Penny's Tales

Horror stories, narrations and illustrations by Penny Tailsup
Penny's Tales
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  • Tag: monster

    • Short Horror Story – Every Year You Get Eight

      Posted at 9:34 pm by Penny Tailsup, on February 4, 2020

      Listen to the narration here.

       

      I was a small child when I first found him bent over mother’s bed. 

      I only saw a tall silhouette before my eyes adjusted to the dark. After rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I caught sight of his white fingers–hooked into Mother’s mouth. Her lips were parted wide, but her eyes were closed. On the back of his hand, I saw little spots of darkness; they moved down his arm, meandered down his fingers… disappearing into the dark void of her mouth. 

      “One… two… three… four… five… six… seven… eight.”

      He counted, then he drew his hand away. 

      “What are you doing?” I whispered. I whispered because mother was still asleep. He cocked his head at me, as if my question was strange. After a long moment of silence, he put his hands on my shoulders and leaned down. His eyes were pale yellow, like a ring around the moon; they cast their own soft light. 

      “Every year you get eight. That’s why I stay.” he said softly. His voice was a pleasant hum, as soft as a sigh. Of course, his answer didn’t really explain. I didn’t understand. “You should be asleep, that’s the rule. I can’t give them to you until you do.”

      He scooped me up into his arms– long, segmented arms– he had at least four elbows, and he nestled me comfortably on the crook of them. Rocking me slowly, he carried me down the hall and to my bed. He handed me my favorite teddy bear, smoothing the blankets over me.

      “Go to sleep,” it said, opening my closet and crawling inside. He closed the door softly behind him, and I closed my eyes– young enough to dismiss the night’s events as a dream. The memory stuck with me though, so when I saw him again years later… I could make no mistake.

      I woke up because of the counting. One, two… his lunar eyes blinked at me. Three, four… something tickled my lower lip. Five, six… my tongue itched. Before he could get to seven or eight, I shoved his hand away. Wet fingers popped out of my mouth, and I quickly sat upright. 

      Hunching over, I started to cough. There was something in my mouth, something that moved… multiple somethings that squirmed in the small puddle of saliva pooled in my lap. Adrenaline clarified my vision, I was awake without the blurry haze of being half-asleep. 

      “I remember you,” I wheezed. But this time, I wasn’t a child. “What are you doing?” 

      “Every year you get eight.”  he replied, just as before. I’m not sure why I wasn’t screaming, but perhaps that old memory prepared me to see him. Despite the frightful sight of him, he was… familiar.

      But back then, I hadn’t been able to make out those little spots of darkness. I reached for my lamp, flinching at the sudden brightness as I squinted at those shadows. Black things with spindly legs. 

      Spiders.

      “Go to sleep,” the creature said. “I have to start over.” but this time, it did not sweetly tuck me into bed. Instead, it placed it’s wide, pale hands on my face. It pressed its bony palms over my nose and mouth. 

      “The rent is due.” it said. “I won’t lose my place.”

      I couldn’t ask what it meant. I tried to fight, twisting and kicking– but it was a losing battle. I could feel its fingers probing my skin and curling into my hair. Eight scuttling fingers.  It seemed this creature had a soft spot for children… but little sympathy or patience for adults. I lost consciousness.

      When I woke up with a bruised face and cottonmouth, I tried to rationalize the event as the sequel to an old dream– but when I rushed into the bathroom, vomiting in the sink… tiny legs twitched in the bile, only partially digested.

      Have you ever heard the old myth? The myth that every year, you eat eight spiders in your sleep.  Apparently it’s true.

      No one mentions the creature that feeds them to you.

      Posted in Short Stories [Horror] | 0 Comments | Tagged fiction, horror, horror art, horror story, monster, nosleep, Penny Tailsup, short story, sleep, spiders
    • A Sympathetic Mirror – Wholesome horror short story

      Posted at 10:18 pm by Penny Tailsup, on October 15, 2018

      [I previously posted this story on r/Nosleep  and removed it because I’d been feeling insecure about it. I had called it ‘Unforgiven’, but am renaming it because that technically isn’t a word.

