Tag Archive for: scary at 3am

Dana

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by F. Malanoche

I flicked off the bathroom light after a late night piss and blindly stumbled across the hallway to my bedroom. All I wanted was to get back to my comfy spot in bed. The air conditioner whirred to life, covering the hum of the fridge. Then something clicked. An orange spark came from the kitchen table. I walked down the hallway.

A cigarette glowed in the darkness as the acrid smell of tobacco smoke permeated the room. There was a long exhale followed by a breathy voice in the shadows, “I’m Dana. I’m here about extending your car’s warranty.”

F. Malanoche

F. Malanoche writes, under the cover of night, hoping to bring authentic and odd Latino stories into the world. He teaches English in the Midwest, has a wonderful wife, and sweet vinyl collection. You can follow him on his Facebook page.

Facebook: @FMalanoche

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Blood Moon

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by Paul Lonardo

I’d seen my new neighbour lying out on her back deck at 3 a.m. the night before. She wore only a red bikini, her pale skin shimmering under the light of the Hunter’s Moon. When she appeared the next night, I went over to say hello. She asked me to put lotion on her back. Now I sit next to her, unable to move.  She presses the skin near the holes in my neck, dabs the blood that leaks out onto the tips of her fingers, applies it to her body. It soaks into her flesh, giving her eternal life.

Paul Lonardo

Paul Lonardo is a freelance writer and author with numerous titles of both fiction and nonfiction books. He’s placed dark fiction and nonfiction articles in various genre magazines and ezines. Paul is a contributing writer for Tales from the Moonlit Path. He is an active HWA member.

 

A Donation

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by Keev Kennedy

I expected my drunk brother to be the 3 a.m. knocker, but what I got was a little girl and a box.

“My sisters and I are seeking donations for our food drive,” she said. “Can you spare a part?”

“Come back in the morning,” I answered exhaustedly.

The girl frowned, then knelt and opened the box. “But the lady next door donated.”

I froze when I saw the severed fingers inside.

From the darkness emerged four little girls with demonic yellow eyes. As they marched towards me, knives in hand, the little girl said, “Please, sir. Any part will do.”

Keev Kennedy

Originally from Ireland, Keev Kennedy has always had a passion for telling stories. He currently lives in Canada. His works can be found in an edition of Every Day Fiction and multiple Black Hare Press anthologies.

 

The Walker

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by Francesco Levato

The growling was ragged and wet, like a frenzy of teeth tearing a child’s beloved toy apart. It set my senses on edge, broke the neighbourhood’s pre-dawn stillness—and it was getting closer.

The pack rounded the corner, thundering into the haze of the streetlight. As it closed on me, I could make out individual forms; dog-like, but far too big for the leashes they strained against—and their eyes, too much like embers. Behind them dragged a corpse, still clutching the leashes.

I felt lightheaded, insubstantial. Who walks dogs at devil’s hour? Why was the corpse wearing my clothes?

Francesco Levato

Francesco Levato is a poet, professor, and writer of speculative fiction. More about his work can be found here:

Website: francescolevato.com

 

Schoolyard

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by Brandon Korth

Living beside an elementary school is good fun during the day. Listening to the kids play ball, swing on the swings, and run around laughing can cheer me up in the foulest of moods, but that stops during the night. When the echoes of the kids continue to sound after the moon rises, the metal creaking as the swings sway back and forth, and the balls bounce off of the walls. Sleeping with my back to the first floor window as they bounce closer until they touch the glass and I turn to see nothing there. That’s what gets me.

Brandon Korth

Brandon Korth is a full-time, single dad living in Ontario. He used to write articles for Obilisk.co while earning two diplomas in policing at his local college.

 

The Invitation

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by G.B. Dinesh

The doorbell rings. It’s 3 a.m. God, who died?

I find a postman outside the door.

“Hello, Mr Smith.” He hands over an invitation.

An invitation to—

“Mister, what game are you playing?” I try to grab his collar, but I can’t.

