Penny's Tales

Horror stories, narrations and illustrations by Penny Tailsup
Penny's Tales
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    • On hiatus, but not dead

      Posted at 6:33 pm by Penny Tailsup, on June 15, 2022

      I haven’t been writing or narrating lately, but I’m still around– just focusing on real life stressors and my own health at the moment. I am still drawing since that’s one thing I can just zone out and relax to do. I won’t be gone forever, in fact I’ve recently been feeling inspired to write again I just don’t want to make promises and then something else happens.

      I don’t think horror fiction is done with me yet though. I don’t think it ever will be! In the meantime I might start sharing my art on here more– I’ve been improving on that front. I hope everyone else is doing well.

      Posted in Short Stories [Horror] | 0 Comments

    • [Short Horror Story] She’ ll Thank Me Later

      Posted at 5:43 pm by Penny Tailsup, on May 2, 2021

      Listen

      Everyone has “that person” in their life– a drama queen (or king) who makes everything about themselves and blows everything out of proportion.

      If you’re lucky, that person is a comfortable distance away– a friend of a friend, a cousin’s roommate, the neighbor three doors down… Someone you can usually avoid, at least most of the time. If you’re unlucky like I am, they’re family. 

      For me, that person was my sister.

      Simone was always too emotional. I don’t know where she got it. We had the same parents, and I can confidently say that her bad behavior wasn’t tolerated or rewarded. In fact, it usually backfired! Simone never learned. The punishments only added fuel to the fire. To her, penalties were proof of “abuse”. 

      Even minor inconveniences were met with such drama that I found her exhausting! It got to the point where, before she even opened her mouth, I’d find myself snapping– 

      “What now, Simone?”

      Because there was always something. I honestly don’t know how she lived like that– the perpetual victim. Personal accountability was a foreign concept. It was always someone else’s fault. Simone blamed our parents, and when I was older, me; for “letting it happen”. You almost admire the mental gymnastics it took to be forever blameless. 

      Almost.

      As adults we had the freedom to grow apart. The choice was more mine than hers, because at first she would text, call, or e-mail almost daily with a list of her latest grievances or silly dreams. Simone always wanted to be a chef, which I guess is a good job for someone so emotional… but I never tried her dishes because I didn’t want to sit through dinner with her. 

      I tolerated Simone at arm’s length; it worked for a while–  it wasn’t as bad when I didn’t have to live with her… but eventually, that too grew old and I blocked her on everything. It wasn’t supposed to be forever, but it was such a relief that I couldn’t bring myself to open the floodgates again. 

      After that, I only saw her at the family functions she was invited to, where  I’d see I was still right about her. Simone was always shunted away in corners like a kicked puppy; waiting for me to feel sorry for her. Since she hadn’t changed, I didn’t feel bad for cutting her out. 

      We’d gone years without seeing each other, even longer since speaking– but one day, I received a letter in the mail from her. Seeing her name on the envelope, I almost tossed it– but curiosity got the better of me. 

      It was an invitation to dinner at her house the following week. Beneath the date and time, she’d written a small note to convince me:

      I’ve changed, she promised. Come see, and be a family to me. I’ll prove it. If you come, I’ll accept whatever happens.  The publisher bought my cookbook, it will be on shelves soon. Isn’t it time you tried my cooking?

      I was skeptical of the claim. That she’d changed– not the cookbook. I imagined she’d paid some vanity publisher to get her book on shelves. I didn’t care about that, except that I saw it for what it was: an excuse to invite me to dinner. 

      The letter, hand-written, still seemed like a cry for attention. Even so, I was intrigued by the proposition and agreed. I unblocked her number and called. It was the first time I’d ever called. Within a few rings, she picked up. 

      “Hello.” her voice caught me off guard with it’s suddenness– and flatness, a greeting spoken with no inflection. No emotion.

      “Simone?” 

      “Yes.” 

      I paused, half-expecting her to continue… but she didn’t. “It’s me. I got your letter,” I said, beginning to wonder if I’d regret my decision.  “I’ll come to dinner.” 

      “Okay.”  When I didn’t say anything else, she spoke up again– “Was that all?” which… annoyed me, because she was acting indifferent to the fact that I was giving her a chance. A chance she’d written me to ask for! But I’d be no better than she was if I let my annoyance show.

      “Yes, that’s all. See you soon.”

      “Bye.” 

      Click.

      I was oddly disappointed by the exchange, even a little unnerved– but it also gave me hope that she was right. That Simone had changed. 

      For too long, I’d regulated her to more an acquaintance than a sister. Someone I recognized but didn’t really know. Maybe she’d been changing all along, learning to control herself more and more as she matured.

      At Sunday dinner, I mentioned Simone to the rest of the family. I was having my doubts and was curious what they thought. If she could really be better. 

      “Simone said she’s publishing a cookbook, she invited me to dinner next week.” I said suddenly, twisting noodles onto my fork. I’d been quiet up until then, oddly reflective. For some reason I was dreading the dinner. Something didn’t feel right, but I’d already agreed to go…

      “Oh, was that what she was babbling about?” Father replied. “I said we’d try to make it, but she knows how busy we are.” 

      “She’s so scrawny I doubt her cooking is any good.” Mother added, not looking up from her plate. By then, my still-twirling fork was choked with pasta;  I took a bite and let the subject drop. The table grew lively again. I lost track of the conversation, only interjecting when prodded. 

      “Is everything alright, Andy?” Mother asked. I said it was fine, because I was fine. Trust Simone to get me into some kind of “mood”. I hated to think her emotional nature had rubbed off on me. I excused myself early and went home, still frustratingly reflective.

      I almost called Simone to cancel dinner but decided that was almost… cowardly. But how was it cowardly? Why was I acting scared? No.  It wasn’t that I was afraid to go to dinner, I just didn’t want to bother– dreading the theatrics that were sure to accompany it. Surely it would be dinner and a show. A show I had no interest in seeing.

      “You don’t care. You’ve always been the favorite.”

      I could imagine the accusations so well I could hear them. I could feel the headache that always followed too, forming with the tell-tale tightening my temples. Damnit, Simone! Always a pain. But I was going, and that was that! 

      I had to set an example for her. I was the oldest. I had to be someone she could aspire to– that meant no flaking. It meant tolerating whatever tantrum she decided to throw… and in the end, she said so herself: she’d accept whatever happened. It could be the definitive end of our relationship; a final clean break.

      The week leading up to the dinner felt dragged out, yet I still wished it was longer. Time was just slow enough to be uncomfortable while still fast enough that I didn’t feel prepared when the time came.  I’d half-hoped some dire emergency would pull me away– but the universe wasn’t in a charitable mood.

      Simone’s house was a shabby white shack  in the bad part of town. I’d never been there before, but I wasn’t surprised by it. There was no driveway, only mud. I’d have to wash my car on the way home. 

      Still, she did the best she could with what she had– I gave her some credit for the wide begonia planters that lined the walkway and the hanging baskets of bleeding hearts that swayed from the porch rafters. Flowers drew your eye away from the drab exterior of the place, if briefly.

      The doorbell was broken so I knocked. There was no welcome mat. The wait was just a heartbeat too long, just long enough that I wondered if she was coming. When I raised my fist to knock again, the door swung open. My sister didn’t smile, just opened the door a little wider.

      “I didn’t think you’d come.” she said.

      “I said I would.” 

      I stepped over the threshold; the floorboards creaked. My heart fluttered with the suddenness of the sound, but I awkwardly laughed it off.

      “You can leave your shoes on.” Simone said, but I ignored that. I wasn’t going to give her any ammunition by tracking mud across her floors. I took off my shoes, leaving them just outside the door. Simone didn’t say anything, gesturing for me to follow her down the hall.

      The house smelled of spices, and in spite of my doubts… my mouth began to water. My thoughts began to wander. I felt oddly nostalgic, though I’d never tried Simone’s cooking. The walls were painted yellow but were otherwise bare. 

      We reached the kitchen, no doubt the nicest room in the house. Simone grew her own herbs, little planters decorating every available surface. A large window let lots of light in, even through the thin, threadbare curtains. There was a small eating nook in the corner, tucked by the window. The surface of the pale wooden table had three place settings with plain ceramic dishes. Two of them were flipped upside down. 

      Let’s get this over with.

      “Make yourself at home. I hope you’re hungry.” Simone walked over to the fridge and pulled out a large bowl covered in plastic. I sat down, feeling a little cramped in the corner of that little booth. I pushed the table out slightly, giving myself more leg room. The dishes quivered on the table with the movement, but nothing fell. 

