A Spider Dreams...

By Michael Cairns

Daniel Sullivan is about to receive a phone call that will change his life. It may also change the life of the 5 children he’s supposed to be looking after...

Susan’s grandmother died a while back and, while the will is sorted out, she and her brothers are going through the attic. They’re about to find a treasure map that will lead them somewhere they never expected...

Amanda’s father hits her. He’s done it for years and she’s finally summoned up the courage to deal with him. But she’s not taking the easy route. No poison in the coffee for her dad, oh no. Tonight, she’s summoning a demon...

Ben’s losing letters. It’s not the worst thing that can happen to a newly made zombie, but when one of the letters he’s lost is Z, it really bites. So it’s time to head to the library to do some serious research...

A Spider Dreams collects together the best of a series of horror short stories all written in 2015 as part of Michael Cairns’s #15for2015 challenge. Sometimes humorous, sometimes sick, always creepy, A Spider Dreams takes you from the mourning mind of a serial killer to the mushy stuff that lives inside a zombie’s cranium, via a death bed, a barbecue, and a convention.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Cairns
• Release date: Feb 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781909699441

Michael Cairns

Michael Cairns was born at a young age and could write even before he could play the drums, but that was long ago, in the glory days - when he actually had hair. He loves chocolate, pineapple, playing gigs and outwitting his young daughter (the scores are about level but she's getting smarter every day). Michael is currently working hard on writing, getting enough sleep and keeping his hair. The first is going well, the other two...not so much. His current novels include: > Young adult, science fiction adventure series, 'A Game of War' 1. Childhood dreams 2. The end of innocence 3. Playing God 4. Breathing in space 5. Escape 6. Gateway to earth > Urban fantasy super-hero series, 'The Planets' 1. The spirit room 2. The story of Erie 3. The long way home >Paranormal horror post apocalyptic zombie series, 'Thirteen Roses' 1. Before (Books 2-6 due for release in spring)

Book preview

A Spider Dreams

15 Creepy Short Stories of Horror, Mayhem and Children’s Birthday Parties

By

Michael Cairns

Published by Cairns Publishing

Copyright © Michael Cairns (2015)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication

may be reproduced, distributed, or

transmitted in any form or by any means without the

prior written permission of the publisher.

1st Edition

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These unpleasant little stories are dedicated to the numerous wonderful people who have read them on my blog or elsewhere and given me the positive feedback that kept me writing them.

Nervous

I get nervous. Everyone gets nervous, I know, but not like me. Let me give you an example. I moved house last week. It took a while, not least because of the van thing. I went in to get the van, which should have been easy. Then the lady behind the desk starts asking me these questions.

‘Have you ever been suspended from driving?’

‘Have you been in an accident in the last five years?’

‘Have you ever been refused insurance?’

And my mind starts spinning. What’s gonna happen if I say yes? I’m glancing around me at the three exits. I clocked them the moment I came in. One has a security lock, so it would take a little longer to get out that way, but the other two are good. I always check the exits; it’s second nature, like sitting with my back to the wall in a restaurant.

Anyway, I say ‘no’ to all the questions and she smiles at me, so then I’m wondering if it’s the kind of smile that happens naturally or if she’s trying to put me at ease. I hate it when people do that, because it means they noticed I’m not at my ease. Then I start worrying they’re thinking about me being nervous, which, as I’m sure you can guess, makes me nervous.

‘Are you alright, sir?’ she asks.

‘Uh, yeah, of course, I’m fine.’

‘It’s just that you’re sweating a lot.’

‘I always do that. Sorry, please, carry on.’ I don’t sound like I’m pleading, not that much. I don’t think.

‘Okay, well, let me go through a few things with you, then.’

She lays this sheet of paper on the desk and uses the dreaded words ‘excess’ and ‘in the event of an accident.’ She goes on and on, circling these figures on the paper that make my head ache. My hands are covered in sweat and I’m pressing them against my jeans so much I can feel the damp through the material.

Then she asks me to sign. I stare at the pen in her hand, magnified until I can see every tiny fine detail. I’ll never be able to hold it. I don’t have a chance. It’ll slip through my fingers and she’ll tell me I can’t have the van, but it’s irrelevant anyway because I’m already running for the exit.

