Category: Horror

THE GORGE

~ B.G. Smith

by B.G. Smith

Death penalty protesters gathered at dawn when the state unveiled its answer to Seymour Graff’s botched execution. It had taken old Seymour an hour to die last month.

The Gorge – a 250-foot chasm with blood-darkened stone – would serve as both execution chamber and permanent tomb.

Convicted killer Rodney James Harris sneered as the mechanical arm positioned him over the terminal abyss. Clink. Clank. Through bulletproof glass, a small teddy bear clutched by the victim’s mother caught his eye.

“I’d do it again,” he spat.

His screams echoed off the walls for an hour until only the wind remained.

BLIND DATE

~ B.G. Smith

by B.G. Smith

It was the perfect first date until the second Margarita made her drowsy.

He was a blue-eyed hunk of muscle introduced through a friend of a friend.

“You’ll like him, trust me.” Darla’s red lipstick matched the Cabernet in her glass. “He’s a surgeon.”

The crack under the basement door welcomed sunrise and new beginnings.

A handcuff bit into her wrist where it met rusty pipe.

Approaching sirens lifted her spirit.

Fingers found her hidden tracker.

The door creaked. Heels clicked down wooden stairs.

Darla appeared, red smile intact. “You’ll like him, trust me.”

The sirens faded.

“Time for surgery.”

THREE SACKS

Black and white photograph of an abandoned frontier-era building with wooden walkway, benches, and distinctive peaked roof. The weathered structure features vertical plank construction and covered porch supported by wooden posts.
~ B.G. Smith

by B.G. Smith

In 1873, Amos Black owned The Lost Saddle Saloon, known for burning whiskey, high-stakes poker, and one hell of a good stew.

Trail-weary cowboys traded whispers over warm shots and cold hands of five-card stud. “Funny how Amos’s meat’s always freshest after a man goes missing,” drawled a rancher, twisting his handlebar mustache.

“Don’t much care,” his gaunt wrangler said between mouthfuls. “First real meal I’ve had since Texas.”

When they buried Otis McCoy in Boot Hill, his pine box crashed down, splintering.

Inside lay three burlap sacks of sand.

By then, Otis had already fed half the Chisholm Trail.