
The Things That Mimic Love Too Well
She was folding clothes.
Claire always hated how I folded clothes. Said I made it look like they’d been balled up and thrown in the dryer with rocks.
“Are you feeling better, Hubby?” she called sweetly.
Hubby. I don’t know if I’ll get used to that. Claire had never called me Hubby in our marriage. It was weird, but in a good way. This monster certainly knew how to lull a man into a false sense of security. Incredibly dangerous. I had to keep my guard up.
“I… uh… yeah.”
She smiled.
“I’m going to iron your work shirts next. They’re a bit wrinkled.”
“Oh… thanks.” I hesitated. “So… how was your trip?”
She giggled.
She giggled. It was nice. Too nice. Must resist.
“It was amazing, Mark! Thank you so much for sending me—and my friends. It was exactly what I needed.”
“Right. Good. I’m glad you all… had fun.”
She turned back to the clothes, humming again.
I needed to get out. I needed space to think.
“I think I’ll, um, go to the library. Research. A new project for work. New client. Just trying to stay ahead of things.”
She walked over and kissed my cheek.
“I hope it goes well,” she said softly. “I’m making a nice dinner tonight, so no snacking while you’re out.”
I nearly screamed.
She kissed me. It kissed me. It got right up to me and kissed me.
My skin tingled. Pheromones! Yeah. Whatever this thing was, it was working my senses very… very well.
I gulped. “Yes, Claire, yes, I will not… I will not have any snacks.”
“Good,” she said, eyes sparkling as she looked me up and down. “Because I’m dessert tonight.”
I turned quickly, determined not to show my arousal. “Yes, ma’am!” It came out high-pitched. Embarrassingly so.
God damn it!
“Hold on,” she said, just as I reached for the doorknob.
I froze.
“Where’s my kiss?”
Howlietzer Publishing 