So yeah, that didn’t go so well. In the end, dad got the van for me. He’s cool, my old man. He doesn’t get nervous and he doesn’t make me feel bad for it. Not like mum.

I haven’t seen mum in ten years, which isn’t a loss on either side. She couldn’t stand me as a kid. She couldn’t stand having to hold my hand when I had to go anywhere. She said she loved it when I was five, but hated it when I was 25. Maybe she had a point. Nothing I could do about it, though. Well, not about needing her to hold my hand, anyway.

So yeah, my old man’s been alone since and it’s not done him any harm either.

Anyway, he got the van and turned up at my place early on Wednesday. Work gave me the week off because they knew it might take a while. My house is a bit of a mess. I would say it’s not my fault, only it is.

You see, I have trouble throwing stuff away. I don’t know why, it’s not like I use any of it. But the trouble is, I get nervous that maybe one day I will. Maybe one day I’ll want to read those magazines again. Maybe one day I’ll use those old cereal boxes for some cool craft project. Maybe one day I’ll find a use for all those off-cuts of carpet.

Maybe. It doesn’t matter, really, cos I couldn’t throw them away if I wanted to.

So we packed them in boxes and then into the van, and we chatted while we did it. Well, actually, dad chatted and I listened. He likes to talk and I love listening, so it worked out well.

It took most of a day to fill the van the first time. After three days, we’d done four trips and we were most of the way there. Dad only lost his temper once, when we were packing up the cupboards in the kitchen and he found the boxes of used tea bags. I’ve heard loads about how you can use them again, or make stuff with them, and I couldn’t bear to bin them because I knew the moment I did, I’d find the time to use them.

Anyway, he shouted a bit and I just looked glum until he said ‘aww, damn it, Howard, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.’ I knew he didn’t, so I just shrugged and said. ‘That’s alright, dad, I know.’ He hugged me, which was a bit tricky, what with me being a bit nervous about that kind of touching, but it went well in the end and we packed the tea bags with everything else.

We finished on Friday night. It was pretty late, past my normal bed time, but Dad insisted on getting us a beer each and we sat out on the new porch, watching the world go by and sipping our drinks. I hate beer. It tastes funny and makes my head lose its balance. I like my head being balanced.

It was nice, anyway, and I poured most of mine away once Dad left. My new house is amazing. It’s got so many shelves and cupboards. I can pack all of my stuff away out of sight and no one sees it, least of all me. I get nervous if I can see too much stuff. What if it comes alive in the night? But when it’s behind cupboard doors, I know it won’t. I know it.

So I like it here. There’s a man who wanders back and forth outside the windows now and then. He’s a bit scary, but I don’t mind, actually, because he’s keeping me safe. Dad said it was good that I was safe, because then no one would get hurt. I’m sure he meant I wouldn’t get hurt.

I shouldn’t have drunk that beer, I feel a bit funny. Dad’s put a picture of mum on the mantelpiece, which is nice. It’s nice to look at her. I miss her, though I don’t know why. She never loved me. I can still remember the last words she said to me.

‘Howard, put the knife down, you aren’t allowed knives, you know that.’

I ask you, is that any way to speak to a 29 year old boy?

The Phone

I can’t take it any more. I can’t take the screaming and the anguish and the anger. I’m sitting here in the kitchen with my head in my hands and I just can’t handle it. How does anyone deal with this? How can anyone seriously consider doing this for a job?

I drag breath in through my numb lips and raise my head.

‘Daddy, he took my doll.’

‘Mr Sullivan, Eric keeps driving the buggy into my legs.’

‘Mr Sullivan, I really really really need a wee.’

‘Waaaahhhhh!’

There’s no escape. There’s no way out of here, save time. I can’t fight it. I can’t use my brains to concoct some A-Team style escape vehicle, nor my strength to break free from the chains dragging me even now to the bottom of my own personal ocean. There’s no escape.

I heave the same sigh I imagine Sisyphus used to upon watching his boulder roll back down the hill. Then I stand, brace myself, and once more enter the fray.

