Oddity Prodigy Productions Presents: The Scary Stuff Anthology

These are the authors in “Scary Stuff”, their stories, and the first paragraph of the stories included. We could not be more excited about sharing these incredible tales of terror with you!

A cold wind blew in from the northern peninsula, and the scent of mushrooms was carried by it. The morning was heavy with fog that dampened Nicolette’s cloak as she clutched it closer around her bare shoulders. The cut of her dress left much of her upper body exposed, so it was not ideal for travel. The wind sliced through the fabric of her capelet and bit at her supple flesh like a lover.

 

I awoke enveloped in a feeling of overwhelming warmth like a child feels still in the womb. Comfortable. Safe. Like there's not a thing in the world that can cause it any harm. Just like a child in the womb suddenly thrust into the world, my minuscule moment of comfort was torn apart in what seemed like an instant. I pulled my face out of what I believed to be sand, wiped the mess from my eyes and cast my gaze out onto an alien landscape...

 

Wholly inebriated by ale and smoke, Robbie swam through his jumbled thoughts and focused as best he could on his phone. With shaky fingers he entered the name of his hotel and pressed the button to summon a car. He pocketed his phone and rubbed his tired head with his hands. The humid summer night wore heavily on Robbie and did no favors for his muddled condition, leaving his curly red hair matted and wet and his face rosy and flushed. Soon though, he would be in his hotel bed for a few hours of rest before heading to the airport in the morning.

 

No one expects a cold call, but Bill Wertham hardly expected phone calls from anyone, so he was caught entirely off guard when he received—conveniently on his day off— a call from an unfamiliar voice that seemed quite familiar with him. 

“I'm sorry, what did you say your name was?” he asked after a minute of spiel, interrupting the voice at the other end. 

“Williams,” came the reply. 

“Right. And what is this was about?” 

“I'm a representative for a publishing firm, and we're always interested in new talent.” 

 

Marv leaned back in his folding lawn chair and squinted as he adjusted the worn ball cap he’d gotten from the local feed store so the almost setting sun didn’t blind him. He glanced down to the cars and trucks laboring along the interstate highway beneath the exit to see if anyone was coming his way. A blinker in the distance indicated a sedan would be headed up the ramp soon.

 

 

I was working as a truck driver back then. Usually local deliveries, but occasionally longer hauls. It wasn’t great, but it felt like honest work and it paid the bills. I was living by myself so the hours didn’t get in the way of anything. During the downtime, I liked to write. Usually short stories, but I firmly believed that I was destined to write a novel someday. I started a few but never managed to get very far. 

The old red clapboard house looks worse in person than in the photos posted on the Airbnb rental site. Even in the dim twilight, I can discern evidence of the Goodfellow House’s slow decline; curling strands of peeling paint, a rotting front door, and cracked taped-up windows make the house look sad and unloved. The roof looks beyond repair and as if it could cave in on itself at any moment being so dangerously weighed down by ten inches of freshly fallen snow.

 

The first death happened in the summer of ‘94.

I was a lifeguard on duty at the Kelpie Centre at the time. Don’t be fooled by the name, by the way; there was precious little Celtic romance to be found in that particular council leisure centre. They’d tried their best, but brutalist concrete architecture with pseudo-roman mosaics was a questionable combination at best, and overall the impression it made was one of uneasy despair. That matched the rest of the town perfectly as far as I was concerned.

 

"Jerry, this is Dr. Kapelman."

Jerry Beagle sat like a sullen child, chin on his chest, legs straight out beneath the restaurant table. He stared at his soda and watched the carbonation rise from the bottom of the glass to the top where it disappeared, only to be replaced by more. He imagined himself riding one of these bubbles, clinging to it like a giant beach ball at the ocean, like Captain Ahab riding Moby Dick.

Opening her eyes just a slit when her alarm clock began to buzz, Denise slapped the off button. Daylight was just beginning to slip through the blinds, but as she raised her head, a wave of lightheadedness came over her. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she rubbed her forehead and hoped a hot shower would remove the fuzzy from her brain. She had really tied one on last night and was still feeling the effects this morning. 

 

The dark imposing silhouettes of old pines rose up around Kate like slender giants. They easily dwarfed the small girl gazing up into their prickly boughs with wide brown eyes. She fingered the tuning keys on her brand new guitar uncertainly. The fretboard was slightly too long to be comfortable yet. But, it was her bardic instrument and she was determined to play.