      “This is only the first course,” my sister said, returning to place the serving bowl in the center of the table. It was a salad with the greens cut rather… square. For some reason, there was a blue striped candle in the middle of the bowl. The kind you usually found on a birthday cake. Simone lit it, though it looked like it would tip over at any moment. I’d never seen a candle on a salad before, but figured there probably wasn’t much you could do to make a salad interesting. 

       “My own take on a dandelion green salad. I call it Birthday Salad.” Simone said.  I expected her to sound boastful, like most chefs would be at the unveiling of a dish… But Simone just seemed matter-of-fact, even… bored. 

      “Dandelion? Like the weed that grows in my yard?” I looked down into the bowl. I could see little bits of lemon, too. Zest and a crumbly type of cheese. I’m sure the rest of the ingredients were herbs, but I wasn’t sure which ones. A salad trying too hard to be fancy, I thought. Or a way to trick me into eating her lawn clippings.

      “Try it before you judge.” Simone said. “I grew most of the ingredients myself.” So… lawn clippings, with little bits from her garden. “If you don’t like it we’ll move on to the next course.” 

      I shook my head, refusing to lose to a salad. My sister grabbed the tongs and served me. The candle tipped over in the process, the little flame sputtering out. Fortunately the greens were too wet to catch on fire. Or maybe it was unfortunate? A fire would have been all the reason I needed to leave.

      “I already tossed it in dressing,” Simone explained, like that made her decision to add a candle okay. She sat down across from me, folding her hands in her lap. I picked up the fork, spearing a bite– but hesitated,  letting it hover inches from my mouth.  I could feel her eyes on me the whole time.

      Suspicion crept into my thoughts. My sister had gone through a lot of trouble to make a multi-course dinner. A dinner she wasn’t eating, and without any of the sort of outbursts I’d come to expect from her! Was this what they called gaslighting? 

      I felt like she was provoking me, even as she looked on passively. Waiting for me to take that first bite… or refuse to eat and leave the table. Then she could accuse me of being too emotional! Overreacting, when I couldn’t put my finger on what was wrong.

      “Why did you put a candle on it?” I asked.

      “Because it’s Birthday Salad. Does it matter? I’m not expecting you to eat the candle.” 

      “But why is it Birthday Salad?” I persisted, fork still  frozen in place. I was stalling and I think she knew it. Even so, she didn’t even look annoyed.

      “Because I was thinking about a birthday when I made it. My 11th at the park. Maybe you remember?” I didn’t, but decided not to admit it. I couldn’t remember much about her birthdays, let alone any birthday in particular.

      Pushing back the creeping paranoia, I took a bite. The fork was colder than I expected, which was strange because I hadn’t noticed when it was in my hand. The salad was bitter and sour, the sodden greens heavier than they should have been– still somehow crunchy, despite their wetness.I contemplated spitting it out, it… wasn’t to my taste. But I swallowed my pride, and that first and only bite. 

      My throat tightened as if rejecting it– I could feel that mouthful make its way down, yet that tightness only intensified and seemed to spread. Even my chest began to constrict– 

      “Have you ever heard the term ‘cooking with love’?” Simone asked, watching me. I set down the fork. I realized what was happening– I just didn’t know why. I was trying not to cry.  The urge seized me in it’s grip,  a noose around my neck.

      She’s trying to kill me!

      I couldn’t answer, but Simone continued anyway: “Well, I found out that you can cook with other feelings too.You can put them in just about anything.  Do you know which one I used in that salad?”

      “Poison?” I gasped out. Two syllables shouldn’t have been so hard. I hunched over the table, hyperventilating. The pressure behind my eyes was so much that I half-expected my eyes to come flying out of their sockets!

      “No. It might feel that way, but emotions aren’t poisonous. Besides, it wouldn’t be so bad if you just let yourself cry. But you can’t, right? That’s probably because I couldn’t either.”

      Her words felt far away, I was focused inward. On the sharp pain pressing into my ocular cavity, filling my skull– it hurt. I felt like I wasn’t breathing, even though the rapid rise and fall of my chest told me I was. The feeling of deep sadness had morphed into panic, a sensation I quickly tried to smother with anger.

      “What the hell did you do?” I demanded, but the anger intended couldn’t be wheezed out, only the words.

      “I just told you.” Simone replied. “I guess you’re done with the salad. Are you ready for the next course?” she reached across the table to take my plate. My mouth opened, trying to tell her ‘no’, but nothing came out. When words failed me, I shook my head instead.

      “Yes you are.” Simone said. “Don’t be such a baby, it’ll go away in a minute. You only had a taste. I lived it.” As she said this, the tightness was already beginning to lessen– though my cheeks were stinging and wet. 

      “I made enough for everyone, but you’re the only one who came. Good thing I put all my disappointment in that salad, or I’d be feeling it too.” Simone kept going like I hadn’t refused, covering the salad and putting it away.

      “I don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish here, but drugging my food is going way too far!” I was able to shout again but she didn’t even flinch. 

      “I didn’t drug anything. I only put my feelings in the food. Now you can experience it and tell me how dramatic you think I am.” Simone was still calm. Too calm, as she brought over another covered dish and set it in front of me.

      “It’s all in my new cookbook.” Simone continued, “I have a signed copy for you, you can take it home after dinner and see for yourself if you really don’t believe me. I think you’ll have some feelings about tonight.” she actually did smile then, though there was something wrong about it. Maybe it was her eyes. I wouldn’t even say they were cold, but they were… something.

      “It’s important that you try it. Just a bite. You don’t know what I’ve given up so I could share this with you.”

      “I don’t care.” 

      “I know. That’s the problem. I’m trying to teach you empathy. If you still don’t care by the end of the meal, I’ll accept that.” Our eyes locked, she looked at me expectantly. Simone didn’t say a word, but I knew what she was waiting for. I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction. I wasn’t playing this game. 

      “Fuck this.” I stood, “I already tried your nasty salad, not sure why you thought I’d keep going after that. Don’t contact me again. Accept that, or don’t.” I expected her to cry, or scream some insult or justification– but she didn’t. 

      Her blank stare almost made me feel ashamed of my own outburst, but not enough to stay. Maybe on the outside she was calm, but this night was clearly about making me feel bad (or sick, or dead) and I wasn’t going to sit there and eat it! How stupid did she think I was?

      “You might regret it.”

      “I won’t.” I said firmly, stepping around her and heading back to the front door. My heart was racing, fists clenched so hard my hands shook. Simone followed me, watching me shove my shoes on and stomp towards the car. My shoes weren’t even completely on; the heels flattening and nearly flying off with each step. I’d go home bare-foot if it meant getting away from her!

      “I gave you a real opportunity,” she called after me. “I thought if you felt something, you’d understand. But you really can’t. Or won’t. Because then you’d feel bad. Can’t have that. It’s easier when you can write me off instead.”

      “Keep talking! You’re just proving me right,”I spat, “acting all calm to trick me. But it was just another guilt trip that your life was so terrible. You didn’t change at all.” 

      “You didn’t either.” 

      “I didn’t need to!” her false calm was only making me angrier! Worse– it made me more afraid. Maybe she put a bit of anger  and fear in that salad too… if I believed any of that nonsense! I hastily put the car in reverse, hissing a curse through my teeth when my tires spun. 

      Simone walked right up to the driver side door, peering in at me– I must have been red-faced and practically frothing with rage. It was rage, wasn’t it? The wheels continued to spin, sending mud in every direction… but she didn’t move away.

      “Don’t be scared. Come inside, Andy.” she said softly, sounding so reasonable for such a manipulative bitch. “Finish dinner. I’ll even pay for the tow. I promise it’s not going to hurt you… it might even make you better.” 

      “Fuck off.” 

      I turned off the engine, getting out of the car. I started digging into the mud with my bare hands, not caring that I was ruining my clothes in the process. I’d rather dig myself out than try another bite of her weird, mindgame of a meal. I didn’t trust her. I didn’t know what she was really up to, and I wasn’t going to gamble with my life! 

      Simone didn’t move, just watched for a while– but eventually  went back inside. I thought about calling the police or getting an ambulance, but decided against it. Making that kind of scene would make her feel like she won. Besides, I’d only eaten one bite.

      After fighting with the mud, I made it home. I tracked dirt on my floors all the way to the shower– where I washed off, clothes on. Another one of Simone’s messes for me to clean up. I was only surprised she found a way to make me bring it home. My sister had really outdone herself!

      When I went to bed, it was hard to sleep– I kept wondering about the dishes I’d left untouched. What were they, what she put in them, what the point of it all had been. I hated losing sleep over anything she did, but when I closed my eyes… that feeling came back; the closing of my chest and throat, the pressure behind my eyes, like I might cry myself to sleep. Maybe I did.

      I vowed I’d never forgive her, but of course she had to call me from the hospital a few days later. Putting herself in a place where only a monster would ignore her.

