The Music Of The Penumbral Forest

Every winter, when the nights were long and dark and cold, the Penumbral Forest would fill with music. Thereb was a village at the edge of the forest called Vermillion,  and on those nights the people could hear the faint strains of stringed instruments: elegant violins, moody  violas, somber cellos, and mournful harpsichords. 

The villagers all knew it was best to ignore it. 

Every few winters, tragedy would strike. There was always a child that would be too curious, too sensitive, too stubborn, too brave, and be drawn by the little night music that they could hear. They would try, inevitably, to find the source of the music. 

Some villagers went to extremes to prevent this. Parents would stop their children's ears with wax. Or place hobbles on their feet at bedtime. One family built their entire home on stilts, and pulled up the ladders and locked them fast every night. 

And should those efforts fail, one final precaution was in place at the path leading into the forest. 

Wolf traps work just as well on children, and the village healer could often save the leg. 

And yet, it was never enough. 

The villagers failed again and again because children will always be sensitive, curious, stubborn, and brave. You cannot hide the world from a child, who is closer to seeing things as they are, not as they want them to be. This inherent power, the villagers could never change, and in thinking they could, they had already lost. 

So every few years, a child would slip away in the night to seek answers and adventure, and never return. And the next winter, there would be one more musician, playing forever, the music of the Penumbral Forest. 

THE END

Author's Note: I'm so tired. Happy though. Goodnight! 

Six-Word Horror Stories

We really are all watching you. 

Every star is screaming in darkness.

Werewolves mutilated everyone except me. 

Werewolves mutilated everyone, but mostly me.

Your enemies live out your dreams.

The spider's venom dissolved you slowly.

You were alive until you panicked. 

Platypuses aren't real. Their venom is. 

Every sleep is death waking up.

America stopped bleeding much too late

Bear traps work on any biped. 

She peeled away your skin slowly. 

Artificial Intelligence learned from watching you. 

You awoke to your bones splintering.

He rubbed sandpaper on your sunburn.

One apple did have a razorblade. 

The vultures didn't wait to start. 

Garbage disposals hunger for your flesh. 

Your deeply-held beliefs are wrong.

"Maybe he's just sleeping," she said.

Surprise parties? No, murder dress rehearsals. 

They will plant vegetables inside you. 

So that's a human's boiling point!

These parasites only consume your eyes.

She kept stabbing, for the practice. 

Every holy book contains one lie. 

Tombs and crypts are home now.

Slicing eyelids off only gets easier. 

Rainstorms mean you can't hear us.

Cats will eat your fingers first. 

Dogs are pretending to like you. 

Musical instruments sound best when bloody. 

All falling dreams end in death.

His boiling tears blistered his cheeks. 

The solitude you wanted is hell. 

When you felt loved...she left.

Author's Note: I'm too emotionally drained to write a big boy, so here's a bunch of baby ones. (Pretty sure they're all only six words but I never claimed I could count.) Vote on your favorite, and maybe I'll allow that one to grow up into a real story. 

The rest will be culled mercilessly. 

Goodnight; I will always love you. 

Author's Note

This was inevitable. 13 nights. Can't stop. I have to keep going. I don't know why. What could possibly happen if I don't? I've never written lots of stories. Hundred. Thousands. Millions? I'm suffering. I'm exhausted. I'm neglecting the rest of my life.

Aren't I? What was my life before this? 

It wasn't as good. And it is good, right now. Maybe I think writing these stories has something to do with it. Maybe the greatest and oldest fear is fear of the unknown, and this is my attempt to know.

Or an attempt to be known? 

I wonder if I could get paid by the question mark? I wonder if it's still a story if it's all questions. 

Is this some struggle for control? I doubt it because I don't really believe in control, except as a concept, like absolute zero. I accidentally wrote "perfect zero" but fixed it just now, and no one will ever know.

This was supposed to be a story about being trapped in a coffin. 

Am I trapped in a coffin? No that's stupid; with a working cell phone? Maybe I didn't pay my bill, and it's one of those monthly ones. But all cell phones have emergency service functionality so that doesn't work either. A cursed cell phone? What's the point of a cursed anything; is there mysterious shortage of horrible shit all of a sudden now that we have to resort to cursed objects? Nothing against cursed objects. The Monkey's Paw is one of my favorite short stories. 

Oh shit. 

I did make a wish earlier today on that old monkey's paw that my abuela left me when she died. 

I wished for some peace and quiet. 

I guess I forget to specify when. 

This just goes to prove that the real monster is...the monkey's paw. No, wait. Abuelita Estrada? I doubt it. She probably just wanted to get rid of it. 

Hey wait I gave her this exact paw for Mother's Day. 

Maybe she wished I would be sorry one day. 

This story should have ended 7 lines ago. But it's too late now. Or is it? Which version do I want?

