Horror Stories of 1,000 Words or Less
For the month of April 2025, these are the stories that entertain us most.
* Starfish by Maura Aradia Furtado
* Watch Your Back by Pauline Milner
* Soup Story by Garry Engkent
* Low Season by Mark Moran
* Psychopomp by Peter Mangiaracina
* The Last Night at Esmerelda's by Eric Bach
* Rest in Peace by Tom Ramey'
* Despair by Jason Beskin
* Being Content by Olufunmilayo Makinde
Starfish by Maura Aradia Furtado
I resent him. I resent everyone he looks at how he used to look at me. I resent that they believe themselves to be special to him, just as I did. Sometimes, this resentment tempts me to disappear without a word. I daydream about packing away my monochromatic wardrobe, tiptoeing out of our house before dawn, and driving out to southern Washington to start anew. I dream of a new life where I’ll become a hermit with independent hobbies, like bread making and gardening. A simple life. A life where I don’t concern myself over such ungovernable things.
When at work, I find myself oppressed by those fantasies. When the tedium of my office job endures, I catch myself imagining the moment I allow those urges to overtake me. I would silently slip to the time clock for my last punch and leave without saying a word to anyone. I would turn my phone off and drive north on the highway until it was too late to fight off the sleep. I’d stop at the most presentable motel I could find and set up camp until I had the resources to lay down my roots in the Pacific Northwest. I fantasized like this often, almost as a way to pass the time.
He and I used to be happier, though I question how much of that happiness was due to the relationship or to what we each got out of it.
We still make love often and passionately. Our sides still hurt from laughing so hard some nights. We eat together and always make sure to give each other a good night kiss. But he used to call me gorgeous. His jaw used to drop when we reunited after the workday. He would rub my feet and stroke my cheek so gently when looking into my eyes that it made me shiver in excitement.
When I finally discovered who the new object of his affection was, I killed her.
I beat her down with the claw side of a hammer after I saw her leave my house one June morning. I told him that I was driving up to the Catskills for a weekend yoga retreat, but in reality, I spent the night holed up in the backseat of my Sienna. I followed her back to her house and beat her until she went limp. I didn’t ask her for the dirty details of their affair. I didn’t ask her if she knew whose life she was ruining. I just acted.
I never thought I would become the type of woman who risked her life over broken trust. I also never thought that I’d see someone come back from the dead. Yet, there she was the next morning, alive and well, standing at my doorstep.
Her skull wasn’t caved in. Her alabaster skin had not a scrape. She stood still and calm with an unbroken smile, staring straight at me. Not a word was spoken between us.
I had to kill her again. How she healed so quickly was beyond me and something I couldn’t afford to question. I just grabbed her by the hair and threw her to the ground before strangling her. That ungodly smile…she never let up. But this time, I knew she was dead and gone.
It’s been five weeks now, and I’ve killed her every single day since. Sometimes, she appears at my door. Other times, she appears in my backyard. Never speaking, she always stares with a smile on her face, awaiting the inevitable.
He never questions the thumping or bumping when this happens. He never questions the late nights and early mornings spent away when disposing of the evidence. Over time, I began to cut corners when it came to concealing her body. I knew what was in store for me once the sun climbed through the sky again, so I didn’t bother being meticulous.
All of that, only to find he still stares when he thinks I don’t notice. He still ignores me after I curl my hair and paint my lips red, hoping that I look exactly how he wishes me to. And she still haunts my life.
I daydream about buying a cabin in the thick Washington forest to live the rest of my life. I’d spend my days filling my kitchen with the aroma of rosemary bread and writing about the way rainwater falls onto my berry bushes.
I can only hope she would not follow me there.
Maura Aradia Furtado is an emerging writer previously published in The Word’s Faire, Cathexis Northwest Press, and The Closed Eye Open. Her work explores heavier subjects and the more difficult aspects of the human condition. You can follow her on Bluesky @mauraiswriting.bsky.social and find more of her work on www.mauraiswriting.com
Watch Your Back by Pauline Milner
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Everyone has a niche. Mine just happens to be watching someone writhe in pain before they die.
