
Horror Stories of 1,000 Words or Less
For the month of March 2025, these are the stories that entertain us most.
* Footrest by Keith Parker
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* Grocery List by Paul Watkins
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* Wednesday Matinee by Donovan Thiesson
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* Never Come at Night by Nicole Winchester
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* The Lonely Hearts Hunter by Charlie Williams
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* Any Minute by Ransom Wall
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* Here Lies Chocolate by Jerome Newsome
Footrest by Keith Parker

Have you ever smelled a trench? No? The odor attacks your nostrils and sinuses with a barrage of poisonous gasses. The odors are an acrid and vomit-inducing combination of shit, shit-smelling mud, iron blood, black vomit, the barbequed pork odor of melted flesh, and, in the spring, irises and daffodils.
The man I was standing on top of had had his jaw blown off that morning by an egg grenade lobbed by one of the Kaiser’s new stormtroopers during the madness of Ludendorff's spring offensive, the one that was going to end the war and give the Hun whatever the goddamn hell they believed they wanted back in those heady, military parade days of 1914.
He — the faceless one — had asked to borrow my gasmask to climb a ladder and survey what was left of No Man’s Land. I had shaken my head.
He’d rolled his eyes. “C’mon, mate. The gas is bad up here.”
I shook my head again.
“Dear Jesus. You’re not going to get huffed in the next thirty seconds.”
I shook my head yet again while tears welled in my eyes and my arse cheeks clenched. I tightened the headband on the mask.
He sneered, spit, and climbed the ladder. “Goddamn, Nancy.”
The blast blew out my eardrums. He had survived for three hours after having his face ripped away. I watched him writhe in agony until he died, unable to scream, only gurgle.
After that, and until we were redeployed, his body became my footrest.
I kept thinking about how I could’ve given him my gas mask. Shared it. Just for a moment. Would it have helped save him from the grenade? I don’t know. I will never know. But it might have done. A little shielding would have been better than none at all. Instead, I had just watched through mud-stained goggles as he fell to his death.
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That was seven years ago. I had logged the nightmare of the war in a diary that Mum had put in my pack before I left London. I had started writing in it when I arrived in Boulogne with the BEF. The journal was bound in leather from the finest Scottish cattle. And so, from then until Armistice Day, as I had seen flesh torn from men’s torsos and as I had done the same to strangers, I thought about that poor cow, now fertilizer, grazing in its tranquil fields in the Western Isles.
The journal now rests inside the bureau that sits in the corner of my flat on Tottenham Court Road. From the smeared window beside that bureau, I can see the Bolsheviks marching in their ranks and files below, flying the Union Jack next to the Hammer and Sickle. Some flags have the hammer/sickle sewn into the Union Jack itself. The mob tried to assault Winston Churchill one day but only got so far as molesting the taxi driver who, ironically, was a socialist with anarchist sympathies.
I sat back down, sighed, and took a sip of potato soup, my daily meal.
I returned to my typewriter. I am writing about the tragedy of the Great War at the behest of an editor friend at The New York Times. I’m not doing very well with American English. One of my mates, an American named Sam, had been teaching me proper American English right before he had his balls blown off by a Turk soldier who’d decided to join the fight on the Western Front rather than go to prison for perversion in Ankara.
I took another sip of my soup and had to pull a chunk of potato from my mouth. Not very polite but I was in the privacy of my own home. Even as tender as it was, I could not gum a hunk of potato.
I swallowed, scooted back to my desk, and smelled the irises I kept in a vase to the left of the Underwood. I put my fingers on the H and F keys and then stopped. To my right sat the Mason Jar full of my teeth. I had had each one extracted without anesthetic over the past year by a dentist on Charing Cross who had been released from prison by a corrupt magistrate. The dentist had actually offered me chloroform, but I had declined. I wanted to scream thirty-two times. And so, I screamed thirty-two times, passing out seventeen times during those surgeries. I had contracted a hideous infection after one extraction.
All that severe pain had been worth it, as was a daily diet of potato soup without potatoes because beside my Mason jar full of teeth was the jaw of my footrest from the trench.