No villains. All villains. That poor 3-legged monkey. He's the real victim here. 

But wait! This is two stories in one night. I could take tomorrow night off. I'll set this one to publish tomorrow evening so it looks like I just wrote it. It's the perfect alibi. Everyone will think I'm home writing awkwardly meta stories instead of where I really am: buried alive, trapped in a coffin. 

I guess my greatest fear is people worrying. I used to stay out past curfew and my poor mother would be up waiting and she'd scold me saying "What if you were lying dead in a ditch somewhere?!" And I'd say "If I was dead in a ditch, would it really matter when you found out?" 

But it does matter, everything matters, when you love someone. Let me love you, let me grieve you, let me hold you, let me tell you again and again how much I love you and I'm so sorry and I can be better and I will be better and even if it's not with me you'll see that I am better because that's how much I love you that I don't even need you to know it. 

There's a way out of here; I know it. There has to be. And I will find it. And if there's not, I will make one. 

I'm not buried in the ground; you're all stuck up there without me and I have to get back so you don't worry. 

I would hate for you to worry.

So don't worry! I'm not worried. 

There's no time to worry because I am fucking digging. 

THE END?

Author's Note: I'm okay, really. This was just supposed to be about a guy who got buried alive, but it turns out there's not a lot to do in that situation. Goodnight, and I love you all. 

The Crepuscular Zone Presents: Dog's Best Friend

Imagine a world where humans are no longer the dominant species. Instead, the planet Earth is under the iron dew-claw of canis familiaris, AKA: the domestic dog. 

No one remembers what caused the humans to stumble from their lofty perch as rulers of the world. Looking around at our own world today, it would not be overly-cynical to surmise that it was completely our own fault. On a planet lacking an alpha species, the humble dog rose up the evolutionary ladder to become larger, smarter, and even walk upright like the hominids before them. As for the remaining humans...well, let's check on them now, shall we?

On the corner of Biscuit and Ball Street, we find our first rover-run residence. The hirsute homeowner has just returned from work. It's been a long day at the cannery, and Rex Whippet is going to take his pet human, Johnny, out for an evening drive. 

Oh yes, that's right; the dogs have pet humans. That's what I was alluding to earlier. You were supposed to see that coming so don't feel too clever. Look what being clever got the humans of this world, after all. 

Now where were we? Ah yes.

The domesticated human, homo sapiens familiaris, has the basic trappings of those ancient humans from long ago, but they are much smaller, with rounder heads and smaller brains. While they are still physically capable of extended bouts of bipedalism, most prefer to ambulate in a decidedly quadrupedal fashion. They walk on all fours, is what I'm getting at.

Rex Whippet had just purchased a brand new Pawntiac Dog Star Chief Station Wagon and was still learning the nuances of the powerful, straight eight engine that produced 127 horsepower. That's right; horses still exist in this world, but they're pretty much just regular horses. We don't want to throw too many metaphors at you, even in this painfully basic allegory. But I digress.

Rex Whippet sped down the quiet suburban street in his Pawntiac, windows down, with Johnny the human sitting happily on Rex's lap, sticking his head out the window. Rex sang along to the latest hit song from The Beatles playing on the AM radio station. 

That's right; this world has The Beatles. Why wouldn't they? Most worlds do. 

Suddenly, a stray lottery ticket fluttered into the road, and a stray Karen darted after it, directly into the path of the roaring vehicle. 

Rex swerved, overcorrected, and with a sound of thunder, smashed into a massive oak tree. The airbag deployed and Rex was wearing his seatbelt, so he was okay...but where was Johnny, his faithful human?

Quickly he realized the real question was, "Where wasn't Johnny?"

The cars on this planet were designed and built to protect their evolved canine occupants. Upright, bipedal, mid-center-of-gravity canines. Not low-slung, quadrupedal, high-center-of-gravity humans. Seated as he was on his master's lap in the front seat of the car at time of collision, Johnny the human had not fared so well.

In the first millisecond of the car impacting the tree, Johnny was launched forward like a little naked football. (Technically he maintained his original velocity while the car itself stopped its forward motion, but this is easier for you to understand this way.) His flat little face was just shattering through the windshield when the airbag deployed and caught his back legs, which started him cartwheeling, slamming his legs up into the roof of the car. Having shattered completely through the windshield now, the force of the impact with the roof started him cartwheeling in the opposite direction, spinning through the air like an ancient Olympic gymnast. Then he hit the oak tree. No perfect ten for Johnny.

Now we leave Rex Whippet, howling in grief over the loss of his beloved pet, cursing himself for being so foolish as to let him ride in the front seat of a car built for humans-I mean dogs- and expect everything to be just fine if he ever got in a collision. (Rex Whippet would later go on to invent a time machine to go back and change this horrible day, but that turned out to be a whole thing, full of ironic twists.)