Standing here on this deserted street, the fog has crept in, and I pull up my coat collar in response to the dampness. It won't be a long wait.
Alex Mason will be passing by in just a few minutes, taking his normal route home after his shift at Shekel's. I know because I have been stalking him for weeks.
This is my typical MO, though the time taken to find the right victim, always in a new city, can be the longest part of my mission. I seek out the assholes, the ones who are hostile to teenagers working the counter at a fast food joint, yell obscenities at others, and routinely harass people.
These stains on society need to be taken out and endure some suffering of their own.
In the distance, I hear footsteps, and I push myself further back against the alcove of bushes. Mason's about to find out what his punishment is for telling a young kid to "fuck off" when she accidentally bumped into him and for spitting on a homeless person asking for change on their usual corner.
I rub the syringe in my hand with my thumb. Almost show time. As Mason passes, I step in behind him. This has to happen quickly before he stops to check and see who is following him. In one choreographed motion, my left arm goes around his throat while my right hand plunges the needle into his neck. He jerks a couple of times before I drop him, and the agony begins. Potassium chloride burns his veins on the way to his heart, and before this episode is over, he will try to scream, twist in pain, and claw at his neck. His eyes may meet mine, if only for a second, as I am enjoying the show.
Within a few short minutes, Mason is still, the look of terror remaining evident on his face. I step over his body and make my way south toward the mall parking lot where I left my motor home.
I am not playing God, and I did not plan on growing up to be a murderer. Firstly, for all the nimrods who really think there is a big guy up there in the sky with his hands on the controls of everything. Bullshit. You are chasing a fairy tale because God would not let little kids be sexually abused and people be blown up by suicide bombers. Secondly, for everyone who believes we are all born equal and can be what we want in life, you are living in fantasyland. Do you think that guy who picks up your garbage really aspired to that job?
In my house, kids were punching bags, chore masters, and anything else my parents wanted us to be. My sister grew up to be a habitual drug user and is probably still shooting meth into her veins. Me? I got lucky as the one with brains and a particular penchant for economics. You would think I would be an executive with a corner office, a wife, and two kids, but that didn't happen because I ended up with a different fate.
My classmates thought it was fun when I brought a frog to school and laughed as I tore its legs off and watched it bleed to death. When my father told me to get rid of my sister's guinea pig because she wasn't taking care of it, I shot it in the head with my BB gun until it died. I was in control of their deaths, and it's not my fault that I liked it. I also pounded the face of Freddy Moore until it was a bloody pulp of a mess, but he never called me a freak again.
One thing I never did unless I absolutely had to was to spend money. My parents didn't notice or didn't care when they got no change after I did errands. I took every shift available at the local pharmacy, stocking shelves and spending evenings manning the canteen at the ball field. Money found in a birthday or Christmas card went straight into my war chest.
I had studied the stock market for years. As soon as I turned 18, I invested a good chunk of change into a small start-up that was building personal computers. When Nanopriv Corporation stocks blew up, I got out with enough money to support myself, setting me up for life. I purchased a brand new house on a set of wheels and said goodbye to my hometown.
After sitting at a campsite in my motorhome for two days listening to the prick three sites over scream at his wife and smack her around, something stirred in me and led me to where I am today.
Since no one has my fingerprints or a sample of my DNA, I haven't been too worried about getting caught, but I do keep that spare syringe in case the police ever come calling. I know it will only be a few minutes of excruciating pain before the end.
You must like people to do what I do—sitting and watching all day and picking out the ones who need to be erased. Following them for days, sometimes weeks, to find the place where their reckoning will come. I have been lucky so far, eighteen and counting.
When I reach my motorhome, there is no one around. I decide to cop a few zzz's before I head out. My next city will be another state away. A long drive and a lot of time to think.