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Keith is currently employed as a modeling and simulation analyst at NASA’s Marshall Space Flight Center. He’s married to his college sweetheart, who is an ophthalmic technician. They met at Birmingham-Southern College, a small liberal arts college, where he studied physics and history. They have two kids in college, and a cat who’s not in college. Keith has been writing speculative fiction since the 1990s; this is his seventh traditionally published short story (i.e., not self-published). He’s also pretty zany, much more right-brain than one might think given his science background.
The Grocery List by Paul Watkins

DAIRY
Milk—100% more fat—her arteries are hardening as I write.
Ice cream—doesn’t deserve it!
Creole butter—with a voodoo curse, you know, one that melts her face.
Laxative—it’s not dairy, but the celebration’s the same if you're lactose.
A dozen cage-free eggs—I read that chickens roam free and happy, but with freedom comes NO responsibility. They peck each other bloody, which I don’t have problems with. Egg violence adds to the romance.
MEAT
Whole chicken—small bones, can catch those in your throat (Perdue on special this week, dollar a pound).
Shellfish—she’s got a ton of allergies.
Catfish—bones, again.
VEGGIES
Jalapenos
Lee Kum Kee Siracha Chili Sauce (extra hot)—when the police come, I’ll need tears (20% off coupon).
BAKERY
A loaf of black bread—color of her heart. The Russian kind (15% off coupon).
Keiser rolls—Germans are such gentle people. The Keiser saw to it millions died in his war; I only need one to die.
Anniversary Cake—ordered two days ago. How long’s it been,18 years? No 20. I don’t know. It’ll be on the cake.
Animal crackers and Ho Hos—our kids love these things. My secret? I do, too.
SMOOTHIE
Bananas
Mango
Pineapple
Berries
Strawberry yogurt, two cartons (10% coupon for ea.)
I’ll need some honey—sweeten the lethal taste.
CLEANING PRODUCTS
Two large sponges—I anticipate projectile vomiting, maybe shit herself. It’ll be ugly.
Jumbo toilet paper, Charmin, super soft kind (coupon 30% off).
Hydrogen peroxide
Vinegar—mix this with the hydrogen peroxide, and it’ll be lethal.
Clorox—I remember Trump saying this was an injectable that kills viruses. I can’t get that out of my head.
Latex gloves
MISCELLANEOUS
Antifreeze—be winter soon. I know, I know, I drive a Tesla, but maybe no one notices.
A large blue tarp, 7’ X 9’—should be loose-fitting.
Duct Tape
Shovel
Diapers, the big box of Huggies, 170 count—can’t wait ‘til the twins are potty trained.
A string of condoms, lubricated—my girlfriend loves how they slide; so do I.
A fifth of Jack—a little courage.
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Paul Watkins has lived with his wife, Susan, in St. Louis, Missouri, for many years. He is a professor emeritus at Missouri State University and holds a doctorate and an MFA degree. He is an emerging author who writes primarily magical realism flash. He currently edits for two publications, The Clearing House Journal and The Consequence Forum.
Wednesday Matinee by Donovan Thiesson

Charon wheezes a weary sigh as he slumps into his seat. Condensation collects along the rim of a coke, fizzing in the cupholder to his side, and a heaping bag of popcorn rests upon his lap, staining his fingers amber. He closes his eyes and takes in the irresistible aroma of grease and salt.
He prefers Wednesdays because cinemas are usually devoid of chittering children and matinees because he is a workaholic. Nights are when his work picks up most, and the weekly Wednesday matinee at the Odeon is his treat to himself.
Arriving early is a must; he hates to miss the previews. If the feature film disappoints, as so often happens, he can daydream throughout the week of upcoming attractions. For Charon, these future possibilities represent hope during a hopeless time.
The theater doors beat twice from behind, and he jumps. A haggard man saunters past. The kid at the counter is bad for letting in drunks looking to sleep off a bender, yet Wednesday matinees are usually a safe bet. Charon’s shoulder blades slump. Christ, he hopes this man doesn’t snore, not after the week he’s had.
Charon flips the hood of his sweater up, concealing his pale face. Maybe this interloper won’t notice him, sit beside him, try to make uncomfortable small talk, or ask him for smokes. The man flashes Charon a smirk as he passes, but Charon catches no whiff of whiskey. The stranger sits two rows up and leans back in his chair. No issues so far. Charon exhales relief as the pools of light illuminating the aisles shrink and dim.