      I almost hung up on her, but… I knew it would make me look bad.  I grit my teeth and listened. It made me angry, but at the same time it was comforting. The obvious manipulation; that was the Simone I knew.

      “Did you do it for attention?” I asked her, unable to help myself. I was still mad.

      “No, it was an accident.” she said, “I messed up, Andy. The pain helps me see that now. I had to call you before they gave me another dose of painkillers.” 

      “Well, yeah. You did mess up.”  I agreed, feeling my shoulders relax. Maybe she wasn’t going to try and blame me for this after all.

      “I took out too much. I thought if I showed any emotion at all, you wouldn’t come.” she said, “I shouldn’t have done that. I need to put some back. I need your help.” I didn’t know what she meant exactly, but felt my brow furrow.

      “After that stunt you pulled?” I could feel a chill sweep over me at the mere memory.

      “I didn’t mean to scare you Andy. I’m sorry.”

      “Whatever. What do you need me to do, exactly? Tell me and I’ll decide if I feel like it.” I didn’t  agree right away, still thinking this might be some kind of trap. 

      “Go to my house. Get my leftovers–” I opened my mouth to argue, but before I could get a word out she added, “they aren’t for you. I put so much of myself in those dishes that it’s not coming back like it normally does. So… I need to eat them if I’m going to be myself again. Otherwise I’m not sure I’ll ever recover.”

      “Simone… you know how that sounds, right? I hope you’re not talking like that to the doctors. You’re going to get yourself committed and that’ll make the whole family look bad. That’s the only reason I didn’t have you arrested!”

      “I know you believe me. You were scared.” Simone said, “Even if you won’t admit it. But I’m not even asking you to believe me… only bring the leftovers. Please. Some of everything. As soon as you can. While I still care about it.”

      “Fine.” 

      She told me where the spare key was hidden and I found myself back at her house. There were deep trenches in the mud lot, reminding me of that night. I decided to park on the street, walking up slowly like I expected Simone to ambush me with a tray of her cooking. 

      I fumbled through one of the hanging baskets, making a mess of the flowers before I managed to find the key. This time I left my shoes on, making a beeline for the fridge. Inside, I found stacks on stacks of tupperware.

      All of them were labelled with emotions: sadness, jealousy,  joy, anger, love and relief– too many to mention.  I was intrigued.  There were a lot to choose from. It was like she really believed she’d been cooking with feelings. It was like I believed her.

      But there was only one way to find out. I grabbed the dish labelled ‘relief’, setting it on the counter. It was some kind of casserole. I’ll only take a piece, I thought. If it’s any good.

      Of course I wasn’t going to go for anything that might make me feel bad. I opened drawers until I found the silverware, fishing out a spoon and coming back for a little sample.

      The casserole was cold… but it felt warm when I put it in my mouth; a warmth that spread through me and relaxed muscles I hadn’t realized were tense. A placebo effect, surely! But the feeling was so fleeting that I found myself reaching for another bite, then another, then another… until I was full and couldn’t eat anymore, despite wanting to.

      That’s when I noticed her book, Cooking Your Feelings, sitting on the counter. An author’s copy, since it hadn’t hit shelves yet. Maybe it never would.  I  grabbed it, tucking it under my arm and decided which dishes to  bring. Only the good feelings, none of the bad ones. 

      The rest? Well…I made an executive decision. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I was the only one who knew what was best. Simone always let emotions get in the way. I didn’t. She filled a whole fridge with her feelings! It was strange to see something as abstract as emotion quantified like that. I doubted mine could fill even one shelf- I had a lot more self-control.

      I filled up a garbage bag with her sadness, anxiety and jealousy. All the bad emotions. Who needs feelings like that? The bag was very heavy. Simone would be better off without them. Besides, once she healed from her injuries she wouldn’t care anymore. 

      I was half-way to the hospital when I thought… maybe she didn’t need the other  emotions either. Maybe it was because I was curious. I kept thinking about trying some of the other dishes. That “relaxation” casserole had been tasty. Much better than that bitter disappointment salad!

      Simone wanted me to try her cooking and I was finally ready to grant her wish. Besides, she’d made it for me hadn’t she? The feelings didn’t belong to her anymore. They were a gift. They were mine. But I was going to choose what I felt, and if she thought I’d choose to feel bad she had another thing coming!

      Now that I knew she wasn’t messing with me, that her story about cooking with feelings had been true…I  realized I liked her better this way; this calm, unemotional Simone. The sister I deserved but never thought I’d have. I turned the car around.

      By the time I got home, I felt a little bad– she’d asked me to bring the leftovers, but I wasn’t going to. Anyone else would give in to the whims of their little sister. But you can’t reward bad behavior! Sometimes you can’t have your way and it was time Simone learned that. She’ll thank me later.

      Fortunately, my more uncomfortable feelings were short-lived– thanks to her cookbook. I’ll never have to feel bad about anything again. I took all those pesky feelings like fear, doubt and guilt– and put them in a throwaway peanut butter and jelly sandwich. 

      What?

      My sister is the chef, not me.

      Posted in Short Stories [Horror] | 0 Comments | Tagged emotional horror, food horror, horror, scary story

    • [Short Horror Story] Don’t Eat In Your Dreams

      Posted at 9:40 pm by Penny Tailsup, on August 9, 2020

      Have you ever had a dream so vivid that you wondered if it actually happened? 

      You probably have… but shook it off, because of course it didn’t. Right?  A dream under scrutiny, illuminated by the dawn, is easily dismissed. Yet, if you’ve been where I’ve been… maybe a part of you wasn’t completely convinced.

      Maybe, in the course of a dream— you wandered a little too far from yourself, from your bed, body and world. Maybe you’ve been to the Dream District.

      If you ever find yourself in a place to wonder… ask. He’ll tell you; he will be beautiful, friendly and inviting. He will offer you hospitality, flattery and gifts. Anything you want. He’ll know what you want, somehow.

      Yet, a part of you will know, deep down: you can’t take it. Not unless you’re going to stay. But you can’t stay, it’s a dream. You don’t belong there. 

      If you find yourself in the Dream District, thank your host and leave. Start walking, and don’t stop until you find yourself back in the dream you were supposed to be having. Do that, and hope he doesn’t follow you.

      Trust me.

      …

      It started with sweet potato pie.

      If I had to describe it, I’d tell you it was richer than chocolate, smoother than cream and sinfully decadent. That description doesn’t do it justice. Other words come a little closer, like otherworldly or ambrosia.  I feel pretentious describing anything in such terms, but I still mean them. Suffice to say, I’d never had anything so good and never would again. 

      The dream started in the middle of a Safeway on Thanksgiving Day. I was on a diet; that part wasn’t a dream, but it followed me there. The frustration and cravings that came with diets were hard to shake, even in my dreams. 

      I didn’t know I was dreaming, not at first. 

      Pushing an empty cart through the bakery section, I made note of everything I couldn’t have. Cookies, cakes, and doughnuts. No, no and no. As I steered the cart round every display, I repeated my mantra: “No sugar, low carbs. No sugar, low carbs.” The words became the whirring of the wheels; quickening with my footsteps when I realized I wasn’t alone.

      Startled, I whirled to see a sales associate standing directly behind me. The nametag pinned to his chest said his name was Mor. Mor smiled, looking far too cheerful for someone working in customer service. 

      He was also surprisingly handsome, with skin clear as crystal, sleek gold hair and hypnotic emerald eyes. Everything about him reminded me of precious metals and stones. In fact, it was unnerving; like a living embodiment of photoshop: beautiful, but wrong. Beautiful, wrong, and staring intently at me. 

      It’s a trap, I thought. I don’t know why I thought that, but I did. I backed away, ready to abandon my cart and flee– yet the impulse didn’t make sense, and I second guessed my instincts. It would be rude to run away from a gentleman who was only doing his job. There were no other customers in the store, was it any wonder he was being so attentive?

      Wait. Was I really the only customer there? I looked around, uncomfortable with the sudden realization. Sure enough, it was just me, him, and all the delicious foods I couldn’t eat stacked neatly in every direction. 

      “Welcome.” Mor bowed in greeting, a strangely formal gesture. “There you are. Do you need help finding anything?” His voice sent a strange thrill through me, both pleasant and alarming. I shook my head. 

      Wait. What was I doing there?

      I was trying so hard not to indulge. Why was I torturing myself? Why did I feel nervous, and even… guilty? Like I’d been caught with my hand in the cookie jar. Caught on the verge of cheating on my diet! Not that Mor knew that. The word “diet” wasn’t stamped on my forehead, only on my mind. 