I can't fathom ever stopping unless, of course, I have to be the orchestrator of my own demise. Killing is orgasmic for me.
You don't have to worry about being my next victim, but if you aren't minding your Ps and Qs, watch your back.
Working as a freelancer for over 20 years, Pauline pivoted in order to write for clients but also to focus on her fictional writing. Having already penned many short stories and one chapbook, she is also writing two novels and two motion picture length original screenplays. She lives with her husband and their dog, Casey, in a restored farmhouse surrounded by five working farms. For the best mental health boost, she feeds and cuddles baby lambs.
Soup Story by Garry Engkent
Saila Sam is just your neighborhood sleazebag, trying to stay alive, taking dope from the corner pusher when he can, and making some pocket money by doing illegal jobs. Saila Sam's eyes are always on the lookout for things, items dropped deliberately or accidentally. Sometimes, he gets lucky and find a purse or wallet. Money, usually a few dollars and change, is always welcome. ID plastic cards are sellable.
His neighbourhood is lower town. Populated with the down-and-out, small-time gangsters and criminals, whores, beggars, hustlers, and scumbags. There's graffiti on anything perpendicular: walls, fences, doors, sides of buildings in alleyways. This is home.
"So, you're back," Hugh observes. "Wanna job?"
Hugh runs The People's Cuisine, a charity café. His establishment serves the down-and-out not only in food but also a slight hope of learning the restaurant trade for those who volunteer.
"Like the free food," Saila Sam replies. "Not work."
"You might even learn a trade: cooking."
"How much you pay?"
Hugh mentions a figure. Saila Sam makes a face. "There are other benefits. I promise you won't be hassled."
Saila Sam puts on an apron, and Hugh introduces him to the rest of the kitchen staff of The People's Cuisine. There are ten regular workers, ranging in age from sixteen to sixty. Later and throughout the week, more volunteers appear and help out in the kitchen and the dining area.
That was six months ago.
Saila Sam is used to the kitchen's routine. One of the older cooks taught him to use various knives for vegetables, meats, and breads. Old Joe showed him how to slaughter, butcher, and cut properly. Saila Sam is not afraid to kill. He rather enjoys it.
"Do you want to work the graveyard shift?" Hugh asks Saila Sam. "Slightly better pay."
Saila Sam goes to work at midnight. There are about two or three regulars from the morning and afternoon staff, but the others are all new faces
he has never met. They look different. The faces of the young men and women are gaunt; their eyes appear dull and perhaps a little lifeless. They work efficiently but without vigor.
Hugh is there to introduce Saila Sam to the kitchen manager, Demyks. The kitchen manager puts Saila Sam to work grinding meat. Although he keeps an eye on the others, the head chef pays more attention to this new recruit. Being streetwise, Saila Sam knows he is being secretly watched. On occasion, he asks himself why.
By the end of the month, he automatically does his job without supervision and without paying much attention. It has become boring: grinding meat, grinding more meat. Then, in one stainless steel pan, he feels something odd: a finger with a gold ring.
"Jesus!" Saila Sam is about to draw the kitchen manager's attention but stops. He looks about. He stuffs the ring finger into his pants pocket. The young apprentice now looks carefully at the morsels of meat that he puts into the grinder. His giant pot is filled with a mixture of pork, beef, lamb, and human flesh (in smaller chunks).
He starts to shake uncontrollably. What is this place? How the hell can I get the hell out of here? Should I call the cops?
Saila Sam knows better. That thought comes from panic. The moment he calls the police he would be a dead man. If he were lucky.
The second thought shocks him more. Not only others but he, too, has been eating human flesh in the form of pieces in stews, soups, and sandwiches. His stomach wants to throw up.
Saila Sam, then, philosophizes: "What doesn't kill you, makes you wanna eat more."