      I recently found the story after thinking it was gone forever… and decided I’d go ahead and share it again!]


      I wish she’d die.

      That invasive thought came like it always did, as though it were set on a timer. It was finally morning, but I felt as though I’d been in a fist-fight with my nightmares. I was always tired, but I never wanted to sleep—the memories kept me up at night, then replayed while I slept. I had someone to blame—the woman who had hurt me. Even now that she was in prison, she managed to have some power over me. Justice hadn’t been served… if it had, I wouldn’t still be suffering… right?

      I wish she’d die.

      Maybe then I’d get the relief I needed. I stared up at the ceiling, internalizing that dark wish– one I’d never act on, because that would make me the villain. I had to pray instead that someone else would take care of it for me. That happened in prison all the time, didn’t it?

      I closed my eyes, taking the prescribed deep breaths. I knew I was getting too worked up, and I hadn’t even gotten out of bed yet. I counted each breath… Like the doctor told me to do, even though it didn’t work. I was even told not to think about it, not what happened… or my condition, as though somehow it might just go away. I tried to follow their instructions, but I couldn’t stop the thoughts, or the nightmares.

      My bedside table was a chaotic display of fluorescent orange bottles and crunchy flowers. Prescriptions, and old bouquets from well-wishers who had long given up on me. People stop sending flowers when you take too long to get better… right around the time they stop caring. The dead flowers reminded me of that every day.

      I wish she’d die.

      I took my time getting out of bed, absently smoothing the sheets as though they weren’t ripped to shreds—evidence of the battles I fought even in my sleep. I grabbed my phone off the bedside table and skimmed through texts from my mother:

      “Elle?”

      “Call me.”

      “Please.”

      “Stop doing this.”

      I hadn’t called her in months. I’d call her later, but first I needed to take a shower. The film of nightmares left my skin sticky, the long t-shirt sheer to the point of indecency. I felt disgusting! Taking a shower used to be a cure-all, I would always feel better when I was clean. It wasn’t so simple now because I never felt clean.

      I gathered my towel, and a change of clothes before heading to the bathroom. I didn’t bother turning on the light, the high window in the room let the sun stream in just enough that I wasn’t stumbling around blind. As I brushed my teeth, I deliberately kept my eyes trained on the faucet so I wouldn’t have to see my face.

      My phone started to vibrate again, more texts punctuated with an occasional call. I didn’t pick up. I didn’t want to talk to her because I wasn’t better yet. I knew she’d just tell me to snap out of it, like it really was that simple. What would answering her calls really accomplish? I’d only give her more reasons to worry. She didn’t understand what I was going through, what that woman had done to me.

      I wish she’d die.

      The lights flashed brightly, as if in response to my dark thought. In the darkness, the sudden intensity burned into my ill-adjusted eyes. It only lasted for a moment before the light winked out, leaving only the square of sunlight from the window. My first instinct was to rationalize it, but doubt quickened my pulse. Maybe I was just imagining things? I made sure to double check the switch, flipping it on and back off for good measure. Lately, I’d been prone to hallucinations so it wasn’t completely out of the question that I’d imagined it.

      Trying to shake it off, I undressed and stepped into the shower. It didn’t take long before something strange happened—the shower curtain began to draw back. I caught it with my hand and tugged it back into place. Even though there was no one here, the thought of the curtain opening and letting anyone—even the mirror— see me, was enough to freak me out. I didn’t want to be seen; not by myself, not by anyone!

      I tried to be dismissive, but it didn’t last. My hands were shaking as I reached for the faucet, ready to retreat back into my room and hide. Before I could, the curtain was ripped down and left spreading on the floor like a dark, pooling stain. Startled, I couldn’t help but scream! As I ran for the door… a woman materialized from shadow, someone I’d never seen before.

      “Who–?” I shrieked, but before I could even finish the question she vanished, leaving me face to face with the mirror that I’d been avoiding.  It was so dirty, far dirtier than it should have been—to the point it couldn’t even reflect. On its surface, written in the grime—a message:

                      “Two graves”

      The words sent chills through me. I tore my eyes away, more convinced that I needed to get away from this place before my mind cooked up even darker delusions.