      “No, thank you.” I said, “I’m just browsing.” Browsing the baked goods, even knowing I couldn’t have them.  He looked past me, peering into my empty cart. Clicking his tongue, he glanced back up at me. 

      “If you don’t mind my recommendation, the sweet potato pies are fresh and perfect for the holiday season. Please let me know if you need help finding anything.” He backed off a few feet, but continued to watch me.

      “I’m on a diet, I can’t have that.” I admitted, “But I don’t see any diet-friendly options in here, so I’d better go.”

      “You’re on a diet?” his jaw quirked, but the smile remained fixed. “There’s no need to worry about that.”

      Annoyed, I gripped the handle of the shopping cart a little tighter. Holidays were the worst! No one wanted to think about dieting– so they’d go out of their way to sabotage me, giving me “permission” to indulge just because it was a special occasion. I didn’t want to hear it. “That’s not up to you.” I said. 

      “You misunderstand,” he said softly, “You’re in the Dream District. Whatever your worries are, you can leave them until you wake, if you ever do.”

      “What?” I looked around. At first, the scene seemed like an ordinary grocery store, with glossy cement floors and incandescent yellow lights. Yet, the second I questioned it– I could see beyond the bakery, the interior gradually shifting into cobblestone streets under a lavender sky. 

      “Yes, miss. As you can see, you’re dreaming, there’s no need to count calories or sacrifice your sense of taste. Of course, I have to wonder… why a lovely creature such as yourself thinks she needs to be on a diet, even outside this place. You’re beautiful as you are.”

      No I wasn’t. That was flattery, but I still blushed like an idiot. Of course, now that he said it… it made sense. This was my dream, and now that I knew it… I had nothing to fear. 

      “I’ve always wanted to lucid dream.”  I said, a wave of giddiness spreading through me. I thanked the man before turning my attention to all the displays with enthusiastic interest. “What was it you recommended?”

      “Ah, that would be the sweet potato pie.” He pointed to a table which suddenly appeared in front of me. Presented prettily in a glass display was a single pan of sweet potato pie. A beam of glittering light cast down upon it, like an endorsement from God. Mor stepped closer to the case, opening it and looking at me expectantly. 

      “Go on, don’t be shy. I know exactly what you need.” he inclined his head, but I never lost sight of his eyes; pale, unwavering emerald.  “I admire the willpower it’s taken to get where you are. Isn’t it time you rewarded yourself?” 

      In an instant, my hesitation evaporated, giving way to gluttonous desire. I reached into the case, marveling when I felt the coolness of the pan it was housed in– delight shivered through me, my knees weak with anticipation. The intoxicating aroma wafted towards me like a beckoning hand. 

      “There’s nothing like it,” Mor continued his sales pitch, as if I wasn’t already sold. “You can only get it here.”

      Why did that feel like a warning?

      “Maybe I shouldn’t.” I said slowly, “even if this is a dream… it’s a slippery slope for me. Dieting, I mean.” Why was I explaining myself to him? Whoever he was, he wasn’t real; just a manifestation of… something. My food cravings? Somehow I didn’t think I’d find the answer in a dream dictionary. 

      “Why not?” he asked, tilting his head slightly. “I prepared it just for you. This is everything you want, everything you’ve denied yourself. And for what? Certainly not your happiness, or you wouldn’t be here. This is your wish.”

      This wasn’t an ordinary dream. Even in that moment, I knew. My senses weren’t the clouded, hazy approximations I was accustomed to in other dreams. This was a dream that indulged all my senses. Dread drifted back in, but I shook it off. What was there to fear from a dream?

      “There’s no need to hold back.”

      My heart began beating loudly. I could hear it; feel the pulsing, disconcerting rhythm of it. I sucked in a staggered breath; my palms were hot but the dish was cold. 

      “I need a fork.” I said.

      “You already have one.” Mor replied. He was right. A plastic fork was already in my hand, though it hadn’t been before. I was startled, but when I looked up at Mor he merely smiled and said:

      “In a dream, anything you wish is merely a thought away.”

      I knew it was a dream, but there was still something unnerving in the logic of the place. I couldn’t put my finger on why, but something felt wrong. 

      “I should sit down.” 

      “As you wish.” in a dramatic sweeping motion, he pulled out a chair for me. It was suddenly there, along with the small round table. I sat down, setting the pie tin in front of me. Pressing the tines of the fork into the soft center, I scooped up a balanced bite: a perfect union of buttery, flaky crust and creamy sweet potato filling.

      I will never forget that first bite, like God forged the flavor of my deepest, darkest desires. The taste of everything I didn’t know I wanted. The end-all be-all of dessert. Of food. Of anything. The velvety dream of sweetness and spices sent a quivering thrill through me that had me moaning for more. Fortunately, there was more. As much as I wanted!

      “You can only get it here.”

      I took bites as fast as I could, leaning over the table to shorten the distance between myself and the pie. The fork felt like a pretense, but I didn’t lose myself enough to set it down– though the thought crossed my mind. When it was gone, I licked the plate, the fork, the table, my own lips for any stray crumbs.

      Then I remembered myself, and felt Mor’s eyes upon me; the glinting green gaze was half-lidded, yet predatory with the sharp curve of his smile. Unsettled and mildly embarrassed, I straightened my back and turned in my chair to face him. 

      “If this is my dream… why are you here?” Mor was unsettling. Why would I dream up someone who made me uncomfortable in a lucid dream? If my wishes were only a thought away, he’d be gone.

      “I said you were dreaming, I never said this was your dream.” 

      I laughed at the odd reply, but his expression didn’t change. The laughter stopped, sticking in my throat like a stone. I stood up from the table, and started to walk– I don’t know where I thought I was going, but I was done with Mor and his sweet potato pie. Yet, even with my clear refusal to take further part in this dream… I wanted more.

      For the first time in a long time, I was satisfied. I left the store, walking down the cobblestone path and merging in that hazy, dreamlike way into the next chapter of sleep… I could still feel Mor watching me,  a feeling I couldn’t shake until I was awake. 

      When I sat up in bed, I knew something was wrong. 

      The haze that filled me wasn’t a typical early-morning daze; it was heavier, colder and something else I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Sliding out from under the covers, my stomach shuddered with an audible growl. I was hungry. My stomach hadn’t been fooled by the dream, after all. Was that why I felt… off?

      Instead of racing to the kitchen for breakfast, I forced myself through my morning routine. That strange funk didn’t fade, but I didn’t have a fever. When I opened the fridge and peered inside, nothing looked appealing to me. If I’m being honest, that wasn’t unusual… my diet wasn’t exciting. I’d been low-carb no-sugar for a good six months. 

      I peppered a hard boiled egg, but despite the firm whites and crumbly yolk… sawdust. It was like eating sawdust, in both texture and taste! That didn’t make sense. Even if the eggs were spoiled, that wasn’t right. They looked okay, even smelled as expected– but the second the egg touched my tongue… it was wrong. All wrong! 

      A second bite confirmed it. Spitting it out and throwing all the eggs away, I rummaged for something else. Nothing sounded good, but I was starving! I tried the salad next, but the results were the same: sawdust. I choked, coughing the wilted greens into the sink before vomiting. 

      Nothing in the fridge or cupboards was edible. My hunger howled at me to find something, anything! But only one thing sounded good: sweet potato pie. 

      “You can only get it here.” Mor’s voice brought a little color into the room, quickly fading when I realized I’d imagined it. I was awake and alone, but I knew what I needed.

      Grabbing my car keys, I left the house. Rushing to the Safeway, I scoured the bakery. The pies weren’t housed in glass cases or bathed in sparkling pillars of light, but they were still easy to find. The pastries were imperfect, with crusts cracked and crumbling. The filling wasn’t the right color either. 

      It didn’t matter. I was drooling. I bought them all! I tore into a pie as soon as I got into my car. I couldn’t even wait to get home! I didn’t have a fork, but that didn’t stop me. I used my fingers! Scooping up a heaping mouthful and drawing it to my dry, eager mouth– only to start sobbing into the steering wheel. Like everything else I’d eaten that day… sawdust.

      “I know what you need. You know it, too.” 

      I needed to sleep.

      With the words came color, and a flash of taste… but it faded as soon as the thought did. After my tears, I threw the pies into the parking lot and took myself back home. Had a dream really destroyed my sense of taste? Would it come back?

      It was ridiculous. I knew it, but nothing seemed as good as it once was. Not just taste, but colors, textures and sounds– all seemed lacking in ways I’d never noticed before.

      I called the doctor and made an appointment, but I knew this wasn’t something medicine could fix. By noon, I crawled back into bed and prayed into my pillow for sleep to take me back to that place, to that dream. The Dream District.

      Hunger made it hard to sleep, but when I did… 

      “I knew you would be back.”