Garry Engkent, Chinese-Canadian, taught English literature at various universities/colleges, and co-authored three college writing textbooks. His stories have appeared in Exile, Ricepaper Magazine, and Dark Winter Literary Magazine, etc. "Why My Mother Can't Speak English", "Eggroll", “Paper Son “and “Hannah". His recent published forays into horror are “I, Zombie: A Different Point of View,” “Merci” and “Immigrant Vampire” etc.
Low Season by Mark Moran
The hotel had been built too close to the water. Its floor sloped like the deck of a ship, slanted just enough to send a glass rolling off the table if left unattended. The carpets were drained of colour and dampness crept into the corners. The air carried the scent of old salt.
It was late in the season when I arrived. The streets were deserted, the harbour still, the boats tied up and rocking in murky grey water. Even the seagulls had abandoned the town as if something had warned them away. The woman at the front desk did not ask my name. She slid a key across the counter without meeting my eyes.
"Breakfast is at seven," she said.
The lift was broken. A handwritten sign had been taped over the buttons for so long that the ink had faded. The paper curled and hung limply, the words sliding off the page. The stairwell reeked of mildew, and the hallway carpets were frayed from countless footsteps. I let myself into the room.
A single bed. A small desk. A window overlooking the sea.
The wardrobe in the corner didn't shut properly, its doors gaping slightly. The air inside smelled of old fabric. I stood by the window and watched the tide's dark line slowly retreat. Long stretches of black sand, slick with seawater, reached toward the horizon like slender fingers. Somewhere in the walls, water gurgled through old pipes. A slow, distant rush.
I woke just after midnight to knocking. Soft. Deliberate. I stared at the ceiling, waiting for it to stop.
Another knock.
It came from the hall door, not the wardrobe. Yet my eyes drifted there instead.
Knock. Knock.
I rose slowly; bare feet cold against the floorboards. Pressing my ear to the wood, I felt the air, cool and thin. Ragged breathing rasped on the other side. I turned the lock. Silence. I opened the door. The hallway was empty. Or too full of shadow to tell.
On the second night, the phone rang in the early hours. I sat up, the room tilting with me. The old rotary phone squatted on the desk, shuddering. I hesitated before picking up. Static crackled.
Then –
Not a voice. Not words. Something else. Something wet. Like the sound of movement through water. I set it down.
On the third day, I saw another guest.
An older man stood at the breakfast room window, gazing out to sea as his reflection drowned in the glass. He did not eat. Did not drink his coffee. He stood perfectly still, his hands resting on the back of the chair before him. I took a seat at the far end. The woman from the front desk brought me a plate of toast and an egg with a rubbery sheen, then vanished through a door behind the counter.
The man tilted his head slightly. Not toward me. Just away from the window. His fingers tightened on the chair. His mouth opened wider than it should. I braced myself.
No sound came. He turned and left the room. I didn't hear his footsteps in the hall.
On the fourth night, I dreamed of the tide. Of black water creeping up the shore, lapping the hotel steps, climbing the walls. Of something moving beneath it, pale shapes stirring beneath the surface. Of footsteps in the hall. Of a slow, steady sound passing just outside my door.
When I woke, the air was heavy, damp, pressing against my skin. The bedsheets smelled of salt. The wardrobe's mouth hung ajar.
On the fifth day, the woman at the front desk was gone.
The lobby sat empty. The dust was thick on the counter, and the untouched register book, its pages blank, then not. I peered outside. The tide had retreated. The black sand stretched out in long ribbons. A figure stood at the water's edge, looking out to sea.
I felt my room key in my pocket, pulsing. I had never seen another guest leave.
I reached for the door handle. It did not turn. I knocked once. Then again.
The tide was coming in now, creeping up the shore, eating away at the black sand. The figure had disappeared.
I knocked harder. The sound did not echo.
Something moved on the other side of the door.
Slow. Deliberate.
Knocking back.
