Category Archives: stories

Holiday Drabbles from the In-Person Critique Group

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The DHC’s in-person short story critique group recently gathered for a holiday get-together and drabble contest. All the submissions were truly amazing micro fictions, but only one was the holiday greatest! Congratulations to Matt Sprague and his piece, “Grandma.”

Read on to see the holiday-themed drabbles!

Grandma
by Matt Sprague

When she left her daughter’s house on Christmas eve, Evelyn Jacobs was a bright and beautiful soul. So alive, despite her age. She had no idea what awaited her.

When we found the body, she was a mangled mass of hard and soft tissues. A bag of pulped meat. She hadn’t just been killed, she’d been crushed. Her skull resembled a pumpkin weeks after Halloween. Whatever killed her hit her so hard that bits of bone were actually embedded in the sidewalk and her eyes had popped out of her skull.

The patrol officer that initially responded interviewed a number of people who actually witnessed the event. They claimed to have seen nothing but a red light followed by a red and white blur accompanied by a terrible jingling. A sound that would haunt them for the rest of their lives.

The force assigned their best detective and he promptly arrived on the scene. He knelt next to the body to examine it. “Cuts, crushing injuries, parallel slash marks. Classic.” The Detective rose to his feet. “We see this every year. Grandma,” he paused dramatically to slip on his aviators, “got run over by a reindeer.”

Mistletoe
by Sean Murphy

On Christmas Eve, my grandmother would wake me and my brother up and we would walk into the woods behind our house. She said burning mistletoe on the Yule log would bring good luck all year. That gathering mistletoe wards off evil. We did it every year, even when we were old enough to know better. We even did it after Grandma passed.

After I was married I told my kids about mistletoe and the good luck it would bring.

“What happens if we don’t?” asked my youngest.

“I don’t know, grandma never told us about that. Let’s not think about it and have fun.”  I didn’t let it cross my mind again.

I should have.

The following year my wife got transferred for her job, and we ended up in the City. On Christmas Eve, I took the kids to gather mistletoe, but the weather had made leaving the City impossible. We had no mistletoe for our fire that night.

The answer to the question. What happens when you don’t? My dead grandma came back to show me what happens if you don’t have mistletoe. She just finished the kids and is saving me for last.

Lesson learned.

Up on the Rooftop
By Sara Martinez 

This is the year I’m finally going to do it. I’m going to beat that asshole Clark. Every year, he puts up that monstrosity, browning out the neighborhood and keeping us all up with the brightness. Well, I’m going to do him one better. Mine will be bigger, brighter, but so much more tasteful.

I just need to finish the light grid: Gold and green and red moving in time with Christmas carols when they play. I spent a small fortune on the control box to rig it up, but it’ll be worth it.

I can’t believe it’s so dark already. And the roof is getting slick. Ugh, now the cords are tangled. How’d it get around my leg? Shit! I’m slipping. The cord pulls my feet out from under me and I slide to the edge of the roof. The strands already hung there snare me, catching around my throat. Every time I try to thrash free, it constricts around my neck. My vision tunnels as my body weight pulls the cord even tighter.

One last thought before the blackness takes me: at least this is a Christmas display no one will ever forget.

Ornamental
By Sean Michael

They’re ornamental. Not functional. Well, not functional enough to crack a nut.

I loved nutcrackers. Not sure when the fascination began but finding one for the collection had become a December tradition. My favorite part of decorating was finding the red and green container in storage and spreading them around the house.

Whatever. It was a fun tradition. If I make it to the new year, I’ll be burning that box along with the rest of the decorations. At first it was subtle. The short blue one and the Rat King were switched.

Fuck this. I struggle against the string of lights binding my wrists and ankles to the chair. The knots hold. The tinsel tickles the roof of my mouth, stuffed with oh-so-much care.

There are dozens, staring. Some I don’t remember buying. I’m not sure their eyes are painted on.

The Rat King is at my hand. The Knight with his sword to my throat. I struggle but it takes my index finger in its hinged jaw to the first joint. I hear the crack and scream into the tinsel. It moves down to the next knuckle.

This is going to be a long Christmas Eve.

Submission Call for Music to My Fears II

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UPDATE: This event has been moved to Saturday, October 7, from 1 to 4 pm

Denver Horror Collective and School of Rock, Littleton present Music to My Fears II, a horror reading event.