      Mor found me, a ray of light in an otherwise dark and colorless dream. The details around us didn’t matter, just the warmth of the hand he extended. I took it, and followed him from dream to dream until my bare feet touched sun-warmed cobblestone under a cool lavender sky.

      “I’m hungry.” I whimpered. “I need more.”

      “I know. I’m here. I’ll give you exactly what you need.”

      The knowing gleam in his green eyes should have infuriated or alarmed me, but I was too desperate to care. It was already too late for me. Now that I’d tasted that sweet potato pie, I couldn’t eat anything else. 

      “Now that you’ve proven it to yourself, there’s no reason for you to leave.” he held something out to me. Without even looking, I knew what it was. Sweet potato pie. The culmination of every craving I’d ever felt, every morsel I’d ever denied myself in every delectable mouthful. 

      I found myself on all fours, far too eager to bother with utensils or even my hands. I chewed wildly with abandon, even tearing through the tin with my teeth once I’d eaten my way through that dreamy, creamy filling. There was something about this pie that satisfied me more than anything else ever had. It wasn’t an indulgence, it was a need. 

      When I woke up, I cried. Consciousness felt like a curse.  I wanted to go back. The world outside of dreams was overrated, without color or flavor.

       It gets worse with every dream, a slow spiral into bleak madness. My only respite is dreams, even knowing I’m only dooming myself a little more with every bite.  Each day became a race to bedtime, with the window growing shorter and shorter– consequences be damned. I lost my job, my home, my everything… and I didn’t care, because I didn’t need any of that. I just needed a place to lay my head. A place to dream. I can do that anywhere.

      “Why should you  ever wake again?”

      I don’t eat anymore. Not when I’m awake. Though I tried to choke down the sawdust, knowing I’d die if I didn’t… I can’t. 

      There’s a tarnished silver lining though; I’ve lost a lot of weight. I look better than I ever have. I’m a real Sleeping Beauty, aren’t I? 

      I know how wrong it is. I promise I do, but recognizing the trap I’ve fallen into doesn’t save me from it. My fate is sealed, but at least I’m lucid enough to share my cautionary tale. Maybe, in the course of a dream– you’ll do what I couldn’t, and say no to Mor, and others like him.

      I’m going back to bed now, hopefully for the last time. I’m weak, I’m tired, but most of all…

       I’m hungry.

      Posted in Short Stories [Horror] | 0 Comments | Tagged creepy, dark, dreams, fiction, horror, horror story, Insomnia, Night terror, nosleep, original, scary, scary story, short stories, short story, sleep, story, weird, writer

    • [Short Horror Story] My Family Was Cursed With A Demon… He Was Cursed With Us.

      Posted at 4:51 pm by Penny Tailsup, on March 22, 2020

      This is PART SIX of the story: “My Family Was Blessed with an Angel… I Think It Was a Curse.”

      Previous parts: 1 – 2 – 3 – 4 – 5

      I found Father Gabriel Conti in Grandpa Deangelo’s study. Slumped over, with the lower half of his face missing.  Bloody wings were crudely smeared on the back of his shirt, out of his own reach. He didn’t do this to himself, he couldn’t have.

      The wings brought back memories: mother’s death. Hers was more dramatic and bloodier in it’s display; her wings had stretched out across the walls, dripping smears without fingerprints except her own. This was the third familial bloodbath in six months. Mother, grandma… now my uncle. Two dead with red wings painted in their own blood.

      Though I had no love for my uncle, stumbling across his death scene wasn’t any easier.  I’d come alone to meet my uncle. While he was acting head of the family, everyone reported to him– he reported to me. Unfortunately for Father Gabe… the arrangement proved short-lived. 

      Staring down at the body, I almost wasn’t surprised by the two figures that came out from the darkness. A ghost gaping in horror at his own body; behind him, Grandpa Deangelo stood, creating a grisly before-and-after– a more rotted and older version of his son. Grandpa was silent, but my uncle wasn’t; he gurgled and groaned, making wet incoherent sounds with a loose, flailing tongue. 

      “You need to hide the body,” The demon’s words cut through my horror, insultingly calm. “The police can’t be called to another bloody Conti crime scene.”

      I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t. Grandma was upstairs watching her soaps. I’d avoided her since her discharge from the hospital; it wasn’t the time to reconcile. She’d call the police and blame my brother if she saw the bloody scene. Or she’d blame me. 

      “You can’t just stand here. Hurry!” 

      Even if the demon was right,  I wasn’t sure what it expected me to do; the small dusty space was now glossy red with dark blood. There was more blood than I had any hope of cleaning, not without tearing out the floors and burning stained books. The congealing mess  on top of dust was like wet velvet. There was no way I could do it without being caught.

      “What happened?” I asked my uncle, keeping my voice quiet. Grandma was hard of hearing, but I still wouldn’t risk being too loud. Father Gabe’s ghost, pale and gurgling, was unable to answer— though he made a gun with his fingers, pointing it where his chin was supposed to be. There was no gun in the room, the murderer must have taken it when they fled.

      “Who?” I couldn’t tell what I was feeling at that moment. Anger? Grief? Fear? Disappointment? None of those answers felt right, nor any simple combination. 

      Angelo.

      I didn’t dare speak his name, for fear that my uncle would confirm it. Cowardice. Even without a mouth, the spectres could nod. I didn’t want them to nod, so I didn’t ask. My reluctance felt like proof on its own.

      Silver lining, tarnished as it was:  I didn’t suspect myself this time. Was it strange that I wished I had? I’d lived with assumed guilt for so long when it came to Grandma, maybe I was used to blaming myself. I wasn’t ready to pass the mantle of villainy and blame to my little brother. I was his big sister, in some way it probably was my fault. If I’d been a better sister, or a little more honest, it might not have come to this.

      I’d lied to his face when he asked me if I had the Glory. Would the truth have stopped him, or would I be dead instead? What blackness this demon inspired, if members of the Conti cult were willing to kill for it.

      “You know who did this. I don’t even need to dangle the answer for you.” the demon said smugly, “You have two questions now.”

      My head jerked up, twisting to glare at that shadow. “Two questions! I shouldn’t even have one. I didn’t push her.” I knew that now, though the demon let me think I had. 

      “The questions are yours to ask no matter which Conti made payment. That is your boon, Holder.”  his answer confirmed, perhaps inadvertently, that the murderer was a Conti. Such a narrow pool of suspects, none pleasant to consider and only one who was obvious.

      “Wait… If that’s true, I should have three questions.” I was thinking of Mother. Her death, under the demon’s terms, should count as well.

      “No, unless you want to go upstairs and earn another.” the jagged shadows, the “wings of our angel”– stretched out like a sharp grin, begging me to ask why. With two questions to ask, I could afford to waste one. Of course, I wouldn’t do so deliberately. 

      “Mother must have asked you something before she died.” I said softly. A conclusion  the demon didn’t confirm or deny. I wondered if the answer he’d given her was the real reason she’d passed the mantle of the Glory on to me. Even if that was true, it didn’t really matter. My goals wouldn’t change. I had so many questions, but I’d have to live without answers to most of them.

      “You need to get rid of the body.” the demon reminded me again, “I can help you if you let me. You should embrace your role more.”  What role was that? I wasn’t sure what he got out of this twisted relationship, sadistic pleasure aside. Yet another question I couldn’t ask.

      As much as I didn’t want the demon to be right, calling the police wasn’t an option. They were already suspicious of the Conti cult, suspicions my brother confirmed with Grandma’s claim that he’d tried to kill her. 

      Maybe they would have taken her less seriously, if not for the circumstances of Mother’s death. They were looking at Angelo for that too, as well as Father. I probably wasn’t exempt from their suspicions either. My uncle’s murder, once discovered, would make things even worse. I needed to handle it myself.

      “You said you could help me. Help me, then.” 

      “Give the body to me.” 

      Grandpa Deangelo inclined his head, but Uncle Gabe didn’t react at all. I realized that my uncle still couldn’t see the shadow, though my grandfather could. Perhaps it was his status as a former Holder that made it possible.

      “Give you the body?” my stomach roiled as I considered it. I understood, though I didn’t want to; it would also mean touching a corpse, one I could barely lift. I wasn’t exactly strong and my uncle was easily double my weight. Dead weight. 

      “I can’t.” I said. 

      “You can. But I can’t take it without you. I am not physically capable, but you are.”

      “But I’m not!” I threw up my hands in frustration, “which is exactly the problem. I can’t lift him by myself.” Not to mention the fact that touching my uncle’s dead body was a horrifying proposition on its own. I couldn’t believe I was standing there arguing about body disposal!

      “You don’t need to lift the whole body.” the demon countered calmly. 