Mark Moran is a travel and short fiction writer whose work explores the sensory and emotional landscapes of the places visited. With a particular interest in less-visited destinations, he seeks to capture the spirit of these locales through evocative, ethereal storytelling. Mark writes for several publications, including NÓS, Ireland's largest Irish-language magazine.
Psychopomp by Peter Mangiaracina
They called him Charon. He rowed a boat from the cemetery across the lake to a tiny island, its only structure a crumbling mausoleum.
At night, through swirling mist, wraiths wandered the island, shrouds billowing, voices keening like loons in moonlight. Not even the most reckless teenagers would take skiffs there. Not even in daylight. Cloud cover loomed thicker on Charon’s Island. Air rippled around the island like a heat wave, even in winter, carrying a faint odor of rotting meat.
Angela’s test results came back negative, so she and a few friends celebrated around a campfire near the cemetery, drinking beer and telling scary stories. Angela peered at the island and could just make out a figure standing on the shore through the miasma. Amid soul-stirring sounds from the island, she swore the figure howled her name.
The next night, she went back alone. She stood on the shore, hugging herself against frigid gusts, watching the island shift like a chimera.
Then, the lazy creak of oars, slow and deliberate, overcame shrieking winds, followed by murky splashes of water. Those sounds echoed in her ears like a dissonant symphony, seeping into muscle, tendon, and bone. The bow of a rowboat sliced through the mist.
Every cell in her body begged her to leave, but her feet stayed rooted to the shore, numb and cold as gravestone slabs. Curiosity? Or compulsion? The rowboat scraped onto the pebbled beach, the sound like crushing bones.
An old man in a threadbare shawl stood up in the boat. Moon shadows crawled across his face like spiders. He raised his arm slowly, uncurling a skeletal finger, and called to her, his hollow baritone echoing from a dark canyon.
Angela!
Her mouth opened. Her voice rose, crude and tattered. She keened like a loon in moonlight.
Peter Mangiaracina is a writer and English instructor based in the Canary Islands, Spain. Originally from New York City, he spends his time balancing work, storytelling, and his love for videography and jazz fusion guitar. From December 2024 to March 2025 he has been published seven times, his most recent work, Tiny Acts of Vengeance is coming soon to The Brussels Review.
The Last Night at Esmerelda's by Eric Bach
"And here's Saphire!"
The voice rumbled into the static microphone like a carnival barker’s.
Saphire's thong had a pearl-white glow, her bare skin a dark, hazel tan. The black lights above made everyone look perfect.
Tom exhaled a cloud of smoke. After a few seconds, it dispersed upward, joining the thick, acrid haze that hung in the air.
"By George, I'd like to get some of that!"
He guffawed loudly as if it was the world's funniest joke, slapping George's back, oblivious to the lit Marlboro in his hand.
George didn't laugh. Tom had long ago worn the "by George" joke into the ground.
Besides, Saphire wasn't who he came to see.
He and Tom had become regulars at Esmerelda's last year after Tom's divorce. At first, he had begged George to come along, and begrudgingly, George relented.
Thereafter, every Friday night meant going out with Tom. For George, however, it wasn't the variety of flesh that kept him coming back. It was Tisha.
That first night, she had wrapped her arms around his chest as he sat, her blond bangs tickling his neck. And with that sweet southern drawl, she whispered into his ear.
"Anyone sittin' here, cutie?"
A shy man, he had never been approached like that.
And within the next half hour, he felt like he'd known her his entire life.
Her real name was Tina, and she was twenty-five. He learned that she loved Southern Comfort and Coke. Her favorite music was Type O Negative.
She had only one tattoo: a scarlet king snake. Its red, black, and yellow color patterns were inked in bright pigments, running from the nape of her neck, down her spine, all the way to her tailbone.
"The king snake reminds me of immortality," She chirped.
"Just like me. I want to live forever."
She had no kids but was seeing someone.
"And let me tell ya', he acts like a kid." She put her hand over her mouth and giggled.