Spooky Season is here! And there’s no better way to get into the spirit than with a twist on the traditional campfire story. On Saturday, October 7, from 1 to 4 pm, at Fraco’s Bar, Denver Horror Collective in partnership with School of Rock, Littleton presents an afternoon of horror readings and spine-chilling music. Discover new frightening tales from some of Colorado’s premier authors along with an eerily fun atmosphere created by the best young local musicians playing past and present Halloween hits. This event is FREE and open to all ages with parental supervision.

Submission criteria: Open to all members of the community. Seeking flash fiction related to music. Titles of stories must either be a song title or a music lyric. Stories should be between 1,000 to 1,500 words. This is a reading event, submitters must attend the event, read their story to a live audience, and help with setup and tear down. Please note, while we are not censoring stories, children may be in attendance, so use your best judgment regarding content. Deadline to submit is September 30. Please submit stories to seanmurphy5292@gmail.com.

Call for Volunteers: If you’d like to help but are not interested in submitting, we’re looking for volunteers to help read submissions as well as event setup, break down, staff the sales table, and other general event activities. Volunteers will receive a fun, spooky thank you gift. For more information, contact seanmurphy5292@gmail.com.

Fraco’s Bar is located at 5302 South Federal Circle # A, Littleton, CO 80123

“I Started the Fire” by Denver Fallux

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“I started the fire.”

A voice broke the silence that filled the room.

Startled, Em knocked over her sealed Nalgene water bottle, which clattered loudly to the floor. Not bothering to pick it up, she rose from her chair, struggling to keep from cursing at the sudden interruption.

“Who’s in here?” she asked. “What fire?”

Quickly, she walked around her desk, meaning to catch whichever boy had snuck downstairs past dorm time. Nobody. The office wasn’t nearly big enough to hide in, it was barely more than a closet stuffed with two desks. Perplexed, Em stepped from the small office and into the large cafeteria in which it was located.

The overhead lights, ancient as they were, hummed steadily overhead. Nobody here either. The tables were folded and stored to the side of the wall on the far end of the room opposite her office with the plastic chairs stacked neatly beside them. The cafeteria was big enough to hold the entire facility, between the staff the residents and the day-school students, there were well over a hundred people, she guessed. And when it was packed away like this for the night, it was almost cavernous. Again, nowhere to hide, she was alone.

A small crew of residential kids had been down here only fifteen minutes earlier, loudly sweeping and mopping as part of chore time. She’d laughed along quietly while doing her work in her office as the crew of teens joked with each other in the next room while they cleaned, occasionally turning the volume up just a bit too loud on the beat-up antique of a boombox that lived in the mop closet whenever a favorite new hip hop song played. Randall, the staff member supervising the clean-up, wasn’t the type to silence the kids – unlike many of the staff there – but Em always loved to hear the kids enjoy themselves, so she had no complaints.

That didn’t mean she didn’t enjoy the silence too, when it came. The gentle hum of the building was usually a soothing song to which she would finish the last of her days paperwork.

Suddenly, standing alone in the large cafeteria searching for a disembodied voice, the silence was oppressive — thick. Em was certain she’d heard the voice speak, just as she was certain she was alone. It had been a boys voice, in the limbo of early puberty – deep but still youthful.

Still hoping it was a prankster trying to startle her, Em walked into the main hallway of the building, walking a few feet to the left then the right, searching for some sign of one of the residents. Seeing nobody, she walked back into the cafeteria and checked that the doors to the pantry and kitchen were securely locked. They were. 

She walked slowly back to her office, ears perked for the slightest sound of movement, eyes scanning closely even as she lost hope of finding anyone. Sitting back at her computer, she rubbed her forehead and tried not to think too hard.

She’d heard the stories of the ghosts that haunted this aged building, of course. One of the supervisors who had conducted her tribunal-style job interview had even jokingly asked if ghosts were a deal-breaker. But she always laughed it off whenever it came up, feeling like it was just a running joke. Having been a lifelong skeptic towards anything she couldn’t observe, she’d never once considered that anyone could have been serious.  

But here, without warning, she’d begun to feel close to thinking things she simply didn’t want to think. She considered streaming a playlist from her phone to break the silence, but her shaking hands struggled to navigate the touch screen. Her eyes just couldn’t seem to focus on her computer monitor when she attempted to return to the email she’d been drafting.

Giving up, she packed her belongings into her backpack and promised herself she’d come in early the next morning to finish up.