      I looked to my uncle. He didn’t seem aware of the debate in front of him, casting his eyes mournfully to his own corpse. 

      “Your actions won’t determine his fate, Sera. A body is not a soul.” the demon answered a question I hadn’t asked. A generous freebie, though he seemed over-eager to take up the body. Grandpa Deangelo kept nodding each time I looked at him. He truly took no issue with the demon’s proposition? 

      “Fine.” I whispered. I reached down, taking hold of my uncle’s arm. His skin was disturbingly tepid; I nearly dropped the limb in disgust, but instead I lifted it up towards the shadow, until his fingers vanished into the void– a void that pulled back, slurping up my uncle’s corpse– and with it, the blood in the room. I was left to pick his teeth out of the carpet. I knelt down, collecting them to toss underhand into the void. 

      The open book on the desk, once illegible under my uncle’s open head… was now pristine. It was a bible, opened to the book of Hebrews. Even under the circumstances, I wanted to scoff. The hypocrisy of my uncle’s fixation on scripture was no less laughable with his death. I could even guess the verse he was reading, a Conti favorite was Hebrews 13:2. Sure enough, I spotted it on the open page:

      Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.

      I wiped the tears from my eyes, unsure if I was laughing or crying. We were entertaining a demon that very moment, I was all-too aware of that; I missed my old cynicism, the ignorant bliss. 

      “Sera. I’ve done you a favor. I want you to do something for me,” before I could panic and refuse, he continued:  “I need a moment with your grandfather. You can’t go far, of course, but wait outside the study door.” 

      “Why?”

      “That would be an awful waste of a question. Are you sure you want me to answer that?” his voice was flat rather than defensive, “This doesn’t concern you at all.” 

      “Grandpa?” I looked at him worriedly, but he gave me a thumbs up. “… Fine.” I said reluctantly, stepping out of  the study and closing the door behind me. I pressed my ear against the door though, unable to resist. The demon never seemed interested in Grandpa Deangelo before, but I knew they had a history. Grandpa was a former Holder, after all. 

      I could still hear the demon’s voice; a physical barrier couldn’t muffle a sound that wasn’t of this world. I could always hear his voice, making his request for privacy even stranger.

      “Shall I avenge you, Deangelo?”

      A muffled, male voice answered. Dry, papery and impossible to hear clearly for its softness. Neither ghost in the room should have been able to talk, but I knew the demon wasn’t talking to itself. I found myself gripping the door handle tightly, or maybe I’d never let go of it to begin with.

      “So it shall be.”

      Unable to resist or wait any longer, I burst back into the room. Uncle Gabe was gone, but there stood my grandpa. He smiled at me, something that shouldn’t have been possible– his face, reconstructed from the grim horror. He looked as I remembered him before his death. 

      “Sera,” he said. “It’s up to you, now. I can’t stay longer. Do what I couldn’t.”

      “Grandpa!” I couldn’t even glare at the shadow, feeling that the second I looked away from Grandpa Deangelo, he’d be gone. I couldn’t even blink.  “At least tell me what happened! And tell me what to do. Please.” my voice broke a little, eyes burning with their unblinking urgency.

      “I can’t.” he said. “What kept me here is gone, and there are rules I must abide by.”

      “It wasn’t the curse keeping you here?” I wanted to grab him, shake him by the shoulders– I even tried, though my hands passed right through. I didn’t get an answer, he was gone. I sobbed, feeling frustrated, devastated and lost. 

      Even though my grandpa’s spectre had initially horrified me, I’d come to take comfort in his presence. Pressing my hands over my eyes, I cried for him like I hadn’t cried for my uncle. Perhaps my selective grief was an unforgivable cruelty, but only my uncle plotted to kill me. 

      “You should be glad for him. He moved on.” the demon said. I was suspicious of it’s empathy, the creature was hardly kind or sentimental. The demon once told me that generations of Conti hypocrites were in Hell. Of course, he’d meant to provoke me then– but it was hard not to wonder if it was true. Haunting the old study was probably better than Hell. 

      “You sent me out of the room to talk to him. You did this.”

      “So what if I did?” 

      “I’m going to get rid of you!”

      “Wasn’t that your goal already?” which of course, it was. I glared at the shadow, but it laughed at me anyway. The demon was in a good mood, but mine had already hit bedrock. I couldn’t possibly feel any worse. 

      The study felt so empty.  It was the same sort of emptiness I felt in Mother’s bedroom. Trying to ground myself back into reality, bitter as it was, I started stacking the books on the desk. Uncle Gabe’s bible and other religious texts. They didn’t mean much to me, more evidence to pitch into the void.

      The Conti priest had been deluded about the nature of the demon, still insisting he was an angel. If the books were any indication, he’d been trying to prove it up until the moment of his death. Even resorting to apocrypha! 

      The Book of Enoch was conspicuous among the well-read stack, its pages stiffer and less worn than more respected texts. I knew of it, given my religious upbringing and education– but I also knew the Conti family didn’t observe the book as canon, nor did the Church. Father Gabe was desperate indeed, but he wasn’t there for me to mock him. I had the sense that he too was gone forever. 

      I wouldn’t miss him, but I felt slightly guilty about our last interaction. The last I’d seen him, I’d been ready to kill him for acting against me. When I found out he’d filed a police report on my brother, I’d lost it!

      “Why didn’t you come to me first?” I’d screamed. My uncle had towered over me, but cowered anyway- raising his hands up protectively as I interrogated him. 

      “I didn’t know I should! Your brother doesn’t have anything to do with our arrangement.” It was bullshit, we both knew it. Though he acted afraid of me, I fully expected him to turn on me the first chance he got. He’d gotten his chance a lot sooner than anticipated.

      “I made you the head of the family so you’d report to me on all family affairs. Or have you already forgotten our deal?” thunder roared in my ears; the taste of iron and rain filled my mouth. He knew better than to cross me, yet he’d acted on his own.

      For a moment, I considered reaching into the demon’s void-shadow and striking Father Gabe down with the demon’s angel blade. I knew that desire was the demon’s influence, though I was angry enough that it was tempting. With my demonic parasite, anger was a dangerous thing.

      “Do it.” The demon whispered, “You know you want to.”

      I did. I could see it, like a flipbook of black and red; but that’s how I knew the thoughts weren’t truly mine, even if I agreed with them. The demon didn’t seem to like my uncle either, always quick to recommend murder when it came to him. Grandma, too.  

      “It couldn’t have been Angelo.” I’d said firmly. “What are you playing at, Uncle?”

      “Mother said it was him, why would she lie about that? Besides, if it wasn’t him… where is he? How did he know to run?” 

      I’d stormed out after that, getting swept back up in the drama of police investigations and family squabbling; the Blood Contis, still in town, were quick to condemn my brother and father, shuffling my sister and I between them while Father was busy handling the aftermath. 

      It’d been hard to get away from it all, under the close eye of family and law enforcement. I’d been interrogated too, but not the way my father was. I had to keep it that way, at all costs.

      Tossing Uncle Gabe’s books and teeth into the void, I knew it was time to go. Hurrying out of the study, I took the key from around my neck and locked the door. I had no intention of stepping inside ever again. 

      “We can get rid of the bitch upstairs just as easily.” the demon reminded me. “You don’t even have to kill her, just give her to me.”

      I paused, leaning against the study door as I looked at the demon’s void-shadow. His grudge against my grandmother was significant, something worth knowing or asking about. I didn’t want to waste my question, but… I would, if I had to.

      “Demon.” the unnamed shadow was unusually still. “If you tell me what Grandma did to deserve it… I’ll consider it.” 

      “You’re avoiding a question.” but I could tell he was interested.

      “Yes.” I agreed, walking towards the door. “I’m not going to waste a question on that. But if you really want me to give her to you, you have to give me a reason. I’ll consider it if you tell me.” I meant it, too.  My heart, heavy with grief and blackened by circumstance, was not the same as it was. I’d just helped hide a murder, I was no more virtuous than any other Conti.

      “I’m surprised you haven’t already guessed what happened.” the demon said. “But since you’re serious, I’ll tell you. Benita convinced Gabriel to kill Deangelo.”

      That didn’t make sense. Grandma Conti was obsessed with “Our Angel”, being married to the Holder had been her great pride. Why would she want him dead? Stranger still, even if it was true…

      “Why would you care?”  

      “Because he was going to save me.”

      Posted in Short Stories [Horror] | 7 Comments

    • [Short Horror Story] My Family Was Cursed With a Demon… He Says He’s Not the Villain.

      Posted at 1:43 pm by Penny Tailsup, on February 27, 2020

      My Family Was Cursed With a Demon… He Says He’s Not the Villain.