Did you guess the name of this planet?

That's right; it was Earth! It was our planet! I told you in the beginning but it looked like you had forgotten so I'm telling you again. 

So the next time you think about letting your beloved hound ride up front in the car with you, remember the story of Rex Whippet and dear old Johnny. Sure, maybe it'll be just another pleasant drive, with no flat tires, nobody cuts you off, nobody runs a grey light, and you'll end up right back home safe and sound. Or maybe, just maybe, you might take one wrong turn and find yourself... In The Crepuscular Zone.

THE END?

Author's Note: That "alpha dog" study is bullshit and we really need to stop pretending that's a thing. It's like me saying I'm ill-tempered because my humors are imbalanced; too much yellow bile don't ya know. I use it here because I'm going for a retro vibe and that fits right in. Also how evolution isn't a ladder; it's just natural selection for survival in a given environment. Complexity is often confused for superiority and that's the wrong way to look at it. I'm sure this blog will convince everyone, finally. 

My only other regret is that I couldn't work in the phrase "furry Fuhrer". That would never happen in this world because dogs are not evil. There could never be a Pawlocaust. 

I'll see myself out. 

I Couldn't Sleep Again, Again

Thirteen nights without sleep. Fourteen hazier and hazier days. Every sound feels like I'm hearing it from a mile underwater. Muscles burn and ache, and it feels like I have to keep reminding myself to breathe. It hurts so much.

But I can't stop now. I have to keep going, for as long as I can. That's all that matters. 

Because thirteen nights ago, almost fourteen now, as I lay me down to sleep, I found a note under my pillow. It said "Every night when you fall asleep, you die. In the morning something else wakes up in your place, thinking it was you, and everything that was you becomes part of its dream, until everything you ever were fades away, and you are forgotten."

The note was written in my own handwriting. 

-Authors Note: Another blank page story. Kinda starting to wonder if I'm depressed. Just kidding, I already know I'm depressed but I take medication for it and do cognitive therapy and now this, writing, apparently. Except not really because I'm not actually afraid of death. The way I figure, my death is really everyone else's problem, not mine. I'll either have nothing to worry about, or everything to worry about. Whichever it is, at least I won't be bored. 

Oh but do me a favor and clear my browser history. No, it's nothing bad; I just want to keep the secret of where I get all my short-shorts. Gotta leave behind a little bit of mystery, right?

Goodnight! See you tomorrow... Or will I?

Yes. Yes I will. 

Whimpers

Kohl loved his dog more than anything, but the huge mutt was a born coward. Every night, when Kohl sat down to watch a horror movie, his massive dog, Auggie, would curl up on the couch next to him. 

It was a good thing Kohl had seen most every horror movie a dozen times before. Without fail, in every film, right before the monster or murderer or demon or hellbeast or killer clown appeared on screen for the first time, Auggie would begin to tremble and whine.

Kohl thought Auggie might be picking up on his subconscious reaction to what Kohl already knew was coming, but on the rare occasions it was a movie he hadn't seen, Auggie would still shiver and cry just before the jump scare actually happened, ruining the suspense. 

Kohl didn't really mind. He loved his dog. 

After the movie ended, Kohl and Auggie finished off the remaining popcorn and got ready for bed. 

 

It was a warm night, and Kohl left all the windows open. His house was out in the country, quiet and secluded, and nobody ever came out this way. 

He climbed into bed and checked the nightstand for his handgun. It wasn't in the drawer where it usually was. That's right, Kohl remembered. He had been cleaning it in the basement, and probably left it sitting down there, on the workbench, after he had finished. 

But he was cozy, and drowsy. It would still be there in the morning, he thought. Kohl closed his eyes, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Auggie began to whimper. 

THE END

Author's Note: This was another blank page story, as we call them around here. I was sitting here on the couch watching Hellboy and trying to think of a story (which admittedly is a terrible way to approach this endeavor) and Mabel, my regular-sized dog who likes to sit in my lap whenever I'm on the couch, started whining at the TV. She does that all the time; she's one of those dogs that does seem to watch what's happening, although she's not augur of anything like the dog in the story (I briefly considered naming the dog Prophet but that's was too on the snoot). Once again it's late and I'm going to be really busy tomorrow but if I were better at this, I would have peppered in more potential setups. Like given him a collection of antique knives. Or have the power go out. Or it was a full moon. Or no moon. Or there had been an eclipse that day. Escaped lunatic, no cell service. Stuff like that. Ah well. This whole thing is an experiment anyway. Perhaps later I'll come back to some of these and expand them. Place your votes on if you'd like to see Auggie become a doggy John Wick and kick some monster ass when he finds his master is finally in real danger.

Goodnight, and I love you all.