Starving : Scary Stories – Short Horror Story

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Judging by the manicured lawns and expressions on passers by, Watkins Heights seemed to defy imperfection. The quaint village would reveal its truth; my friend Bruce, who I haven’t seen nor heard in six months before, has come to me with his latest hypothesis of the metaphysical.

Again, those unfounded, repetitious tales seemed to always trail off into some ambiguity about the collective consciousness of our universe, or how he intends to manipulate it. In the parlance of our times, some might even claim his experiments and tests to be “playing god.”

I’d always given Bruce the benefit of the doubt, but his letters expressed a new level of confidence. A wiser man would’ve seen these studies for what they were: romancing the futility of people’s willful ignorance to accept his questionable results. I wouldn’t be fooled, but agreed to humor my colleague.

My concern for Bruce’s safety mounted as I arrived at his home.

All of the windows were boarded up. He had only bought the place last year, but it still looked rather forlorn from the outside.

The front door stood ajar, a stage for the stains illuminated by the streetlights on the old hardwood just inside.

“Let yourself in!“

I squinted up the staircase at a mass of messy black hair atop a thin profile. The room was dusty and felt ancient. Taking a closer look at the stains before shutting the door, I noticed they were a rather fresh orange.

“I see you’re still sharp as a tack. The box from the butcher leaked a bit on the way inside, nothing to fret about.” He had somehow managed to come down just as I’d shut the door.

“Bruce, what’s all this? It’s been a half year, has it not?”

“Well I’ve been busy with my latest experiment! Its hard to get out, Howard.”

Taking reprieve from ogling, it was very clear he’d lost an unhealthy amount of weight. As my eyes adjusted, his skin also seemed stretched taught like a thin veil over a skeleton.

“Come,” he said, motioning me towards the stairs, “I don’t think you’ll believe this!”

We creaked our way up the tired wooden staircase. There was only a single door. Bruce took out a key and put his hand on the knob.

“Ready?”

He flung it open and tossed me by the collar, lock clicking just behind.

“Eternal life, brother!”

The smell of intestinal rot and iron choked out all smells. There weren’t windows, or anything at all except more stains. Then I saw.

I’d had to kill them both. That thing was an abscess on the face of science, and the bite it gave was like a mouth full of razors. There was much speculation and hearsay, but I knew the truth and done the right thing.

I’ve lost twenty pounds. I feel stronger each day, while my subconscious bows deeper to primal instincts. I will stay alive as long as I can, but I know eternity beckons regardless. I’m starving.

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