A half hour later, I discover a temporary relief, a brief moment of peace in the chaos that is unaccompanied parenting. It’s more wonderful than I can possibly describe. The five children to whom I am currently mother, father and head executioner sit around the table, mouths stuffed with oat cakes and carrots.

There’s not one thing on the table that contains any refined sugar. There’s nothing here, theoretically, that can make the day any worse. But then, I’m sure the person on the lowest level of hell doesn’t feel better for knowing there’s nowhere beneath them.

My wife, just before she skipped off for her spa day with a smile on her face, mentioned the sugar thing. Just a passing comment, but I’ve latched onto it with all the aggression of a dog with its favourite rubber bone. No sugar is good. Sugar is bad. Children are evil. No, hang on, that’s my subconscious speaking.

As silence reigns unabated, I lean back in my chair, fold my arms, and rest one leg over the other. I can do this. It’s not actually as bad as everyone says. Actually, no one else seems to say it’s this bad. It’s just me, assaulted by the noise and the fear, that thinks it’s worse than being forced to watch an entire Bob Dylan concert with only the vocal feed to listen to.

Then it hits me. There are supposed to be six of them. Six, not five. My mouth moves but nothing comes out, save the frantic blubbering of a middle aged man in the first stages of breakdown. I can’t even remember everyone’s name. My two are at the table. So that leaves Eric - nice kid, if a little violent - Elisa - utterly obsessed with princesses to the exclusion of all else - umm, sod it, oh, Tripod - as barking as his mum, spends most of him time chewing his own foot and… God, I can’t remember.

Brendon? Brandon? Brian?

‘Mr Suuulllliiiivvaannn!’ My heart begins its slow climb down from my throat as I dash into the lounge. What’s happened? He’s eaten the sofa. He’s head-butted the fire place once more than he should and he’s bleeding all over the carpet? He’s created, using only building blocks and fluff, a time travel device and has miraculously transported dinosaurs into our lounge.

I skid to a halt just inside the door and freeze. Biebo Suncloud - and how could I forget a name like that - is sitting in the middle of the carpet, looking as cute as roses and holding his little toy phone up to me. The room is intact and he isn’t covered in either blood or poop.

My shoulders collapse and I exhale with the force of a small tornado. Why am I panicking so much? Of them all, he’s actually the nicest. Far nicer than my two, even if he does have a name taken straight out of the crazy hippy parenting book.

‘Mr Sullivan, it’s for you.’

I take the phone, beaming down at him with one ear still trained on the kitchen.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello, Daniel.’

I drop the phone and stare at it. It stares back at me. I nudge it with my foot. Biebo is staring at me, lower lip trembling. I try a smile, but it’s caught behind the massive lump in my throat. A light sweat springs up on the back of my neck, prickling and cold.

‘It’s for you.’ He says, eyes wide and hopeful. I’ve seen eyes like that before. They normally come right before I say ‘no’ and the tears begin.

I scoop the phone off the floor and examine it. Pretty standard stuff. Plastic, buttons bearing pictures of animals, no antenna or way or receiving anything whatsoever. So I’m imagining it. My fevered brain said something and I was just close enough to the edge to think it came from the phone.

I press it back to my ear. ‘Hello?’ I manage a smile this time and even a chirpy nod. Biebo looks considerably happier.

‘Hello, Daniel. You might not want to drop the phone again, that poor little boy looks ready to cry.’

‘What?’

‘I see Fay convinced you about the wall paper. I have to agree, it does look nice with the carpet.’

‘Who the hell is this?’

‘Now, now, no need to blaspheme. I’m no one. How can I be, you’re speaking to a toy phone.’

‘But…’ my mouth dries out at just the same time as my brain. This is it. The children have driven me over the edge. I knew it was coming, I knew it. I begged her not to go. I warned her again and again. I can handle two, particularly when I can be horrible to them, but not six, not when I have to be nice.

‘Are you still there, Daniel?’

‘Are you my madness?’

The voice laughs. It’s made tinny and thin by the phone, but there’s a depth to it that cuts right through my head and makes me bend double. The sweating’s worse now and my t-shirt’s sticking to my back.

‘Who are you?’

‘I’m little Biebo Suncloud’s imaginary best friend.’ He snickers just after he says the name.

‘Rubbish. He’s barely three, there’s