The screen flickers to life, and a familiar tingle of anticipation dances ballet up Charon’s vertebrae. An actor posing as a concession worker fills the screen, his sweaty, endearing face ten feet across.
“Please turn off your cell phones before the movie starts and keep your feet off the seats!” he exclaims to an empty cinema.
The man two rows up snorts and turns on his cell phone, raising it high above his head and blocking Charon’s view. He is not here to sleep off a hangover, nor is he here to enjoy the Wednesday matinee. This insufferable man is recording bootleg copies of the movie.
“Hey, buddy!” Charon calls.
“Piss off,” the man answers, not even turning around.
Charon sighs in annoyance. Rising upon spindly legs, he steps into the aisle. His right hand slips into the front pocket of his hoody and grips a leather-wrapped handle. On screen, a massive lion roars a triumphant shout of trumpets, masking his footsteps.
Charon folds his thin frame into the seat next to the man, who looks over in surprise. The color drains from his face as Charon pulls out the tool of his trade. Scythes are old-school and impractical; a sickle is concealed so much easier. Charon hates to work during the Wednesday matinee, but sometimes, it just cannot be helped.
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Donovan Douglas Thiesson resides just outside your bedroom window. In fact, he is watching you read this right now, and is disappointed that you have not read any of his other stories, some of which have been published through Fiction on the Web, Farthest Star Publishing, and Exquisite Deathzine. Donovan’s hobbies include collecting fossils, eating butter chicken, and going through your garbage at night. If you want Donovan to stop hiding in your closet, feel free to like and follow him on Facebook at ‘Donovan Douglas Thiesson Author.’
Never Come at NIght by Nicole Winchester

Samantha had been absolutely run ragged by the end of her twelve-hour shift. Every fiber of her being screamed at her to slow down but taking care of several non-verbal residents who couldn’t stand up to use the bathroom demanded every ounce of her attention.
She’d been an RN in different nursing homes for decades, but every year it seemed to get worse, and her current workplace, Shady Acres, took the cake. It lived up to its name. Shady administration refused to hire enough people to serve their nearly one hundred residents. Shady people dumped their parents there and never returned. Shady physical therapists and doctors neglected their patients so severely that she had to clean infected bedsores that could very well end their lives. No one seemed to care because all of the staff were run down and half-dead themselves, not just Samantha. At least Samantha would want to care if anyone gave her the slightest bit of encouragement. She’d never heard anyone say the phrase “Thank you” at Shady Acres.
Samantha attempted to get her chaotic mess of hair back into a bun before checking in on her quietest, sickest patient, Muncel Stanislaw. He’d been stuck in that hospital bed, nothing but a bag of bones, for longer than Samantha had worked there. Somehow, he got a little bit worse every day but was still alive, no matter how low his blood pressure got or how anemic he was. Another jaded nurse told her, “Just watch, he’ll go this week. You wanna bet?” Samantha had declined, appalled.
Some people just shouldn’t be here, she thought wearily and wasn’t sure if she was thinking of that nurse or Muncel.
As brightly as she could manage, she said, “How are we feeling today, Muncel?”
Muncel didn’t budge. He never did. His clouded blue eyes never looked at her unless she was right above him. Talking to him was a formality to keep her a little saner.
He wheezed out a few deep breaths, and Samantha pretended he’d said something.
“Great,” she replied.
As she put on gloves and prepared to give Muncel a sponge bath, her bleary eyes spotted something new in the room: a beautiful bouquet of roses and baby’s breath in a crystal vase with a little card attached. Samantha read the card out of curiosity.
“Thank you, my dear Samantha, for caring for Muncel so well for so long.
Samantha gasped a little and put her hand to her chest, feeling her nametag. Of course, that’s how someone had known her name… but she’d never seen anyone with Muncel, ever. Samantha read on.
If it hadn’t been for you, he would have passed long ago. Take these flowers as a token of appreciation. I ask only one thing of you: never allow anyone in his room at night.
Be well, Samantha.”
The strange instructions rattled around in her tired brain, barely making sense. Not to mention, she never worked nights, so it was impossible for her to make sure no one entered at night. What if he coded at three A.M.?
Samantha went home, put the flowers on her bed stand, and fell asleep instantly, forgetting all about the note.
The next morning, she came back to Muncel’s room first thing. His body shuddered when he entered like she’d awakened him from a deep sleep.