      “I’m having a nightmare.” I rarely spoke these days, to hear it under these circumstances was particularly jarring. I bolted, reaching for the door and cried out when I realized it was locked from the outside. At this point I was well beyond terror, throwing my shoulder against the door to break it down.

      “No! This isn’t happening!”

      I heard a sigh behind me; turning slowly, full of dread: there she was again, the woman I’d seen in front of the mirror. I knew she’d never left. Locking up with terror, I could only stare. There she stood, with dark hair that fell in the way that shadows do; her lips were violet, accentuated by bloodshot eyes. I could feel her contempt, judging this dark world of mine.

      “What do you want?” I managed to ask her. She turned away from me, looking into the old mirror—perhaps she could see something in it that I couldn’t.

      “Why won’t you look in the mirror?” the question she asked caught me off guard. “You’ve neglected it completely.” As if she sympathized, she touched the tarnished frame—not even glancing my way. It was like she wasn’t here for me— she was here for the mirror.

      I wish she’d die.

      “I know. That’s not what I asked.”  She’d heard the words I’d never spoken. I was caught off guard, leaning against the locked door.

      “Well…” I felt compelled to reply, though the question was hard to answer. “I know I’m not who I used to be. I don’t want to see that.” If she found my answer strange, she gave no indication.

      “I can make her die. You know the price.”

      I did.

      As she said so, the words sprang to mind: two graves– Hers… and mine. My grudge against the woman who ruined me had taken over my life. I had stopped living for anything else. In a sense, she had killed me. The person I was, and the person I could be—

      Did it really have to be this way?

      I didn’t know how I’d never asked that question. This fatal choice… I was being offered the revenge I’d wished for, but the price to pay was steep. I could choose that path, but was that what I really wanted?

      Yes, the darker part of my heart cried. It held so much power over me, and yet–

      “No… I won’t be her victim twice. I won’t follow her into Hell, she can go there herself.”

      The apparition finally looked at me, she was smiling– softening into something less ominous. The mockery and contempt she wore dropped away like pretense.

      “Yes… she will be judged, but not by you. If you continue down the path you’re on, you will be destroyed.” I knew she was right. My fixation on murder couldn’t possibly end well, I needed to move on with my life.

      Before I could even finish the thought, the woman was gone. So was the darkness and filth that once filled my house.

      I turned towards the mirror. For the first time… in a long time… I saw my reflection. I was still myself, there was no one who could have changed that— except for me. When the phone rang, I picked up and smiled into the receiver. The healing had begun, I knew I couldn’t shut myself away any longer.

      “Hi mom… I’ve missed you too.”

      Posted in Short Stories [Horror] | 2 Comments | Tagged forgiveness, grudge, horror, monster, PTSD, revenge, short story, story, wholesome
    • Doodle In Progress – Alien Snake?

      Posted at 6:44 pm by Penny Tailsup, on May 19, 2018

       

      IMG_0080.PNG

       

      Here is one of my current doodles. An alien snake/hydra thing? haha

      I’ll probably add something else to it, but I haven’t decided what yet! I don’t have a story to go with this one, so I thought I’d post it by itself. Maybe at some point I’ll do a dark space story, this might suit it.

      Posted in Doodles | 1 Comment | Tagged alien, art, doodle, drawing, hydra, monster, snake
    • Another Reason to Quit Smoking – Short Story

      Posted at 8:41 am by Penny Tailsup, on April 14, 2018

      Narrated Version [YouTube]

      Do you smoke? I used to.

      Don’t worry, I’m not about to list a million and one reasons you shouldn’t. I won’t insult your intelligence—you know exactly why you shouldn’t smoke.

      You don’t need me (or anyone else) to tell you. I’ve been victim many a holier-than-thou lecture, I’m not about to subject you to the same. Smoking is one of those habits that people feel comfortable judging you for, so long as it is out of ‘concern’ for your health. We’ve heard it all before.

