My newest book trailer is up. I thought it would be fun to use a cute bunny as a spokesperson for my book "Big Chills". He's called Happy Bunny. Some writers write cute, some write scary. Only John McDonnell writes cute and scary!
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Showing posts with label scary story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label scary story. Show all posts
Friday, September 9, 2011
Friday, March 25, 2011
Sweet And Low
By John McDonnell
“What I like about you, Honey, is that you're not fake.”
“Thanks, Sugar.”
“There are so many fake women out there. Fake breasts, fake hair, even fake butts. I hate anything artificial.”
“Yeah, it's better to be real.”
“Like, your breasts are real, aren't they?”
“Of course. They're the way God made 'em.”
“Nothing fake about your body, right?”
“You bet.”
“And you wouldn't fake an emotion, right?”
“What do you mean?”
“You wouldn't fake being in love with me, right?”
“Of course not. Why would I do that?”
“To convince me I'm the only one you’ve ever loved, so that I name you as a beneficiary and you’d get my money when you poison me?”
“Sugar, why would you think that?”
“Because I hired an investigator and he told me you’ve been a suspect in several cases like that.”
“That's a lie!”
“Is it? He gave me some convincing proof. Copies of marriage licenses, court records, newspaper clippings. Everything about you is fake, starting with your name.”
“Oh, Sugar, don’t believe that. I bet he faked all of those documents. He's lying, to get a big fee.”
“Oh? Well, you’ll have a chance to tell the truth soon.”
To read more of this story, and other horror stories by John McDonnell, go to My Smashwords Page.
“What I like about you, Honey, is that you're not fake.”
“Thanks, Sugar.”
“There are so many fake women out there. Fake breasts, fake hair, even fake butts. I hate anything artificial.”
“Yeah, it's better to be real.”
“Like, your breasts are real, aren't they?”
“Of course. They're the way God made 'em.”
“Nothing fake about your body, right?”
“You bet.”
“And you wouldn't fake an emotion, right?”
“What do you mean?”
“You wouldn't fake being in love with me, right?”
“Of course not. Why would I do that?”
“To convince me I'm the only one you’ve ever loved, so that I name you as a beneficiary and you’d get my money when you poison me?”
“Sugar, why would you think that?”
“Because I hired an investigator and he told me you’ve been a suspect in several cases like that.”
“That's a lie!”
“Is it? He gave me some convincing proof. Copies of marriage licenses, court records, newspaper clippings. Everything about you is fake, starting with your name.”
“Oh, Sugar, don’t believe that. I bet he faked all of those documents. He's lying, to get a big fee.”
“Oh? Well, you’ll have a chance to tell the truth soon.”
To read more of this story, and other horror stories by John McDonnell, go to My Smashwords Page.
Friday, July 23, 2010
FROZEN TREAT
A #fridayflash story
By John McDonnell
The Mr. Sweety ice cream truck was as much a part of summer on the island as bikinis and sunburn, and when the kids heard its tinkling music they’d run from the beach with their money and line up to get their frozen treats.
The truck was owned by a man named Banana Joe, who wore a big floppy hat and pretended he liked kids, although the kids knew his smile was fake and his cheery manner disappeared when there were no parents around. Besides, he had one long fingernail, his pinky nail, and the kids thought that was weird.
Banana Joe had a specialty, miniature bananas dipped in chocolate sauce and frozen. He called them, “Banana Joe bars”. The kids loved them.
He had a brother named Willy who was not too smart, and he helped out on the truck, but Banana Joe was mean to him. He called him “Stupid,” and “Dummy”, and ordered him around.
One time Willy felt sorry for a little girl who didn’t have any money with her, and he gave her an ice cream bar for free. When Banana Joe found out about it he got angry at Willy and called him really bad names until Willy got tears in his eyes and looked embarrassed in front of the kids.
“You do that again and I’ll put you back in the home,” Banana Joe said.
“No,” Willy said. “Please, don’t do that, Joe.”
“I swear I will,” Banana Joe said. “I oughtta do it anyway. You’re more trouble than you’re worth, you moron. I oughtta put you back there where you belong.”
Willy’s lip was quivering, and he was wringing his hands.
The next day, when the kids heard the music from the truck and they ran to get their ice cream, Banana Joe wasn’t there. “He got sick,” Willy said. “I’m gonna sell the ice cream now.”
The kids all cheered, because they loved Willy. They lined up and fired their orders at him, and Willy tried his best, but he got all mixed up about what everybody wanted and how much everything cost. He took forever, and the kids were getting impatient. One teenaged girl tried to butt ahead of everybody.
“I’m tired of waiting,” she said. “I want a Banana Joe bar.”
“I’ll get to it,” Willy said. “Just give me a chance.”
“I want it now,” she said. “My Dad knows the mayor. He can get you kicked off this beach. Now!”