      By Penny Tailsup

       

      Part One – My Family Was Blessed with an Angel… I Think It Was a Curse.

      Part Two – My Family Doesn’t Know Our Guardian Angel is a Demon

      Part Three – My Family Was Cursed With a Demon… Now it Wants Blood.

      Part Four – My Family Was Cursed With a Demon… They Pray Anyway.

      This is PART FIVE of the story: “My Family Was Blessed with an Angel… I Think It Was a Curse.”

      —

      “Before we pray, I have a very important announcement to make.” Father Gabe stood up from the head of the dinner table. “In light of our recent string of misfortune, it only seemed appropriate to delay this announcement. But now, we need the guidance of Our Angel more than ever.” His eyes met mine, and I nodded. 

      Every  Blood Conti was in attendance, they probably knew what this was about. For too long, they’d been waiting for this moment. My uncle’s dramatic pause went on a little too long before he sucked in a breath and said, “I’ve inherited the Glory.” his eyes kept darting over to me, much to my annoyance. Was he trying to look suspicious? 

      “You did?” my brother’s tone was a little rude, but he was at that age. “Are you sure? But you’re not part of the new generation.” trust Angelo to immediately poke holes in Father Gabe’s lie. Ordinarily, I would have found it funny.

      My uncle looked to me for reassurance, stumbling. He hadn’t expected anyone to question the announcement. “Ah… normally that’s the case, but…” his face smoothed over as he came up with an explanation. “Our Angel made an exception. Who are we to question him?” but Angelo wasn’t even looking at him, he was looking at me. Great, he’s suspicious. 

      If Grandma Conti were there, she would’ve smacked my brother for being disrespectful. It was her house, but she wasn’t there; she was still in the hospital. Though she was only a Conti by marriage, she’d become something of a matriarch in Mother’s absence. Now that she was in a coma, no one had stepped in to fill that role… until, under my orders, Uncle Gabe stepped up to claim the Glory. 

      Of course, he doesn’t actually have the Glory. He’ll never have it, but since he wanted it so badly… and it works to my advantage, I decided to let him pretend he does. He owes me his life, he can’t say no. 

      “He’ll kill you the first chance he gets,” the demon reminded me. I know that. I’m prepared to kill him if I have to, he won’t get a second chance. I think the arrangement is generous, effectively making him the puppet leader of the Conti cult. He gets to enjoy the “prestige”, but I’ll call the shots.

      Enjoy it while you can, Uncle. I’ll free our family soon. 

      After dinner my brother came up to me and asked point blank, “Sera, did you inherit the Glory?” the question startled me, not just in it’s abruptness– but in tone. Angelo’s voice was flat and serious, just like his eyes were as they bored into mine. “I know I didn’t. I don’t think Mother would pass it to Angie. So really, that leaves you.” 

      “I didn’t.” the lie came naturally, I was used to denying it. Yet, this instance made my heart feel like stone. Angelo grabbed my shoulders, squeezing tightly as he asked, “Are you sure?” with emphasis on every word.

      “He seems serious, sis.” the demon mocked, “Can you really keep lying to your baby brother?”

      “Yes, of course.” I said… to my brother, not the demon. Angelo let go of my shoulders, dropping his arms to his sides. He opened his mouth, as if to ask again– but he dropped his gaze suddenly and turned back towards the dining room. Uncle Gabe was surrounded by most of the extended family, enjoying the attention.

      “Why was he looking at you the whole time?” he demanded. Of course he’d noticed the “furtive” glances, I inwardly cursed but had an explanation prepared. 

      “Before the announcement, I’d confided in him.” I said, “I was upset I didn’t inherit the Glory even though I’m the oldest, I guess he thought I wouldn’t take it well.”  it was baloney but my brother seemed to buy it. In fact, he smirked when he saw the opportunity to antagonize me.

      “Well I’m the boy, I should’ve gotten it.”

      I rolled my eyes. The demon didn’t discriminate. Well, maybe it did, but I’d never had the impression my gender mattered. Man or woman, every Conti was subject to its mockery and scorn. I was merely the person privileged to hear it.

      “Mother wasn’t a boy, and she got it over our uncle,” I retorted.  “She was older than him.” I wasn’t even sure why I was arguing, smiling in spite of myself. Though I knew the truth, it felt good to have a low-stakes argument with my younger brother.

      “Whatever. It just doesn’t make sense.” Angelo said, “We were always told it was once per generation.”  I opened my mouth to answer, but all the lies I could come up with were too lame. He’d only get more suspicious if I gave half-assed answers, so I just stayed quiet. He rejoined the others in the dining room. 

      Recently, I’ve been spending most of my free time holed up in Grandpa Deangelo’s study with Father Gabe. Though I didn’t trust my murderous uncle, he was the only one who could help. No one else knew my secret. 

      Hidden among the piles of books and research materials, we’d found old journals from former Holders. As promising as that might sound, they weren’t helpful. The writers were either in denial or lying. The demon was consistently described as an “angelic being of light” but the shadow at my back begged to differ. 

      Unfortunately, it’s hard to fight a curse that even our ancestors celebrated. At times, I even wondered if I was the only one who saw the demon. Maybe my atheism made it impossible to see him for what he was… But then I remembered my mother, the actions of my uncle and the jaw-less specter of Grandpa Deangelo. No, I wasn’t the problem.

      One book was missing from the study, evidenced by a rectangular void in the dust. I was beginning to suspect it was Grandpa’s journal. Uncle Gabe had alluded to Grandpa Deangelo’s suicide, but what lead to that choice would remain a mystery if we couldn’t find it. Hell, if he wrote a suicide note and “brought shame on the family”… there was a good chance Grandma destroyed it to save face.

      Eventually, I gave up on the journals and the old books. If answers could be found there, wouldn’t Grandpa have ended the curse himself? It was clear he’d known about it, even if he couldn’t speak. I  even tried to get him to write down what he knew, but he couldn’t affect things physically. 

      Grandpa wanted to help, and he had. After all, he’d saved me from his son by showing me how to reach into the demon’s void shadow, but… he’d also made no move to stop me when I considered killing my uncle.  I wasn’t sure if he was “all there” or merely a shadow of what he once was.

      Father came out of the dining room, interrupting my reverie. Angelo and Angie trailed behind him with mismatched expressions. My father had a tight smile on his face, I couldn’t tell how he was feeling. He’d always been a little stiff around extended family, though he tolerated them for Mother’s sake. Without her, I knew he was only doing it for us.

      “Grandma’s awake.” he said, “We can go visit her in the hospital now.” We’d been visiting, it was easy when she was asleep. Problematic now that she was awake! 

      “Too bad she didn’t die,” said the demon. “Though maybe you can get another question if you right that wrong for me.” its laughter weakened my knees, though I was slowly building up a tolerance for its disorienting mirth. 

      “Did she say anything?” I asked, my lungs were constricting as I fought back a surge of panic. I didn’t remember what happened when I found her at the bottom of the stairs. I suspected I was responsible, because up until that moment… I’d fantasized about doing it. In fact, the fantasy had been pretty damn specific. I’d wanted to push her down the stairs. 

       

      “Yes,” Father replied, “they said she ‘wasn’t making much sense’, so I’m guessing she’s going on about the Glory again.” I regained control of my lungs, sucking in a deep breath. Maybe it was okay. Maybe she didn’t remember. 

      “Do we have to visit her?” Angelo asked, his voice deadpan. I couldn’t blame him for being less-than-thrilled, our relationship with Grandma suffered after she’d tried to claim Father killed our Mother to the police. 

      “We’ll get ice cream after.” he said, “It wouldn’t be right to ignore her, she’s family.” though the twist of his mouth made his real feelings clear. He and Grandma had never gotten along, even less now that Mother was gone. Angie was the only one smiling, she was a good kid.

      It was a quiet drive to the hospital. With every mile closer, my stomach sank lower– the possibilities, few of them good, kept playing through my mind on a loop. By the time the car was parked, I’d resigned myself to the fact that I’d be tried as an adult and end up in prison for a crime I didn’t remember committing.  

      “You’re quiet. Is something the matter?” the fiend’s shadow danced around me, a writhing kaleidoscope of madness. The silhouette, inconstant and quivering, exposed its feigned concern for the mockery it was. 

      We signed in at the front desk, the receptionist smiled brightly when she saw us. “You must be so relieved!” Not really, no. But I knew when to smile and nod; this was one of those times. 

      “Liar.” the fallen angel took great pleasure in lies, no matter how small. Since inheriting the Glory, I could confidently say I’d become a worse person. The lies never stopped. I wasn’t sure how much of that I could truly blame on the demon.

