Police Story (and Other Spooky Story Poems)

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Reblogged this on gracedescence and commented: This shall be my new project, to finish these short two sentence stories. With two sentences that are not mine, of course. Read more freaky stories here. Found on […]. You can try it yourself by taking a random article and using random phrases, […]. Reblogged this on engrceleres and commented: Who needs sleep anyway?

Well goodnight! Reblogged this on Oneirophrenia and commented: these are amazing. Reblogged this on La Prima Cosa Bella. Sign up for the Thought Catalog Weekly and get the best stories from the week to your inbox every Friday. You may unsubscribe at any time. By subscribing, you agree to the terms of our Privacy Statement. These two-sentence horror stories are going to freak you the eff out.

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There was a picture in my phone of me sleeping. I live alone. You wake up. She asked why I was breathing so heavily. Day Internet still not working. The officer finally got back to me. The call was coming from inside the house. The last man on Earth sat alone in a room. There was a knock at the door. I never go to sleep. But I keep waking up. The longer I wore it the more it grew on me. She had such pretty skin. I looked out my window.

The stars had gone away. I just saw my reflection blink. The upstairs neighbors are awfully noisy. The knife, it slices — just like butter I tried to be a loving mother. I just saw the children playing, admiring how high they have swung. I was always told not to play with my food, as it is a blessing to eat.

Read this after the day is nigh. I was never more scared or more filled filled with dread, Than the night the police found, her dismembered head. As I played in the basement, Mother called me upstairs. I watched you play whilst at the park. I travel here and there so suddenly, and never make a sound. And from the grave, where my father was put And hand reached up and grabbed my foot.


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I saw the children playing, watched how high they swung. Roses are red, violets are blue. I held her in my arms, dying What could lie in her crib, crying? Can you hear the beautiful ring of the bell? You see, I stand on my box. Muscles now relaxed, and still in her bed; young Timmy and Zax leaving all left unsaid. Wrapped in sheets and cuddled in bed. You taught how me to be a man, but today I feel so all alone. I once had a girlfriend named Jill, I buried her under that hill. I kept calling my girlfriend the day they buried me. My cat is asleep beside my computer in his favorite spot.

I woke up to the smell of copper in the air. I had done it again. Looking at my clock it is and my closet door creeks open… I see a face staring at me from my window. I live on the 3rd floor. The cloven hoof prints were fresh. They were in sets of two, staggered like a man running. I got a haunted doll in the mail today. If only I could find where she ran off too… To my horror it was something that was wearing his skin… I used to be considered the evil twin.

I work in a strip club. I fell asleep in my pajamas.

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I stopped going to church, because God never answers me. The one day she did, she never came back out. I never meant to make my ex cry. I only meant to make him bleed. My throat is raw from screaming for help. But I felt another hand, instead. But when they texted me back, they used my full name. Editor , Trembling With Fear. Steph has graciously stept up on some of them while I deal with some real life matters and trying to get posts scheduled with our backend issues. Many of our shorts and drabbles are picked months in advance so it is always a thrill to re-read them while preparing these posts.

Also related to the site, our interview and review coordinator recently stepped back. We have a potential bite for the review position though are still looking for someone to help on the interview side.

Please reach out if you like to organize things and have some free time! Editor , Horror Tree. My role is to keep them safe and cared for, from the moment they enter the mortuary until they leave it. My newest resident was thirty when she died, hit by a car and injured beyond recovery.

The nurses did their best, of course, but her long, dark hair was matted with congealed blood when she arrived. She donated her organs, this girl. I love the ones who do that. They understand the meaning of life after death — how their sacrifice sustains those they leave behind. The mortuary bell rings perfectly on schedule. Four a. Even hospitals grow quiet around then.

The trickle of drunks and walking wounded dries up, the nurses keep their quiet vigil over tea and toast, and the dead-eyed spectres of junior doctors curl up until morning like dry leaves. I take my time. I take the envelope and count the contents — brought, as instructed, in ten-pound notes. I like that. I try to accommodate their individual wishes when I can, but in all honesty, usually their requests follow a predictable pattern. I nod permission.

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He reaches a hand and draws back the sheet. I once had a customer who wanted the body dressed in clothes he provided, including a curly grey wig. Now I give them the choice of a hospital gown or a sheet, and that seems to hit the spot nine times out of ten. Her skin is yellow-white on top, shading to a mottled purple down her flanks where the blood has pooled. White adhesive dressings cover the long wound from sternal notch to pubis. He looks at me, hesitant. I almost feel sorry for him. I shake my head.

My customers are all too aware of how society views their particular perversion. Some of them have partners, children and jobs. I suppose it was all word of mouth back then, or discreet messages in the personal adverts of newspapers. Now I have clients from all over the world, far from anyone who could recognise them even if they were spotted — and that suits me just fine. So you can talk about it in front of dying people without upsetting them. Sounds kind of romantic. Never done this before.

I feel my muscles tighten. This happened once before, early on, before I knew how to set the proper ground rules. Behind my back, my hands ball into fists.

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I calculate the distance between him and the door. He undoes his belt and kicks his way out of his trousers. I feel a stab of revulsion, but that has its advantages. By a stroke of luck most of the blood is on him, the sheet and the floor. I fetch a wet-wipe to clean her up. When I go through his clothes, I find an organ donation card in his wallet.