Willy wiped his brow, and said okay. He reached in the freezer and brought out a Banana Joe bar. The girl paid him and tore the wrapper off the bar. She bit into it, said, “Ow!” and cursed. “Why is this so hard?”
She looked closely at the place where she’d taken a bite. Her face changed, and her eyes got very, very big.
“Oh my God,” she said. She dropped the Banana Joe bar on the pavement and ran screaming down the beach.
In the noonday sun, you could see a fingernail protruding from the chocolate.
THE END
Copyright 2010 John McDonnell. All rights reserved.
By John McDonnell
The Mr. Sweety ice cream truck was as much a part of summer on the island as bikinis and sunburn, and when the kids heard its tinkling music they’d run from the beach with their money and line up to get their frozen treats.
The truck was owned by a man named Banana Joe, who wore a big floppy hat and pretended he liked kids, although the kids knew his smile was fake and his cheery manner disappeared when there were no parents around. Besides, he had one long fingernail, his pinky nail, and the kids thought that was weird.
Banana Joe had a specialty, miniature bananas dipped in chocolate sauce and frozen. He called them, “Banana Joe bars”. The kids loved them.
He had a brother named Willy who was not too smart, and he helped out on the truck, but Banana Joe was mean to him. He called him “Stupid,” and “Dummy”, and ordered him around.
One time Willy felt sorry for a little girl who didn’t have any money with her, and he gave her an ice cream bar for free. When Banana Joe found out about it he got angry at Willy and called him really bad names until Willy got tears in his eyes and looked embarrassed in front of the kids.
“You do that again and I’ll put you back in the home,” Banana Joe said.
“No,” Willy said. “Please, don’t do that, Joe.”
“I swear I will,” Banana Joe said. “I oughtta do it anyway. You’re more trouble than you’re worth, you moron. I oughtta put you back there where you belong.”
Willy’s lip was quivering, and he was wringing his hands.
The next day, when the kids heard the music from the truck and they ran to get their ice cream, Banana Joe wasn’t there. “He got sick,” Willy said. “I’m gonna sell the ice cream now.”
The kids all cheered, because they loved Willy. They lined up and fired their orders at him, and Willy tried his best, but he got all mixed up about what everybody wanted and how much everything cost. He took forever, and the kids were getting impatient. One teenaged girl tried to butt ahead of everybody.
“I’m tired of waiting,” she said. “I want a Banana Joe bar.”
“I’ll get to it,” Willy said. “Just give me a chance.”
“I want it now,” she said. “My Dad knows the mayor. He can get you kicked off this beach. Now!”
Willy wiped his brow, and said okay. He reached in the freezer and brought out a Banana Joe bar. The girl paid him and tore the wrapper off the bar. She bit into it, said, “Ow!” and cursed. “Why is this so hard?”
She looked closely at the place where she’d taken a bite. Her face changed, and her eyes got very, very big.
“Oh my God,” she said. She dropped the Banana Joe bar on the pavement and ran screaming down the beach.
In the noonday sun, you could see a fingernail protruding from the chocolate.
THE END
Copyright 2010 John McDonnell. All rights reserved.
Friday, July 16, 2010
The Thing In The Basement
A #Fridayflash Story
By John McDonnell
“Watch out for the thing in the basement,” Billy’s Uncle Hank used to say. He thought it was funny, and he’d smile when he told Billy about it. “Been down there a long time, since before I bought this house,” he’d say. “People told me about it, told me not to buy the house, but I didn’t listen. I know it’s there, though -- I can feel its presence. Like a cold, clammy feeling; it makes your skin crawl. You know something’s watching you, just waiting to pounce.”
Billy didn’t like his uncle. He was strange, had too many rules, and every rule had a punishment. The worst punishment was the basement. If you ever did something really bad, Uncle said, you would have to go downstairs where the thing lived.
The basement was called a “Michigan basement”. It was unfinished, with a bare earth floor and walls. There was a workbench, with tools scattered all around, and clutter everywhere. Old, broken furniture. Ancient toys. Old magazines moldering in stacks. A bare lightbulb in the ceiling. It smelled damp and musty, and there were strange noises that came from the shadows. His uncle came down here to do his woodworking, and he had an assortment of saws, lathes, and chisels. There was even a big industrial table saw that could cut thick planks of wood.
When Billy’s mother told him she was going away on vacation with his father and that he’d have to stay with his uncle for a week, he pleaded not to go.
“Now, Billy,” his mother said. “You’re being unreasonable. We can’t afford to hire a babysitter for you for the week, and we have no other close relatives living nearby. We’re not really friendly with any of our neighbors (you know I don’t believe in getting chummy with neighbors), so Uncle Hank is the only option we have. I don’t know why you keep saying you don’t like your Uncle Hank. Why, he’s my brother -- we’re so close, we could almost be twins.”