 

Helen Rains relished the sunshine as it drenched her skin and the lush grounds of Green Hall Estate in bright yellow. “There’s nothing like a hot summer’s day,” she thought as she patted down loose soil around the bell pepper plants in the garden. She loved the humid sea-soaked Long Island air. Summertime rendered her altogether happy and energetic. Still, she had been gardening for hours and it was time to head inside. Her father Dr. Walter Rains told her earlier that a thunderstorm was expected in the late afternoon, and thick gray clouds already encroached on the sun.

 

For half a century no mortal disturbed the catacombs of the Montresors. I had seen to it myself, denying my servants access beneath the castle. In this regard, collecting wine had its advantages, for in my company puncheons and casks were drunk quickly and replaced with more unique and elegant vintages. The constant rolling of barrels in and out kept my people occupied in the immediate cellar rooms. They forgot that deeper beneath were crypts of bones. 

 

Helmuth Eggert gripped his musket as he surveyed the woods around him. Although it was only two in the afternoon, the ancient growth around him stifled most of the sunlight. A rebel sharpshooter -- or worse, an entire regiment of New England militia -- could lurk anywhere in these shadows. According to the Oberst, the rebels had fled the island three days before, yet someone had attacked a small team of Jäger passing through these woods last night.

 

It all started when Paul Cunningham got out his wedding album and sat down on the recliner. It didn’t take long for his mother to call. She knew what he’d be doing. “You’re not going to look at it again, are you, dear?” she asked.

“Of course I am,” he replied.

 

Sarah loved everything about going to Kindergarten, except the part about getting there. The teachers always greeted her with a warm smile. There was always at least one kid on the playground who was ready and willing to play. She looked forward to her favorite arts and crafts class because that was where all of her ideas and dreams could become reality. The only problem that clouded the day was that first hour.

 

Crackling flames leapt from the immense stone fireplace like the snapping claws of some ravenous monster. Or is that just my imagination? Shane Conrad took a step back as he stared at the blazing hearth in Adrian Halka’s lakeside cabin. Behind him, multicolored file folders had been stacked atop a table by Halka’s widow. Food for the beast.

 

On a warm July day, Timothy with his wife and daughter strolled merrily through Mr. Weber’s Bizarre Stampede. The air reeked of junk food, the sky a clear calm blue with fluffy clouds spread. People in the city of Stampton loved the Bizarre Stampede, a ten-day event held annually in Mr. Weber’s amusement park, and this was one of the days that made Timothy enjoy it too. Rollercoasters and energized shouts echoed from every corner, music to his ears. The lines for hotdogs must have been over a hundred people long, and vendor carts for corndogs and deep-fried pickles rolled throughout the crowds in an attempt to overthrow their competition. Everyone standing in line for something seemed to smile. One smile in particular which caught Timothy’s attention came from a mime dressed in a black bowler hat and suspenders, his teeth complementing his white makeup. His daughter Mary tugged on his hand with a clump of cotton candy in the other.

 

Sleet and rain sluiced from the windscreen as the wipers did their monotonous work. The tires momentarily lost traction and the car’s rear fishtailed slightly until Brent brought the vehicle under control.

“Crap.”

 

Mrs. Morrison was too busy to die. At 96 years old, she was the captain and star of her 4-person bocce team the Weirton Knights. The team was sponsored by the Knights of Columbus Hall in the town she lived in since the time she had been born. She had so much life to live and so many more tournaments to win. Unfortunately, she was dead but she was the only one that wasn’t aware of it.

 

The chicken screeched, trembled, and went slack in her hands. Hot blood spurted and sprayed upon the stones, filling the small clay pots and jars placed seemingly haphazard on the floor. To Peter, more blood landed on the floor, and on his damned shoes, then in the receptacles. He grimaced internally at wearing suede brogues to such an occasion but tried to keep the regret off his face. Must appear engaged, and respectful, must be entranced by the ritual so few are privy to.

 

Tentacles of blue lightning slashed across the swirling wintry sky. The snow had been coming down throughout the night, making the early Monday morning commute treacherous at best. Inches of ice sheeted the roads, and the endless snow accumulated faster than the road crews could plow it.

Comics!