      No … I’m going to give you one more reason to quit. Only one. It was enough to get me to stop, maybe it will be enough for you. If it’s not, I’ve done all I could. What happens after you read my story is entirely up to you, and frankly—none of my damn business. Hell, just putting this out there is going ‘above and beyond’ any sort of moral obligation. I don’t give a shit what you do, I don’t even know you.

      Yet, here I am: typing this out while wondering if I’m a fucking nut. But you know what? I quit cold turkey, and though my health is probably a lot better—that perk still comes second to the fact that I’ll never see one of those things again.

      A couple years ago I was reluctantly attending a wedding. My ex Lissa, the one that got away, was about to be forever out of my reach. I didn’t want to be there, but I also didn’t want to be an asshole… so there I was, hunched in a pew and pretending to be happy for her. I guess I sort of was, but I was also feeling pretty damn sorry for myself.

      After the excruciatingly long ceremony, I excused myself to have a smoke outside. I had no interest in attending the reception and watching Lissa look so happy with someone else. At this point, I felt as though I’d fulfilled any obligation our continuing friendship had wrought: I’d gifted some fancy blender that makes soup off her registry, I’d watched the ceremony, shed a few happy tears and borrowed the tux.

      Now I just had to wait until the earliest time I could leave without looking like a dick.

      A smoke break would at least give me an excuse to step away from the bustling celebration. There was a designated smoking area outside, frustratingly far from any of the entrances. It was early spring, the sky was still winter-dark and it was cold as fuck… but it was still better than being inside, so I made the walk and fished out a smooshed pack of Camel Lights.

      I’d borrowed the tux from my younger brother who’d made me swear I wouldn’t smoke while wearing it—but I couldn’t bring myself to care. I needed this! Smoking would take the edge off this miserable evening.

      A woman was already standing at the oh-so classy ash tray garbage can combo. I didn’t recognize her, but that didn’t mean much– I hadn’t been paying attention to the other guests. What surprised me about her was her dress… it was white.

      Even I know that’s a faux pas. Only the bride is supposed to wear white at a wedding—and I knew that the entire church had been rented out for this event, so it wasn’t like this was some errant bride from another wedding. No, her dress was an act of rebellion—a petty gesture that my bitter heart could appreciate.

      Clearing my throat, I approached; making noise because I didn’t want to startle her, giving her a chance to hear me coming before closing the distance between us. The woman had her back to me, not bothering to turn to acknowledge me.

      I didn’t take it personally, just drew out a cigarette and lit up with an almost frenzied desperation. The first slow drag was incredibly satisfying, dropping the tension in my shoulders like fucking magic. I exhaled, watching the smoke pollute the air in front of me with satisfaction.

      Turning my attention to the pale woman, I felt up to a little small talk. Having a cigarette in hand put me at ease, even knowing it was nicotine addiction rather than any real relaxation benefit. I couldn’t help but stare at her—she was remarkably thin, her silhouette could be accurately described as a skinny rectangle. The absence of curves was… disappointing but not a deal breaker. It’s not like I was looking to pick her up anyway, though I wouldn’t say no to a good pity fuck if anyone offered. What can I say? I was heartbroken.

      “The ceremony went on a little long, didn’t it?” I flicked my ash into the tray before taking another drag, still observing her back. “I’m Rick, by the way.” The woman turned her head slightly in acknowledgement, but didn’t turn around. I caught a glimpse of a soft, orange glow—the cigarette between her lips, though I couldn’t make out her face through the dense cloud of smoke that had filled the air around her.

      “Your dress is beautiful.” I complimented, still admiring it— the gown was strange, long and form fitting. Hauntingly beautiful, made of an unusual fabric that has turned brown and curled at the edges—it reminded me of an old map, in color and in texture (at least, from what I could see). I don’t pretend I understand fashion, but as unusual a sight as she was, I was drawn in.

      I don’t know how long I’d been standing there making one-sided conversation, but it was time for a second cigarette. I sighed as I took inventory of my pack—only two cigarettes left before I’d have to buy more. Not enough to get me through this evening. The first cigarette in the pack had been inverted for luck, but I felt far from lucky.

