Responsible for countless wet beds and sleepless nights around the world, children’s horror author RL Stine posted a short story on Twitter last night to celebrate Halloween.
Entitled What’s In My Sandwich?, the twisted tale tells the story of one man’s ghoulish pursuit of fame, in just 15 tweets. Stomachs at the ready:
In the spirit of the creepy, crawly season, we’d love to hear your best short stories: the shorter and creepier, the better. You can submit yours in two ways: as a comment below in 15 short sentences or less, or, if you want emulate Stine’s style on Twitter, include the hashtag #GdnScaryTales in your tweets (maximum of 15 to one story). We’ll gather the best stories and publish them.
Remember: shorter the better; big marks if you can scare us in just one tweet or sentence.
Update: you’ve sent through some ripping good stories. Here are some of the highlights.
The scream was so loud that despite my chronic sleep deprivation I was instantly awake and in a cold sweat. My first thought was that it was coming from the baby, but as it continued I could have sworn it was Jessica. Then it was both of them screaming, before one choked and gargled into silence, and then the other. Now all I could hear was a rasping as of rusty breath, before a tiny shuffling filled the bedroom.
They say it takes four months until a baby is able to lift its head by itself. How she was able to hold up her mother's head, as well as the bread knife, I'll never know...
He walked through the open door, nodding briskly to the waiting policemen sweating outside in the dull heat of summer. Insulated in his forensic suit, latex gloves and by the veneer of professionalism, he barely flinched as the familiar sweet smell of corruption entered his nostrils in the faded hallway. Following the trail of lazy, buzzing flies upstairs he found her there, lying in bed, cotton print nightgown and pale grey hair spread across sheets smeared with excrement.
Maggots swarmed with life amid rot and the sickly mess of dead flesh returning to earth. If he hesitated before beginning his examination, if he noticed perspiration start to seep from the pores of his skin, it was only for the length of a swiftly indrawn breath. This was his job, someone had to do it, his choice, his career. But nothing, nothing, could have prepared him for the moment when he stared into those still moist eyes in cadaverous flesh and watched the eyelids descend in one, long, slow, living blink.
LITTLE TOMMY TUCKER
The last day of school arrived with much excitement. The children’s crisp uniforms were on holiday. They were dressed quite neatly in their Sunday best attending class parties. Then the games began. The shy kid in the class, Tommy Tucker was tagged as the seeker. He was an awkward species of sorts, a piece of the jigsaw which never seemed to fit right. The other children noticed on this particular day he was eager to play and blend in. The game of hide and seek commenced as everyone scattered while Tommy counted. “1, 2, 3, 4, 5...” His voice slowly faded while everyone hid.
Bubby Whitman, a classmate and tormentor figured he would pull one final prank on Tommy. Not recalling the exact moment when his counting stopped, Bubby crawled into the old trunk under the auditorium stage. It was musky and covered in dust, old costumes were piled inside among loose paper,“He’ll never find me in here!” he whispered. While he waited, the silence around him was uncomfortable as was the darkness. Then, the stage door open and the shuffling of feet, raised the anxiousness of the young boy, he was ready! Tommy must have guessed his hiding spot. Then the shuffling halted for a moment. As time ticked away, Bubby wondered if he would ever open the trunk but instead the school bell rang. School was dismissed for the summer. The shuffling resumed- and Bubby pushed on the lid - there was this dreaded silence once more. Not the slightest budge, He was trapped in the trunk. Someone, had locked him in. His chest rose and fell rapidly as panic consumed him.“Where in the world was Tommy Tucker!” he thought. “Tucker! - Tucker! - I’m in here!” he screamed to no avail. His pleading became muffled by the trunk. Suddenly, the stage door shut with a loud bang. Exhausted - overcome with rage and fright, Bubby waited. “Little Tommy Tucker, you little...!”.
In the blackness, above Bubby with an ear pressed to the lid, a wicked smile appear on the face of his tormentor, listening to his breath - to the final beat of his heart.
There have been some excellent stories shared via Twitter as well:
@tannahillglen wrote a ghostly story in a few tweets, which is worth reading. Here’s the first to whet your appetite:
And finally, a very succinct but scary concept:
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