Scary Short Stories

Seven Seconds

He placed the cold steel barrel to his temple, feeling it press against bone. The scarred right wrist was steady, the shoulder relaxed, as he’d been trained. Standing in front of the mirror, his dry brown eyes burned with concentration. The muscles of his right hand contracted. The trigger began to move. His cracked lips curled to one side. The same sly, crooked half smile so many girls and women found appealing.

A muffled thump startled him from his sleep. Rubbing his eyes, the boy slipped from his bed and wandered into his parent’s bedroom. His father lay on the floor clutching at his chest. Sweat beaded his strained forehead. The man looked up at his young son.

“Get your mother,” he moaned through contorted gasps for breath. “Hurry…”

The boy stood there in his cotton pajamas smiling affectionately at his father. At last he turned and started down the hallway. Pausing on the carpeted stairs, he returned to his room and flicked the light switch.

“Daddy gets mad when I leave the lights on,” he reminded himself.

He made his way through the living and dining rooms of the modern split level home. In the kitchen the boy stopped to look in the refrigerator but changed his mind. Silently he padded down the six steps to the paneled den.

His mother looked up from her reading. “What are you doing out of bed?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“You should be in bed… it’s late.”

The black and white TV set flickered. Two men faced each other in the middle of a dusty street. Spitting tobacco into the dirt, one man made a sudden move with his hand. The other, wearing a white hat and a silver start shaped badge, deftly slipped the Colt Peacemaker from its leather holster, thumbing back the hammer. In one swift, lethal motion he pointed the pearl handled revolver and pulled the trigger. Twenty paces away the first man jerked back a step. This time he spat blood, then fell forward.

The boy smiled.

“Did you hear me?”

“Daddy said he needs you.”

“What does he want?”

Still smiling, the boy looked up from the TV to his mother. “I don’t know.”

When his mother reached the bedroom it was too late.

That was the first time he killed.

4:38:04 PM

A warm shaft of sunlight filtered in through the open window. It was accompanied by a cool breeze. It smelled of honeysuckle. He squeezed the trigger tighter, feeling the tension on his index finger.

“Bang, bang!”

“You missed me, stupid.”

“I did not, you’re dead!”

The ten year old pointed his index finger at his friend. He cocked his thumb back. “You couldn’t shoot straight if your life depended on it, Chris.”

The one named Chris laughed aloud then took off running across the spacious back yard.

“Bang, bang!”

His friend took off after him.

The two boys chased each other through the swing set, around the plastic above ground pool, over a metal jungle jim. Still laughing, Chris scrambled up a tall old oak tree, followed closely by the other boy.

Fifteen feet up, Chris spun around and shimmied backwards, onto a long, sturdy branch.

“You can’t kill me,” he taunted.