      Feeling as though I was bothering the woman, I decided I’d wrap up the respite and go back inside. She clearly wasn’t up to talking, but in a last-ditch effort to be polite I figured I could at least offer her a cigarette. I really wanted to see her face, or hear her voice. There was something about her, so mesmerizing… though she’d done nothing but stand there and smoke in silence. I felt compelled to seek her attention, I just couldn’t help myself!

      “I have two cigarettes left. Want one?” I drew one out, extending my hand to present it hopefully. The woman turned to respond, and my heart caught in my throat when I finally saw her. The woman was little more than a skeleton wrapped in paper, her face perpetually obscured in a pale cloud of writhing smoke. The only thing I could make out through the haze were two glowing orange spots like two cigarettes in the dark—I realized only then, as she gazed back at me… that those were her eyes.

      She was no longer beautiful, the mysterious and pale visage was replaced by a tar-stained specter of smoke, paper and bone. I was frozen by the realization, dropping the cigarette I’d been offering. I just stood there, stuck on stupid as she—it— glided towards me with ominous purpose. My mouth hung open while my brain screamed at me to do something besides stand there like a fucking moron!

      But I couldn’t.

      The creature placed dead, yellowing hands upon my shoulders and leaned down so her face was level with mine. I began to sputter and cough from the dense smoke, choking on the thick miasma. Skeletal fingers dug into my shoulders, tearing holes into the fabric of the jacket. As I felt its touch on my skin, it burned! Yet I couldn’t even let out a hiss of pain as I continued to hack and gasp for air.

      Pressing what I could only assume was her mouth against mine, the monster began to inhale deeply—each breath rattling her bones. I stopped coughing… but only because I was suffocating. It was as though the breath was being sucked out of my lungs, leaving me cold and empty—left only with the burn of agonizing pain. I wasn’t even granted the ability to scream, as she continued to inhale… tasting my smoke-stained lungs, my vision beginning to tunnel into darkness.

      All I could see were those burning eyes, yet I understood that this was a blessing. I no longer wanted to see her face. I closed my eyes, unable to do anything to fight back… so I thought about Lissa. How beautiful she’d been in the wedding dress as white as her radiant smile. At least she was happy, she didn’t need me … there was no one to regret leaving behind. I knew I was going to die, and I accepted that.

      I passed out.

      I was surprised to wake up. I was on my back, soaked from the morning dew under the faint light of a barely-risen sun. I just lay there for a long time, staring up at the cloudy sky in confusion and horror. My shoulders and lungs hurt. I briefly entertained the idea that my aches and pains contributed to a nightmare… but when I sat up, I saw the holes in the ruined tuxedo jacket.

      I’d offered that bitch a cigarette, but she’d smoked me instead. It still hurt to breathe, but… I was alive. I got to my feet, and found the near-empty pack of Camel Lights resting on top of the ash tray. Inside, I found my last cigarette—the first of the pack, inverted for luck. Was it luck that kept me alive? I have no fucking clue, but I pocketed the pack. I still keep it in my pocket to this day, either for luck or as a reminder. I’m not sure which.

      The urge to smoke didn’t disappear overnight. But every time I reached for that last cigarette, something stilled my hand. I began to see tall, pale people with smoke covered faces everywhere I went, backs turned and dressed in outfits like burnt paper. I call them Smokers. They stand there, waiting for someone to offer them a smoke—not knowing the creature would take it from their very lungs. I don’t think it’s an experience you’re meant to survive. I was lucky.

      Eventually, I stopped seeing Smokers. I know they’re still there, but… I’m not their prey anymore. I’d been smoking since I was 13—I’d heard every reason not to smoke and more, but it was one of those monsters that decided it. They are the only reason I needed to quit smoking.

      If I still haven’t convinced you, at least keep my story in the back of your mind: and for the love of God… don’t offer cigarettes to mysterious, mesmerizing strangers!

      Posted in Short Stories [Horror] | 0 Comments | Tagged cigarettes, horror, monster, short story, smoking, story
    • It likes music – Short Story

      Posted at 8:32 am by Penny Tailsup, on April 14, 2018

      Narrated Version [YouTube]

       

      There is a strange monster in my town. I won’t tell you where, naturally, but if you live here you’ll know what I’m talking about. The creature is no secret, though if you’re lucky you’ll never see it. I … wasn’t so lucky. Although that’s partly because I was an idiot who didn’t listen.

