Whispers and Fangs: A Ghostly Collection of Short and Flash Horror

By Meagan Noel Hart

Whether it's a lonely ghost story or a gruesome murder, this collection of short and flash fiction offers 27 different glimpses into the dark and unnerving world that haunts us all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jul 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483575162

Book preview

Chase

Disciplinary Action

Cynthia sat stiffly across from the headmistress. She felt like a doll in the big red chair that was usually reserved for anxious parents and argumentative teachers. Her feet dangled.

The head mistress glanced down at a file on her desk. She held a squirming mouse in her cupped hands.

Cynthia, she started, her voice low and deep. Mrs. Mulberry tells me you keep talking in class.

Cynthia squirmed a bit.

She knew it was wrong to talk during lecture, but it was so hard not to. Math was boring. Besides, Leanne had started the conversation. Leanne always started the conversation. She also threw spitballs and stole candy from the reward jar. Why wasn’t Leanne in the headmistress’s office? It just wasn’t fair.

The head mistress lifted her top hand so Cynthia could see the little brown mouse. It stared up at her with its long whiskers and squeaked. The headmistress shushed, and the mouse fell silent. Cynthia didn’t blame it; the headmistress was quite imposing. She wore only black and was tall and thin with raven colored hair and sharp, green eyes. Children often felt the headmistress looked not at her, but into her.

No one wanted to talk to her, let alone go to her office. A sixth grader had once told Cynthia the headmistress was a demon. Another said she was a witch. Cynthia hoped they were just trying to scare her.

The headmistress picked the mouse up by its long, slender tail. It squirmed violently and squeaked wildly.

Mice are fascinating creatures, said the headmistress. They are quite like children. They look cute and harmless. People buy them toys, construct miniature kingdoms for them, and mourn when their short, minuscule lives come to an end.

Cynthia frowned, but she didn’t dare shrink away. The headmistress valued a good posture, and she was doing her best to keep it.

But, they’re quite the nuisance. She set the mouse back into her palm. They’re pests. The effort put into their training is astonishing when compared to what they are able to produce. Run this way. Jump here. Nothing extraordinary. When left alone, they steal from our pantries, fight, and become disease infested.

Cynthia glanced at the shelf behind the headmistress’s head, finally noticing the open-top glass cage that housed two more mice. She wanted to ask why, if they were so awful, the headmistress kept them around.

They are a reminder, the headmistress said, as if she had heard Cynthia’s unasked question. Though their potential is small, they are our…future.

Mice? Cynthia sucked in her lips. She hadn’t meant to speak.

Children, the headmistress answered with a cruel smile. She tightened her fingers around the mouse and squeezed.

The mouse bit down. The headmistress sprang from her seat, and the mouse fell free.

Cynthia gasped. She could have sworn the headmistress’s eyes had flashed red.

You little — The headmistress snatched the mouse before it could scurry away, and taking a deep breath, resettled herself in her chair. Cynthia studied her eyes.

See? Nuisances, the headmistress said, her voice gravely. She glanced at her bloody finger before pressing the mouse flat on the table. It squeaked incessantly. Unfazed, she pinched one of the mouse’s rear legs between two boney fingers. She pulled until there was a soft, sickening snap.

The mouse squealed.

To Cynthia, it sounded like a scream. She wanted to throw up. Tears welled in her eyes. She lost her posture.

The headmistress let go of the mouse. It half-heartedly began to crawl away, and she placed an empty glass upside down over the mouse to dampen its high-pitched cries.

When you talk in class it is a distraction, she continued. You endanger decent little children’s chances at bettering themselves and becoming something valuable to society. That crest on your uniform means something. If you can’t live up to its ideals, then you will not be welcome here. This is a warning. If you continue your disruptive ways, we will be seeing each other again, and the circumstances will not be as pleasant.

Cynthia nodded her head, her eyes plastered on the little brown mouse. She felt it was looking right back at her.

You are dismissed, the headmistress said.

Slowly, Cynthia slid forward in the large chair until she dropped, her little black shoes thudding on the red carpet. She did her best to walk steady, but her legs quaked. She never wanted to see the headmistress again, even if it meant ignoring Leanne and not inviting her to her birthday party.

* * *

The headmistress locked the door behind Cynthia. Sucking her wounded finger, she returned to her desk and lifted the cup. The mouse lay silent, its chest heaving up and down. She picked it up and dropped it unceremoniously into the chair where Cynthia had just been sitting. She removed a school uniform from one of her drawers.

If I hear any more complaints about you, Leanne, you won’t be returning to classes.

The mouse squeaked its weakest squeak of all.

The headmistress’s eyes flashed crimson and a growl rumbled from her throat. The mouse vanished. A naked, tearful girl replaced it.

The headmistress tossed her the uniform. Put this back on. You’re indecent.

The girl dressed, stopping to examine her sore leg.

I’ve healed it, said the headmistress. Next time I won’t. She unlocked the door. Remember. She smiled. No running in the halls.

The girl limped down the hall. Despite being healed her leg still ached.

Locking the door again, the headmistress turned and glared at the two mice cowering in their glass prison.

It’s been a long time since someone has had enough stupidity to do something like graffiti school property. She started toward the cage. Her eyes flashed, and her body changed, becoming more catlike with each step. I’m going to have fun with the two of you.

She Said

She said I would feel better with the closet door open. She said that way I could see right inside. She said I wouldn’t have to worry; she was right down the hall. She said I could keep the flashlight. She said she would hear me scream.

I stared into the darkness and watched my sweaters separate. She didn’t notice.

She said the monsters were all in my head. She said I shouldn’t have stayed up watching those movies. She said next time she watched me, she’d know better.

Then it came. It came with the door open and light on and her standing right there. It slinked across the carpet. It didn’t make a sound.

She said I was safe. She was right.

It took her, not me.

Ink Stain

I was exactly like all the others. All the millions and millions of them. None of us expected my life would end so soon and so wet.

My journey started when a three-year-old popped me out of the package in the store.

I can’t take my eyes off you for five seconds, his mother said. She grabbed his wrist and pulled him back towards her cart. He screamed and flailed and dropped me on the ground. I rolled to the middle of the aisle amongst dusty footprints.

A woman came. She was on her phone talking fast. Where? Hold on. She looked down to dig through her bag, but spotted me instead. She picked me up and relocated my cap to my rear end. Then she reached into her large leather purse and whipped out a small pad of paper. Ok, where? She scribbled with me until my ink began to flow. And When? She jotted down an address and time. Got it. She threw the pad and me into her bag.

I rolled around with a tube of lipstick, a pack of gum, and some crumpled receipts. Other small things bumped about in the dark. Her heavy wallet fell on top of me a lot. It was the most privileged item in the bag. She took it out often before shoving it back down and smothering me.

Her hand felt around. Not the gum. Not the lipstick. Ah-ha! She grabbed me and pulled me up into the fresh air. Fingers the size of jumbo glue sticks wrapped around me. They belonged to a man. He scrawled a phone number on the back of a small white card. My home number, he said as he passed it to the woman and absently stuffed me in his shirt pocket. Point down.

I saw nothing but shirt for days.

I was falling again, but in the shirt. The man’s wife had taken it and