The first day, Billy broke a rule. His uncle had a strict rule about not wasting anything, and Billy accidentally tipped a liter bottle of soda over on the kitchen table, and all the soda poured out.
His uncle got red in the face, smiled, and said, “Well, Billy, I think for that infraction you need to spend some time in the basement.”
Billy begged him not to go, but his uncle didn’t listen. He grabbed Billy by the collar and marched him down the old wooden steps, then marched back up himself, closed the big wooden door and bolted it shut.
And then he turned out the light.
It was a good thing the house was set back from the road, and there were no neighbors close by, or they would have heard Billy’s screams. Billy’s uncle seemed not to notice the screams, or the pounding on the door, or any of the other noises that came from the basement. The next morning he came down to breakfast whistling a cheery tune. When he was finished eating his cereal, he said, “Well, Billy, I think you’ve had enough punishment for one night. Let’s see how you’re doing.”
When Billy’s mother got back from her trip and came to pick him up, she rang the doorbell over and over, but nobody answered. She tried the front door handle and found that the door was unlocked. She made her way through the house calling, “Billy, Hank, where are you?” In the kitchen she saw a cereal box on the sideboard, and a bowl and spoon in the sink.
The door to the basement was open.
She went downstairs slowly, calling, “Billy, Hank? Are you there?”
It was dark in the basement, and it took several moments before her eyes adjusted.
There was something at the far end of the room, by the table saw.
The thing in the basement moved toward her.
“Mama,” it said.
THE END
COPYRIGHT JOHN MCDONNELL, 2010. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
By John McDonnell
“Watch out for the thing in the basement,” Billy’s Uncle Hank used to say. He thought it was funny, and he’d smile when he told Billy about it. “Been down there a long time, since before I bought this house,” he’d say. “People told me about it, told me not to buy the house, but I didn’t listen. I know it’s there, though -- I can feel its presence. Like a cold, clammy feeling; it makes your skin crawl. You know something’s watching you, just waiting to pounce.”
Billy didn’t like his uncle. He was strange, had too many rules, and every rule had a punishment. The worst punishment was the basement. If you ever did something really bad, Uncle said, you would have to go downstairs where the thing lived.
The basement was called a “Michigan basement”. It was unfinished, with a bare earth floor and walls. There was a workbench, with tools scattered all around, and clutter everywhere. Old, broken furniture. Ancient toys. Old magazines moldering in stacks. A bare lightbulb in the ceiling. It smelled damp and musty, and there were strange noises that came from the shadows. His uncle came down here to do his woodworking, and he had an assortment of saws, lathes, and chisels. There was even a big industrial table saw that could cut thick planks of wood.
When Billy’s mother told him she was going away on vacation with his father and that he’d have to stay with his uncle for a week, he pleaded not to go.
“Now, Billy,” his mother said. “You’re being unreasonable. We can’t afford to hire a babysitter for you for the week, and we have no other close relatives living nearby. We’re not really friendly with any of our neighbors (you know I don’t believe in getting chummy with neighbors), so Uncle Hank is the only option we have. I don’t know why you keep saying you don’t like your Uncle Hank. Why, he’s my brother -- we’re so close, we could almost be twins.”
The first day, Billy broke a rule. His uncle had a strict rule about not wasting anything, and Billy accidentally tipped a liter bottle of soda over on the kitchen table, and all the soda poured out.
His uncle got red in the face, smiled, and said, “Well, Billy, I think for that infraction you need to spend some time in the basement.”
Billy begged him not to go, but his uncle didn’t listen. He grabbed Billy by the collar and marched him down the old wooden steps, then marched back up himself, closed the big wooden door and bolted it shut.
And then he turned out the light.
It was a good thing the house was set back from the road, and there were no neighbors close by, or they would have heard Billy’s screams. Billy’s uncle seemed not to notice the screams, or the pounding on the door, or any of the other noises that came from the basement. The next morning he came down to breakfast whistling a cheery tune. When he was finished eating his cereal, he said, “Well, Billy, I think you’ve had enough punishment for one night. Let’s see how you’re doing.”
When Billy’s mother got back from her trip and came to pick him up, she rang the doorbell over and over, but nobody answered. She tried the front door handle and found that the door was unlocked. She made her way through the house calling, “Billy, Hank, where are you?” In the kitchen she saw a cereal box on the sideboard, and a bowl and spoon in the sink.
The door to the basement was open.
She went downstairs slowly, calling, “Billy, Hank? Are you there?”
It was dark in the basement, and it took several moments before her eyes adjusted.
There was something at the far end of the room, by the table saw.
The thing in the basement moved toward her.
“Mama,” it said.
THE END
COPYRIGHT JOHN MCDONNELL, 2010. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Another Horrifying Flash Fiction Tale
I've been writing horror stories lately. Very short horror stories. My latest, The Smell Of Love is up on the Micro Horror site today. Here's the link!
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