      I was a transplant from the city, looking for a fresh start. I didn’t have a dark past or anything, just some failed dream I needed to recover from—this place seemed as good as any, the townspeople were friendly and the scenery looked like it belonged in a painting. Music plays everywhere, and the townspeople often sing as they carry on about their day. When I stumbled across the town I thought ‘Wow, everyone here is so happy.’ Maybe I could be happy too.

      But … to be honest, those weren’t the reasons I moved here. I moved here because the cost of living was dirt cheap, and I’d be able to live off of my savings for a few months even if I couldn’t find a job right away.

      One strange thing I noticed was that the town was sectioned off, oddly enough, by taste in music. I guess this was so that the music wouldn’t all clash, since it was playing non-stop—even in the residential areas. Even at 2 in the morning. This was one detail that might have kept me from moving here…

      I found it hard to sleep in my apartment for the first week. I’d moved into this cheap apartment in the ‘Country’ quarters, not realizing that I’d have to listen to country music 24/7. I asked my neighbors to turn it down, but they said that they couldn’t.

      It was annoying, but no one would budge. Other than that, everyone was really pleasant to me. Though… perhaps a touch passive aggressive? Or so I thought at the time. My neighbor from across the hall, Ms. Walcott, brought me a house-warming gift: It was a battery-operated CD player, and a stack of George Strait CDs. She said it was ‘in case of a power outage’.

      “A power outage would be just lovely.” I’d replied. “I don’t really mind country music, but it would be nice if it was quiet sometimes.”

      Ms. Walcott shook her head at me. “You’d think so, but you’d best not risk it my dear.”

      “What do you mean?”

      Like I said, this creature is no secret—so Ms. Walcott told me outright:

      “The monster likes music, if you have it playing it will leave you alone.” Of course, I didn’t believe her. Was this some prank? Some way to haze a newcomer? I decided to humor her though.

      “What monster?”

      “Oh… I keep forgetting that not everyone knows!” she looked a little embarrassed, drawing her hand to her chin and looking thoughtful as she thought of how she should explain. “We call it The Songbird. I’ve never seen it, mind, but it eats people and makes a real mess of them. For some reason, if you play music it won’t attack. As long as you don’t try to attack first, anyway. A few young men found this out the hard way.”

      “Right…” I sighed, rubbing my scalp in vexation. I’d play along. It’s best to get along with your neighbors if you can, and if letting them get a laugh at my expense breaks the ice… so be it. They’d see it was silly soon enough anyway. I’d already invested in a pair of ear plugs, which I’d started to get used to. I could still hear the music, but at least it was muted.

      “You really should be playing music too.” Ms. Walcott looked undeniably worried, peering past me and into my apartment. The door was still wide open, and the last of my unpacked boxes were stacked by the door.

      “It’s ok.” I answered, “Everyone is playing their music loud enough that I can hear it too, and I haven’t had any trouble so far.”

      “Not just at home, dear. Everywhere. Or sing, even if you’re not very good at it. It’s better than nothing.”

      “Sure, sure. Thanks.” I had no intention of doing any of that. Can you blame me? I didn’t know Quainttown, USA was the set to some sort of horror movie /musical. I excused myself after that, I did have that last bit of unpacking to do.

      I shoved the CD player and George Strait CDs into the back of the closet somewhere, figuring it could die a slow and dusty death back there. I was… a little resentful of my neighbors at that moment. It was true I didn’t mind country music, but it definitely wasn’t my favorite and it was getting old.

      Time passed… noisily… for several uneventful months. After a while, things didn’t really seem so bad. I’d started tuning out the music and it didn’t bother me as much as it has before. I didn’t carry music around or sing like Ms. Walcott had suggested, but it seemed like the townspeople all had it covered everywhere I went. Singing, and layers upon layers of music playing- this place really is so strange, but the people don’t seem to mind living this way. I was starting not to mind either, even if I wasn’t exactly joining in.