—–

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Moonlit Dream Girl

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– by Douglas D. Hawk

Watching from the moon night shadows, his dementia distorted her, remade her, morphed her into Dream Girl. Standing in the small clearing, she was radiant and stunning, a vision of love and adoration; a delusion of lust and wanton possession. The silky skirt molded around her, clinging to her thighs, and the sweater hugged her body, amplifying her plentiful breasts.

Seemingly unconcerned and unaware of her admirer, her stalker, shadowing her as she meandered without a care in the world, Dream Girl stepped off the sidewalk. She started strolling across the grass, snaking her way among Denver City Park’s multitude of trees. The zoo and museum were closed. There were no late night joggers or strolling lovers. It was after midnight and the empty park was illuminated by June’s bright full moon. The Strawberry Moon. 

Strawberries, her admirer thought, the color of blood. Would her blood taste as sweet?

As her stalker moved with the stealthy grace of a puma, Dream Girl paused, her head turning so her beautiful, moon-washed features stood out in the darkness. Her expression grew curious and for a fleeting moment, the hint of a frown touched her exquisite mouth. 

He knew that Dream Girl sensed him. He was predator, she was prey. His smile was feral. Yet, as he watched, her frown vanished and her expression grew impassive. That annoyed him. Soon she would comprehend the danger and like all prey, her blood would turn cold, her gut would clench and she would run. Run for her life. Run to her death.

The stalker sighed at the thought. The chase. The inevitable capture. The consummation of his desires and his lust. 

Dream Girl paused for only a few scant seconds and then resumed walking among the trees. If she was worried, it did not show. Her stride was leisurely, her exquisite body relaxed. Moving effortlessly, she exuded the easy confidence of one unconcerned about the night and the moonlit darkness and what might lurk in it. Her naiveté heightened her stalker’s hunger. At the end, innocent prey was so gratifying. The struggling. The screaming. The begging. 

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The Stigmata of Miramont Castle

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“The Stigmata of Miramont Castle” is the third of several Colorado-based short stories written by local authors we’ll be publishing on the Denver Horror Collective website and in The Epitaph newsletter, as a lead-up to the fall release of Terror at 5280′, our local horror fiction anthology.

Montcalme-Sanitarium

Photo: Pikes Peak Library District

The Stigmata of Miramont Castle

by Matthew Amorebello

The octagonal room boomed with unseen forces. It reeked of rotten wood and stale incense. The wallpaper was a light blue Fleur-de-lis pattern and had gone untouched since the castle had been built in the late 19th century. Rust lined the metal light fixtures. The pulpit was uneven and inappropriately small. A statue of Christ adorned the southern wall with first light beaming across his cheek. The chapel was the highlight of Miramont Castle.

“The East Wing was completed in 1897,” began Lucinda.

Lucinda was Miramont’s tour guide. She was an older woman, with thick dyed black hair. Her voice was nasal, with a condescending tone. She spoke slowly and deliberately to the sole attendant of that morning’s tour.

“The room was Father Francolon’s dining hall,” she continued. “It was converted to a chapel by the Sisters of Mercy, who assumed control of the estate, after his return to France. They renamed the site ‘Montcalme’.”

“And what does that mean?” asked the elderly guest.

“Calm of the mountain,” answered Lucinda.

Lucinda excused herself from the room, as the elderly woman continued to admire the fine woodwork. She circled about the chapel, imagining herself back in time. She breathed in deeply, and the smell of the room overwhelmed her. She grabbed the pew to steady herself.

It was at this moment she became witness to the miracle. The statue of Christ came alive. The hands, feet, and chest oozed blood, pouring out the plaster statue and onto the wooden floor. The face turned to the elderly woman and smiled. Blood began to pour from his thorny crown.

The elderly woman approached the statue. She blessed herself and thanked God for bestowing this honor upon her. Emotion overwhelmed her and she nearly fainted, limping casually backwards into the chapel wall, scratching the blue wallpaper with her hand.

“Lucinda!” yelled the woman.

Lucinda rushed into the room and witnessed the stigmata. She took out her phone and snapped a few photos of the miracle at hand. She turned her attention to the elderly guest, who was on the verge of passing out.

“Are you OK, ma’am?” asked Lucinda.

The elderly woman cupped her face in her hands, rubbing her temples, then her eyes. Tears streamed down her face. She regained her posture and embraced the moment.

“I’ve waited my whole life for a miracle,” she said. “I can now die in peace.”

At that moment, the elderly woman went limp. She fell to the ground like an anvil, striking the creaky floor below.  She was noted to be lifeless upon impact.  Lucinda called for help, and by the time first responders arrived, the old woman was dead.

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