“Sorry, Muncel,” she said. “Just me. How are we feeling?”
She went over to check on him, his blue eyes wider than she’d ever seen, and saw two little red dots on his neck, just under his chin.
Samantha shuddered. Please don’t be bedbugs.
On the little table where the flowers had stood, now there lay a long, fat envelope with her name on it. Samantha, more than a little freaked out, opened it but nearly yelped when she saw what was inside.
Money. Thousands of dollars. And another note in the same handwriting.
“Samantha, I asked nicely before, but someone came at 1:15 last night and disturbed Muncel’s slumber. Is this enough for you to do as I ask? I won’t ask again.”
Samantha gripped the money until the envelope crackled. She had to tell someone. This wasn’t right, whatever was going on. But on the other hand, if anyone else at Shady Acres knew someone was handing out free money, there’d be a riot to get some, HIPAA violations be damned.
Samantha stuffed the money in her pocket and hatched a plan that very second.
After another grueling twelve-hour shift, she stuck around after clocking out, hiding in the lobby’s restroom. Fighting sleep, she waited until two A.M., then snuck out. The place was deserted. The only guard and the night nurses had taken their break together, even though they weren’t supposed to leave the floor without any nurses. The dimmed lights, deep quiet, and darkness from outside turned the pit of Samantha’s stomach. She snuck carefully up to Muncel’s room and creaked open the door.
In the night, an even darker shadow hung over Muncel’s body, like a dark scarf obscuring his neck, then whipped itself upward to reveal a head with two burning eyes and a mouth dripping with blood.
“Samantha!” it hissed.
There was no time to scream, no time to even open her mouth before the thing flew behind her and slammed the door shut.
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The other nurses of Shady Acres never asked what had happened to Samantha. They figured she’d just finally up and quit, like everyone who worked there wanted to do. They noticed the extra blood in Muncel’s room, though, and argued over who would have to clean it up.
Muncel stared at each nurse who came in, blinking, quivering, moaning with a mouth frozen open in a silent scream.
The Lonely Hearts Hunter by Charlie Williams

I’ve always loved the line from the Scottish poet William Sharp’s poem, “The Lonely Hunter”, which says, “But my heart is a lonely hunter that
hunts on a lonely hill.” Carson McCullers borrowed part of that line for her novel, “The Heart is a Lonely Hunter”. I love that
title, too. I guess I’ve always been fascinated by the human heart. I remember making those red construction paper hearts in Mrs. Poletti’s first-
grade class at Murphy’s Landing Elementary School for Valentine’s Day. I saved mine long after my classmates had discarded the ones they
had made, keeping them in my desk until they became ragged and torn. I learned that the heart was considered the center of strong emotions,
the gateway to the soul. As I got older, I often wondered what a real heart looked like. Needless to say, the pet population in my neighborhood
experienced a mysterious decline during my formative years. It was my awakening to a new life. I was inspired to alter my favorite line to describe
my solitary current path. I am a lonely hunter of hearts.
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Another thing that has always interested me is religion. Most of us inherit our god from our parents, but that hardly seems fair. There are all kinds
of gods out there, so why can’t we just pick the one that we want to worship? For me, that deity is the Aztec god, Huitzilopochtli. I
discovered him in sixth-grade social studies. I know it’s a mouthful and, to be honest, I’m not even sure I’m pronouncing the name correctly. But
this sun god is in a constant battle with the darkness and that sounded pretty good to me. Of course, my choice was influenced by his need
for human sacrifice and the offering up of human hearts to ensure his goodwill. It turns out that The Aztecs, as well as the Olmecs and Toltecs,
were pretty good at this ritual sacrifice thing. Priests would remove the heart while the victim was still alive. The heart was then offered to th
gods. They decapitated the head and removed the flesh of the face to expose the skull. The skulls were then displayed on wooden posts. Sound
extreme? Not when you consider that many devout people believe it’s okay to consume the body and blood of their god and pray to the wooden
cross used to torture and kill him.
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You can get anything online. The Aztecs used obsidian blades to remove human hearts with surgical precision and placed them in a bowl called a
Chacmool. I was able to order both from Amazon for under sixty dollars. Not bad, huh? It does take a little stealth and planning to hunt
for hearts, though. Let’s just say people aren’t lining up to be sacrificed to an Aztec god, and it’s not culturally appropriate to use one’s enemies
as religious fodder. So, yeah, hunting hearts is a lonely pursuit.