      Still… I did crave some of that sweet, golden silence that I’d taken for granted before moving here. I decided that I’d go camping on Top Hat Hill on the edge of town. The hill was named, as you might have guessed, for its shape which looked a bit like a top hat from a distance. It was a steep hike, and surprisingly large– it served as more of a landmark than a destination for most people… so it seemed like the perfect place to go, without having to spend a ton on gas to get out of town.

      I packed up a small one-person tent, a ton of snacks, some books and a couple other things before making the hike one afternoon. I regretted how heavy my bags were pretty early on, but it was worth it when I realized I couldn’t hear anything but my labored breathing. That fact alone gave me the motivation and spurt of energy needed to finish the climb, and I was rewarded with an amazing view of the town and surrounding forests.

      “Heck yeah!” I shouted to no one in particular, and dumped all my stuff on the ground so I could flop back on the grass and just… enjoy the silence. Actual silence.

      Of course, the peace and quiet was short lived.

      About an hour had passed when I noticed a strange sound, like something wet was clicking and scraping. I listened for a moment, but I was so tired from the hike that I didn’t bother sitting up just yet. The clicking sort of reminded me of billiards, though there wasn’t a pool table to be seen on this hill. Someone else must have been coming up, perhaps looking to escape the music just as I had? I let out a short laugh, realizing that OF COURSE I couldn’t be the only one who had this brilliant idea.

      “It sure is beautiful up here, isn’t it?” I called out, still not moving. Whoever it was didn’t answer, and I finally got curious enough to sit up and see who it was. I hoisted myself into a half-way sitting position and then stared in confusion at the thing which was still finishing the last stretch of the climb.

      The first thing I noticed was the long tongue dragging on the ground—rubbed raw, and stained with clumps of gravel sticking to it. The tongue was attached to an angular, bony face with brown feathery patches and a beak-like protrusion that seemed to split two….

      Though it just had the one tongue. I thought it didn’t have eyes, until it cocked its head and I saw that the eyes were spread far apart and located beneath what I assumed were ear holes.

      This must have been ‘The Songbird’, as Ms. Walcott had told me. Aside from the fact that it had some sort of beak, it didn’t look like any sort of bird I’d ever heard of. I wasn’t exactly going to sit there and count, but it had AT LEAST six legs that were at least a foot shorter than that dragging, scraping tongue…

      I let out a string of curses and didn’t even bother grabbing for my backpack—I just started running. I could hear it following me. I knew that I needed to start singing SOMETHING, but I was so terrified my throat felt like it has closed up and my brain was completely blanking on any sort of lyrics. What song was it that Ms. Walcott was always playing right when I was trying to sleep? What was it?

      I could only remember the chorus, but… well, I started belting them out best I could while running clumsily down the hill:

      “Baby, write this down, take a little note to remind you in case you didn’t know, tell yourself I love you and I don’t what you to go, write this down…”

      That’s right– George. Effing. Strait. I was somewhere between screaming and singing the chorus, over and over again. But you know what? IT WORKED. I didn’t have to look back to know it did, that rasping tongue was suddenly silent as The Songbird paused and listened to my terrible rendition of “Write This Down” by George Strait. Going down the hill was easier than getting up, but I still tripped and tumbled down here and there—but I didn’t stop screeching those lyrics the whole time.

      I made it into town scraped up and dirty… but alive. You can bet your ass I dug that CD player out of the closet and started looping the first CD I could find. Yeah, it was George Effing Strait. His music sounded much better in the light of not being dead, if you can believe it.

      So if you ever find yourself in a quaint, musical town where everyone is singing and the music always plays… crank up your radio as loud as you can get it, and keep on driving. I’m not going to be staying here much longer, I just need to save up enough money for a deposit on another apartment somewhere far away.

      Since I’ve seen the thing, I don’t think I can live with it… but at least I know what to do to protect myself. I don’t know why it likes music, but since everyone here is so good about keeping the music going I figure eventually it’ll get hungry enough that it will stop working. I don’t want to be around when that happens.

      Posted in Short Stories [Horror], Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged country, horror, monster, music, scary, short story
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