Every night, she'd scoot her chair next to George's, curling her leg into his. Her heavily scented vanilla perfume would smother the air, making the hovering cigarette stench not so bad.
"Would 'ya mind getting me a refill, cutie?"
And George didn't mind, even if the drinks did cost twenty dollars each.
With time, he also learned that her boyfriend, Steve, was almost twice her age and was on parole.
"he's a good guy. People just don't understand him."
The last time he saw her, it looked like she had been crying. George almost asked her what was wrong, just like he almost asked about the darkened half-ring underneath her left eye.
And now, the chair to his left was empty. It had been that way for the last few Friday nights.
He stared longingly into his beer as Tom whistled, leaning over the stage rail and throwing dollar bills.
"Man, you're missing the action!" He shouted over the blaring music, finally plopping back into his chair.
And then George heard those warbled words, vibrating from the speakers, that made his pulse accelerate.
"And now, she's finally back for your viewing pleasure! It's Tisha!"
The dirge of heavy guitar riffs and a growling voice erupted as her thigh-high, pleather boots clicked up the steps.
A black scarf was wrapped around her neck. A black veil covered her otherwise bare chest.
She threw her leg around the brass pole and swung.
Thump!
Belly flopping forward, she slammed onto the stage face first.
And just as the crowd gasped, she picked herself up, creeping into a half-crawl. But it wasn't her usual feline crawl, with her bottom seductively arched in the air.
It looked like a mangled victim crawling out of the wreckage.
She cautiously attempted to stand; her legs wobbly as if on stilts.
Pushing her hair back, dark pieces of debris stuck to her blond strands.
Her eyes met George's, and she wagged her finger in a come-hither motion.
His skin flushed as butterflies fluttered in his stomach. But these were no butterflies, as this was not excitement. It was an intangible dread.
As he approached the stage railing, her mouth curved into a smile. Then she belched into a coughing fit, and pieces of dried leaves blew out her mouth.
She smelled like she had bathed in that vanilla perfume. However, its heavy scent could not mask the overripe stench of rot underneath.
Acidic vomit boiled up into George's throat.
She leaned into him, and the sticky plastic pieces brushed against his face. Upon closer examination, they were pieces from a garbage bag.
Her arm swayed drunkenly, playfully throwing the tail of her scarf at him. She dropped the veil and teasingly turned away from him.
Web-like veins on her sickly pale skin glowed in the lights, which seemed glazed with a damp wetness. However, the red, black, and yellow tattoo pigments were still perfect.
And the king snake seemed to slither as the loose skin swayed, moving around some unseen branch underneath.
As his elbow accidentally caught the tail of her scarf, there was an awful tearing sound, like cloth being ripped.
The snake's head split apart as the skin near her neckline unfolded, revealing a dried, bloody chasm underneath.
Her eyes rolled back as her head tumbled off her torso, rolling down the stage steps.
Her body spilled forward, revealing the bone-white stem of her cervical spine. Countless maggots moved frantically in the black rotting meat inside her dismembered neckline.
Neither George nor Tom remembered the lights coming on nor the paramedics rushing in. George did not recall what he had said when questioned. He did, however, read the newspaper headline about how the coroner could not determine her time of death.
A few days later, Esmerelda's closed for good, and neither George nor Tom ever mentioned it again.
Eric Rogers Bach, born November 17, 1976, was raised in Western Kentucky. According to his mother, Diane Rogers Bach, the first creature who frightened him was Kermit the Frog.. On a clear evening when reception was optimal, he enjoyed tuning in to KBSI and watching “Tales From the Darkside". He was an avid reader of Stephen King and often re-enacted the stories in backyard haunted houses. After graduating from Murray State University with a bachelor of science in 2000, the mundane rat race had slowly dulled his imagination. Therefore, he is grateful for this opportunity to rekindle the old flame of creativity. His short story, "The Taste Tester", was published in the December 2024 issue of Down In the Dirt.