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When I began my spiritual journey, I knew I would have to have some way to subdue my human prey. Ever watch “Dexter”? He used the animal
tranquilizer etorphine hydrochloride to take down his victims, so I got a job working at a local veterinarian's office. It’s a small town and
things are a bit lax at the clinic. Besides, I really don’t use all that much.
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Did I mention that The Aztecs practiced exocannibalism, the eating of human organs to gain the strength of their kill? I may have left that out on
purpose. But let me tell you, it works! I’m not sure if they ate them raw, but that would be a bit much, even for me. Not to worry, I did find
a great recipe for cooking a heart. Well, to be honest, it was a recipe for a cow heart, but meat is meat, right? Not that you asked, but I’ll share
the process anyway. First, you have to rinse the heart thoroughly with cold water. Next, trim away the fat and connective tissue. This isn’t
usually a problem with a younger person. Cut the heart open and remove the chambers and internal membranes. Finally, slice the meat into
strips or cubes and always cook slowly to ensure tenderness. And the most surprising part? It tastes delicious!​
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I know you can’t talk with that shrink wrap covering your mouth, but I wanted you to know that there is a purpose behind all this. Just think, your
sacrifice will be in the service of a god and provide me with nourishment for my soul and body. That’s certainly not a boring way to die, is
it? By the way, I’ve really enjoyed our little talk. Believe it or not, I really don’t socialize all that much. Now it’s time for the most exciting part. I’m
going to slice open your chest and remove your heart, and you’ll be able watch it beat, at least for a few seconds. You’d be surprised
how long a heart continues to beat after it’s removed from a body. My own personal record is three whole minutes! What do you think, buddy?​
One more game? How long do you think your heart will beat? I know you can’t speak, but you can blink! The number of times you blink will
be your guess when you feel the blade against your chest. I’m starting to cut now. Ready? Blink!
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One! Two! Three! Four!!!
Any Minute by Ransom Wall

I woke up covered in blood. Well, not just blood. I was also splattered with gore and chunks of brain, and little specks of skull littered my scalp like dandruff. And to top it off, about three feet of intestines were wrapped around my neck like a scarf.
I can’t remember what happened last night or where I got the pile of gore that I was snuggled up in. And although it absolutely horrified me, I have gotten over much of the original shock now.
A huge part of me wanted to call the police, but my more logical self knew that would be a bad idea. A very bad idea. What would I tell them? What explanation could I give? My mind keeps gravitating towards a certain one. An impossible one. I want so badly to just write it off as ridiculous, as I would have any day before today, but this one piece of information refuses to leave me alone.
Last night was a full moon.
This only dawned on me after I had taken care of the mess, mostly because I was rushing like hell to get it cleaned up before one o'clock. I have a small fireplace, and the sheets burned perfectly. I also burned my clothes and the larger pieces of gore, such as the intestine scarf. I showered off the rest and scrubbed my skin all over. I then bleached the tub and poured half a bottle of drain cleaner down it.
During that process I had a vague memory or thought of doing bath-salts. I don’t remember ever buying bath-salts, and I don’t remember ever wanting to use them. I smoke some weed every once in a while but that’s it. Why would I use bath-salts?
There wasn’t much blood on the floor, so that only took about a half-hour to clean up. Thank God I don’t have carpet. When I took off the intestine scarf, I noticed something. It wasn’t all one piece, instead it was two pieces that had gotten knotted together somehow. And one piece was not as thick as the other. It was thinner, much thinner, and seemed to be of a slightly different shade.
Now I sit here, watching the door. My ex-wife was supposed to bring my daughter over so she could stay for the weekend, like we do every week. Except they’re late. They’re never late. It’s one-thirty now. They probably got stuck in traffic, that’s all. They’ll be here any minute.
Any minute.
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Ransom Wall is a young writer who had his first short story published at the age of 15. Since then he has had multiple publications in numerous magazines and anthologies in paperback, hardcover, and digital format.
Here Lies Chocolate by Jerome Newsome

Avenir Light is a clean and stylish font favored by designers. It's easy on the eyes and a great go-to font for titles, paragraphs & more.