      When we reached Grandma’s room, I half expected to open the door to police– but instead, there was Grandma Conti looking pale and frail in her hospital bed. Her dark eyes were open and wet as she smiled at Father Gabe, her son and apparent Holder of the Glory. 

      But when her eyes turned towards the door, they were hazy and unfocused. She seemed to look past me, then screamed: “You did this! Why would you?” 

      The words quickly became unintelligible shrieks with her escalating pitch. Father stuck his arm back protectively, stopping us from entering the room and quickly closing the door. Even with the door closed, her cries pierced straight through me and horrified tears ran down my cheeks. Although I’d dreaded that truth for so long, even expected it- the pain and regret came like a physical blow. There was no greater pain than certainty.

      Nurses rushed in, and a doctor– kicking everyone else out as they checked on her condition. Father asked Uncle Gabe what happened, but the priest shrugged. “She’s not herself right now,” he admitted. “She asked about dad when she woke up, too.  I think she’s just confused.” 

      “I see.” Father rubbed his chin, “Should we come back later?” he looked at the door, as if debating. The screaming abruptly cut off. The doctor and nurses came back out a moment later with somber expressions.

      “Grandma was screaming.” Angie said, “Is she hurting?” my little sister showed the most concern, hugging herself. Dr. Ives overheard the question and walked over, wearing a smile I’d grown used to seeing over many visits.

      “The human mind is a remarkable thing. Sometimes people are a little different when they wake up from a coma, or their memories change, but she’ll be okay. It takes time.” It was a simple explanation, but Angie bobbed her head quietly and accepted it. 

      “Can we go now?” Angelo asked abruptly, “If she’s asleep she won’t miss us.” Father shot him a look. I didn’t exactly want to wait around for her to wake up either, though my reasons were grounded in guilt.

       

      “Go home. I’ll stay.” Father Gabe answered, “If she can have guests?” He directed his question at Dr. Ives, turning his attention back to her. More Contis were trickling in from the dinner party, starting to crowd the hall.

      “No more than two visitors at a time, but it might be best to let her rest tonight. Visiting hours are almost over.” the doctor said, “Though it’s always nice to see so much support from the family. Once she has her bearings she can be discharged, but we want to monitor her for a few more days.” 

      Father thanked the doctor and we went home. We stopped for ice cream on the way, but my mint chocolate chip tasted like sawdust. I don’t think any of us were really in the mood for ice cream, but we still went through the motions. 

      As soon as we got home, we scattered. Angelo went to his friend’s house, Angie went to watch cartoons, and Father and I went to our respective bedrooms. Everyone was processing the events of the day in their own way.

      I couldn’t fall asleep. How could I, knowing I wasn’t out of the woods yet? Unsure what to do, I stewed in my own thoughts; they were dark, but I still surprised myself when the thought of killing Grandma crossed my mind.

      No witnesses, she should have died anyway.

      The idea came in a series of black-and-white images, though the picture was sharply in focus. Down the darkened hospital hall, through the creaking door and standing over her bed while she slept. I had a pillow clenched tightly in both hands, hands shaking from the effort as I slowly pressed it down over her nose and mouth. It came with a rumbling soundtrack of thunder. It tasted of iron and rain. Rage crackled through me like electricity.

      But then I remembered… I wasn’t angry. 

      Not like I was before she’d been hurt. This anger felt manufactured, invasive alongside my actual guilt and fear. I recognized the demon’s influence in that rage, a stark contrast to its usual malevolent humor.

      “You’re angry at Grandma.” I sat up suddenly. I knew I was right– even without the demon’s confirmation. The question why was implied. Grandma wasn’t even a Blood Conti, she’d never inherited the Glory and never could. 

      “Aren’t you angry?”  the demon asked, making no attempt to deny it– though he didn’t confirm it either. Despite this, the shadows in the room had grown quite still; alert, and intent on my words. I could tell I had its full attention. 

      “I was, but not anymore.” I admitted, “No matter what she did, it wasn’t worth putting her in the hospital.” 

      “Are you sure about that? There’s a lot about your family that you don’t know.” 

      “I’m not going to let you rile me up and turn me into a puppet. I know your game.” he’d tried to infect me with his anger. He’d succeeded in the past. Knowing that, I hoped to become immune to its influence and never lose control of myself again.

      “You’re never going to figure it out if you only see me as the villain. I liked you as my host because you had the sense to question things, but the questions stopped once I cast my shadow on you. It’s convenient to blame everything on the demon, isn’t it? You’ve decided I’m to blame, so you won’t consider anything else.”

      “You really expect me to believe my family is at fault for everything?” I laughed, leaning forward to cover my mouth. I couldn’t be too loud, I didn’t want to wake the rest of the house. I pressed my knuckles against my lips, fighting back a fit of giggles.

      “No. I expect you to believe what you want.” Its words were flat and soft; almost drowned out by the laughter I tried to stifle. Still, the sudden seriousness of his tone gave me pause. I stopped laughing, straightening my back.

      Naturally, I couldn’t trust a demon– but I had to admit he had a point. My family wasn’t exactly a shining beacon of virtue and honesty, though that was the face they presented to the world: the Blessed Contis, standing with God and the Glory of an angel. 

      “I’m not the one who tortured you in the basement, am I?” 

      “No, but it was because of you.” Uncle Gabe wanted the Glory; wanted the demon, even after I told him what it was. My poor, brainwashed uncle had certainly wronged me– and I’d never trust him again, but that wouldn’t have happened if not for the demon.

      “Do you really think it matters if I’m here or not? Do you think they’ll change their ways, even if you manage to get rid of me?” 

      I wasn’t sure how to answer that, so I fell silent. I hadn’t believed in “Our Angel”, but even I’d played along with the family’s cultish worship. I grew tired of the conversation, dropping back onto my bed and crawling under the covers.

      “That’s what I thought.” 

      “Fuck you.” I closed my eyes, trying to ignore its laughter. Truth be told, I doubted the Conti Cult would dissolve overnight. My family didn’t change, even when they weren’t sure who had the Glory. The rumors and excuses ran rampant, no one would even consider that the family had fallen from grace. I didn’t want to admit any of that, least of all to the demon… so I turned my back on its shadow and slept.  

      Come morning, I woke up to a gentle tapping on my door, startling out of a light sleep. I hadn’t slept well, so my eyes snapped open instantly. 

      “Sera? I need you to get dressed and come downstairs.” It was Father; something about his tone had me on full alert though his voice was level and soft.

      “Coming!”

      Dressed in record time, I hurried out the door in time to see my father halfway down the stairs.  His stiff back told me something was wrong, but I didn’t know what. My little sister was hovering on the landing, looking nervous. It didn’t take long to see why. 

      Two police officers were standing in the living room. My foot froze mid-step. Father wasn’t looking at me, he was looking at the floor with his hands clasped together like he was praying. What had the officers told him?

      “What’s going on?” my voice caught in my throat, cracking as I forced the question. I knew why they were there, though I wanted to be wrong. Grandma must’ve talked, told them what I’d done. They were there because I pushed her and put her in the hospital. Why didn’t you run? My thoughts were screaming at me, full of fear and regret. 

      “You should have killed her after all.” the demon crooned, “Oh well.”

      But the cops weren’t looking at me, they were looking at Father. “Is this everyone in the house?” one of them asked. When Father nodded, he gestured and the second officer went upstairs to double check. My adrenaline gave way to confusion. What was going on?

      “Where is Angelo Conti?” the lead officer asked calmly. My brother’s name broke my stupor. Angelo. Angelo. Why were they asking for Angelo?

      “Oh? What’s this? I guess they weren’t here for you after all.” The feigned surprise in the demon’s voice made my blood run cold. He knew something, but I couldn’t ask. Not right then. The morning after he’d alluded to the villainy of my own family, the police showed up. Shock froze my lips and leadened my tongue . 

      “Is Angelo okay?” my sister squeaked, recovering enough to run over to Father and grab his sleeve. “He went to his friend’s house last night!” 

      “We’re not sure yet.” the officer spoke softly, carefully; clearly mindful of her age. “We’ll need all of you to come down to the station to answer some questions and give a statement.”

      “Even my girls?” Father asked. “I’m sure this is a misunderstanding. Angelo’s a good kid, he’s just at a difficult age.” no one was saying what Angelo did, but I could guess. I didn’t ask, afraid of being wrong and making things worse. Maybe it wasn’t that, maybe it was something minor like shoplifting.

      I couldn’t even hear the officer’s answer. My ears rang with the demon’s uproarious laughter, drowning out the conversation with singsong I-told-you-sos and mock concern. 

      “What did I tell you, Sera? I’m not the villain here.”

       

      Posted in series, Short Stories [Horror] | 0 Comments | Tagged angels, demons, fiction, horror, original, religious horror, scary story, series, short story
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