I dash to the bedroom.

I touch my wife, I feel nothing. I kiss her lips, I feel nothing. I kneel down on the floor and weep. In her sleep, her face slowly settles into the most beautiful smile in the world. Holding that smile in my memory and the invitation to heaven in my hand, I leave.

G.B. Dinesh

G.B. Dinesh is a young Indian writer whose works span across many genres.

 

Lemonade, Mister?

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by Josh Hagen

Three nights in a row. Cars lined up for blocks through the neighbourhood. The crowd has grown from last time. More like a swarm. All searching for their sweet nectar.

I called the police again. The patrol showed up and got in line. Shuffling forward to receive their gift.

Enough of this. I storm outside in my robe and slippered feet. Three in the morning.

My temper flaring. “Hey! Some of us have to work in the morning.”

The mob turns to me, parting in unison to allow passage.

The kids at the lemonade stand offer a cup.

“Lemonade, mister?

Josh Hagen

After spending years as a storyboard artist for film and television, Josh utilised the power of coffee to focus on his writing. Bit by bit he has clawed his way up the overwhelming mountain that is the writing process in the hopes of one day becoming a professional author.

 

The Window Cleaner

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by Tracy Davidson

I know that whistle. That thunk of ladder against wall, those heavy footsteps hitting every rung. But never at 3 a.m. before.

I’d heard he was ill, close to death. Guess not. Through thin curtains, I see the shape of head and torso. The squeak of his squeegee gets louder. Where his eyes would be, two glowing orbs cut through the curtain, their light creeping up my bedcovers. I try to reassure myself I’m dreaming.

Whistle, squeak. Whistle, squeak. Finally…silence. I rise, move to the window. Nothing. I sigh, relieved. Until…bare feet step on a soaking wet sponge.

Tracy Davidson

Tracy Davidson lives in Warwickshire, England, and writes poetry and flash fiction. Her work has appeared in various publications and anthologies, including: Poet’s Market, Mslexia, Atlas Poetica, Modern Haiku, The Binnacle, A Hundred Gourds, Shooter, Journey to Crone, The Great Gatsby Anthology, WAR, In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights.

 

Neighbourly

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by Sheridan “Virgil” Seine

I’m new to the neighbourhood, and work night shift. Lately, I’m waking up to footsteps and a knock outside my bedroom window.

Wilson, my always smiling, retired neighbour, is on the other side of the glass; a wide-eyed stare coming through the blinds, the afternoon sun on his face. Chuckling, he reminds me that the grass needs to be cut.

But I’m on vacation this week and it’s the middle of the night.

I roll over in bed, and my eyes drift to the window at my shoulder. A bug-eyed smile just outside says, “Not yet. Go back to sleep.”

Sheridan “Virgil” Seine

Co-administrator of The Twisted Castle, Sheridan “Virgil” Seine has been a professional monster wrangler for over 20 years. In his spare time, once his wards have been safely returned to their individual habitats, Virgil researches various literary genres to produce content for his YouTube channel, Literally Books. He also lets his wife write his bios.

 

Queen of the Night

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by Jeff Currier

“Staring out his sliding door, wishing for sleep, Jacob spied his new neighbour, poised atop a beach towel, rubbing lotion over gleaming moonlit porcelain skin. Adjusting her scant blood-red bikini, she lay back as if starting a mid-afternoon sunbath.

Suddenly swathed in full moonlight, she blossomed blindingly bright. Blinking away afterimages, Jacob saw her towel, smouldering in the grass, empty. He rushed outside; stopped short. Basking, glowing, she smiled, moonbeams glinting off—what the hell? She brushed his arm. A sharp prick, then darkness.

Dew-covered, Jacob awoke, a throbbing rash wrapping his arm, radiating from an embedded porcelain-white cactus spine.

Jeff Currier

Jeff works three jobs, so has little time to write. Hence, he writes little stories.