That pleases me. I like to think this is what he would have wanted. Besides, the eyes never freeze well. Jude is a Glasgow based horror writer who creates things to unwind in the gaps between full time work, chasing after her kids and trying to wear out a border collie. She is an avid Zombies! You can find some of her work here:. He had told them not to make a fuss over his turning 50, knowing full well that a birthday party was already in the works. He feigned surprise when he walked through the door and a house filled with people shouted at him.

He even smiled when the cake was brought out and everyone sang. After blowing out his candles, he managed to slip outside. As he drove away, he watched in his rear view mirror as his house exploded into pieces. Scarlet Berry is a Yooper. She is a mystery wrapped up in a conundrum, and loves to laugh; both evilly and happily. Collins smiled. The last exam was marked. Retirement beckoned. He thought about the last forty years. Tough but fair. It was Davidson. Collins twitched.

Davidson had been kicked out the program twenty years before. Collins had felt a twinge of guilt at the time; Davidson had only been an hour late submitting an assignment, but rules were rules. Meldrum is an author and academic. Born in Scotland, he moved to Ontario, Canada in Got the chair. How could anything ever be right again? We had always intended to kill you , but you boys looked so much alike.

Kevin M. Folliard is a Chicagoland writer whose published fiction includes scary stories collections Christmas Terror Tales and Valentine Terror Tales , as well as adventure novels such as Matt Palmer and the Komodo Uprising. Kevin currently resides in La Grange, IL, where he enjoys his day job as an academic writing advisor.

Author Website: www. Available on: Amazon. To solve murders, you must understand the process of decomposition. Scattered across its acres are human donor cadavers and pig carcasses arranged to mimic some of the ways in which police might find murder victims: exposed to the elements, buried in a shallow grave, wrapped in tarpaulin. Forensic scientists and graduate students meticulously track each stage of putrefaction.

A human donor will be locked inside a car. But the donor has other ideas… So begins a facility-wide outbreak of the reanimated dead. Our church worships at the altar of the Unholy Trinity. Its gospels are delivered as a trio of dark drabbles, linked so that Three become One. All hail the power of the Three. You were attacked by an animal-like creature during a hunting trip, you say? Now, you usually go hunting away from the city when the moon is full, like it is tonight? I went hiking on a break from college. While camping in the ruins of an old castle, just before dawn, I heard a twig snap.

I turned to see a woman standing at the edge of the shadows. I told her I was traveling to see the world and find adventure.

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The werewolf and the vampire faced off in the clearing, each confident of victory, feinting, teasing the other into making the first move. The two rushed together, powerful blurs of motion. Claws and fangs slashed, bodies bent, feet dug into the soft earth. Bellows and screeches frightened birds into flight. Rumbling echoes turned to grinding shudders that shook the trees. The combatants broke apart, discovering they were mired waist-deep and sinking steadily. Anger turned to panic as they struggled against the gripping ooze. Terrance V. Mc Arthur is a librarian, storyteller, magician, puppeteer, balloon artist, basketmaker, and playwright.

The police deduced that Edwina had been brutally beaten and shot, while Fred suffered forceful trauma to the head. His eyes had been gouged out and his genitalia removed. Charles was nowhere to be found. Naturally, Charles was the prime suspect in this heinous crime. However, he seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth. Though the police were able to collect circumstantial pieces of evidence against him, Charles Rogers was never found.

Early in , Dorothy Jane Scott began receiving threatening phone calls at work. A single dead rose was lying on the windshield of her car.


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The stalker who had gotten ahold of her number would oscillate between professing his love for her and threatening bodily harm. She never got a chance to find out. One night, at a staff meeting, Dorothy noticed one of her co-workers looked ill. She and another colleague drove the man to a nearby hospital. The doctors said he had a nasty spider bite and needed a prescription. While the two co-workers were waiting for the prescription to be filled, Dorothy went out to the parking lot to get her car.

It was the last time she was seen alive. Her co-workers testified that after she did not return, they went out to meet her in the parking lot. At that moment, they saw her car speeding away, so they assumed there was an emergency with her son. Dorothy never returned home to her son nor did anyone hear from her again.

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Four years later, her charred bones were found at a construction site. Adding another layer of mystery to the case is the fact that a set of dog bones was found right next to her remains. Though people on the internet are still discussing the case today, no one was ever convicted or held in suspicion, and the mysterious caller was never found. In September of , a year-old girl in Chicago passed away shortly after ingesting an Extra Strength Tylenol. That same day, a man died in a hospital after taking the same pill.

Two of his family members followed. Over the course of the next few weeks, more seemingly healthy people in Chicago dropped dead, and the only thing they had in common was taking Extra Strength Tylenol shortly before their untimely death. The company began working fervently on a triple-sealed package that would prevent tampering. Several more people died from cyanide poison found in other over-the-counter medication. The Chicago Tylenol Murders is one of the few true crime stories to spark real change in the country.

The quality control of pharmaceuticals increased tenfold, as did the security of their packaging. In the summer of , three young Girl Scouts staying at an Oklahoma campsite were raped and murdered. The girls—Lori, Michelle, and Doris—were between the ages of eight and ten. About two months before the murders, a camp counselor found a disturbing note in her belongings. The culprit promised to murder three children at the camp.

Knowing that young campers enjoy telling scary stories around the campfire, the camp counselor dismissed the threatening note as nothing more than a prank—a decision she would come to regret. The only evidence that their killer left behind was a red flashlight and a bloody footprint. Hart had been raised about a mile from Camp Scott and at the time of the murders he was at large after escaping from prison, where he had been serving time for burglary, kidnapping, and rape.

A local jury acquitted Hart of the crime, citing a lack of evidence.