Tragic endings, terrifying dystopias, gruesome deaths…
Let’s put YOUR grimdark prompt suggestions on the Wheel, spin it, then write some horrifying short stories together!
During the last stream, a subscriber requested that we come up with some grimdark story ideas, put them on the wheel, then spin and write them.
Watch a short version of the stream here or scroll down for what we wrote.
For those who don’t know, “grimdark” is a genre that is similar to horror (violent disturbing, gross), but without a happy ending. Quite often in grimdark stories, the monster isn’t defeated, it wins.
Chat came up with some excellent grimdark ideas like:
- The kid you have to babysit drownins in the tub.
- Ex-girlfriend takes you back after she wins the lottery… and as long as you do whatever she wants.
- A young girl being hunted down at night only to find out its her own father.
We put all the ideas on a wheel, spun it, and it landed on:
All the furniture in a room is former children.
Here’s what we came up with:
I was so excited when I found out I was being promoted at IKEA. I’d spent five years working there as a cash register grunt, making barely enough to support me and my soon-to-be-six-year-old Charlie. Lord knows IKEA gave me far more than his dad ever did.
But my hard work paid off. Five years of never calling in sick, being off by so much as a penny in my register count, and an impeccable one-hundred percent customer service satisfaction record. I was going to make a fantastic assistant manager, but even more than that, I was looking forward to finally being able to celebrate Charlie’s sixth birthday with an actual present. No more expired, free cookies from IKEA’s cafeteria with last year’s candle stuck in it.
Stephanie, the head manager, showed me the ropes on my first official day. Honestly, I’d already had so much experience that there weren’t too many surprises, just more responsibilities. Instead of having my register counted at the end of the shifts, I’d be the one doing the counting, and instead of calling Stephanie over to deal with problematic customers, I’d be the one offering them an apology and a gift card.
After the store had closed for the night, Stephanie said she needed to show me the “Children’s Room.” I was confused, since as far as I knew, our IKEA was smaller than the typical one and didn’t have any specific children’s sections. Sure, there were kids’ bureaus in the storage section, and kids’ bunk beds in the bedroom section, but no area devoted to children, much less a specific room.
Stephanie led me to the janitor’s supply closet, one of the few doors I’d never been behind. Thankfully I’d never been the one to have to clean up after anyone who threw up in a kitchen sink, we had Jason for that. She clanged her grip of keys, unlocked the door, and opened it up.
No “Children’s Room” as far as I could see, just shelves of cleanser, spray bottles, and brooms. Stephanie merely motioned with her hand, ushering me inside. I didn’t protest, not wanting to make a bad impression, and stepped in. She followed behind me and closed the door to darkness.
Honestly I thought she was playing a prank on me, then the room shook. I let out a small eep and we descended like an elevator. I had no idea what was happening. I didn’t even know we had a lower floor.
Then it stopped. Stephanie clicked on a light, and before us was a new door. A metal one. Dark red rust ran along its edges, and the words “Children’s Room” were yellowed and cracked. A faded clown face laughed beneath them, like a sun bleached wall in a forgotten daycare.
“Sometimes,” Stephanie said in a voice far too bright, “we get customers who require furniture that’s a little more offbeat. I’ll give you the list of who they are later.”
I stood there speechless as she whipped out the keys again and unlocked the new door. It opened far too smoothly and quietly for a door that old, revealing a room doused in fluorescent light, making everything so easy to see.
So horribly easy to see their eyes.
They were all furniture. Every last one. Each chair, couch, lamp and cushion a child stretched out or bent in some shape that no human should bend in. Still blinking. Still breathing.
One child, a chair, staring at me with wide eyes and sewn-shut mouth, his arms fastened to his sides and an extra pair of sewn-on legs coming down from behind. As still and silent as a
rug. She was a rug. Lying on the floor, eternally looking upward, flayed skin painted with stars and planets and lit up by the light of the
lamp standing next to her with rainbow bulbs instead of eyes and mouth, skin red all around it from burns and another with deep incisions across his stomach to store Disney classic little golden storybooks but the
saddest of all the child on all fours, a small table supporting Legos and play-dough. A spot on the floor beneath it wet with fresh tears.
“Your responsibilities will include watering and feeding the unsold furniture,” Stephanie said.
I couldn’t reply. The only thing stopping me from vomiting was the thought that it would splatter all over these poor children. All I could do was mutter inchoerently.
“Why is it… made of children?”
Stephanie looked at me surprised. “Well, because children make more comfortable seats than adults.”
She handed me a price scanner from her pocket with a smile.
“Here, go ahead and scan that table over there. We have a customer coming to pick it up tomorrow morning.”
I took the scanner from her and slowly bent down in front of the child on all fours. His joints were bent inversely, and he couldn’t move his head, only his bloodshot eyes, staring intently at me.
Charlie. I thought of my own Charlie. How much this boy looked like him. How easily this could be him. And how I’d do anything to keep him happy. To keep this job.
I scanned the furniture. Eighty dollars was less than I’d expected.
Be sure to check out cozyroger’s illustrated
version of the story by clicking here!
After that, we spun the wheel again, and it landed on:
You slowly find out your dad likes to kill animals for fun.
Here’s what we wrote:
I always thought I was bad with pets.
First it was my cat Whiskers. Then my parrot Beaker. Even my hamster Lucky. All of them, gone after just a few days.
Mom and Dad didn’t know what to do. Mom had had enough, but Dad was willing to give it another chance with a “bigger” animal this time, one that wouldn’t go missing as easily: a dog. We named him Acorn.
For a few days, things were great. Acorn was a ten-year-old golden retriever, a retired service dog, perfect for my situation. He knew how to do everything. We played fetch in the backyard, went for walks without even needing a leash, and sat by my chair in the living room and let me pet his head.
Honestly, Acorn read my moods like a lifelong friend. He comforted me when I was lonely, on days when I came home after the kids at school spat at me during recess. He laid his sweet head on my lap when nobody else was there, Mom still at work and Dad away working on projects. Acorn never came close to biting me or peeing on me like my old pets had, he only gave me love, and I gave it back.
But one day I came home from school, after getting ignored all recess except for when dust was kicked in my face, and Acorn wasn’t there. He wasn’t in the doorway to greet me. He wasn’t in the kitchen begging for a treat. He wasn’t in the backyard with a tennis ball in his mouth, wiggling his butt.
I looked all over, calling his name. Even the food I’d poured out that morning was still in his bowl, untouched. I walked up and down the street, keeping an eye out for him, but it didn’t make sense for him to run away.
When I got back, Acorn-less, Dad’s car was in the driveway. I ran through the house, calling for him too, but he wasn’t there.
I heard the shed door in the backyard squeak. Dashing outside, I hoped to find Acorn messing around with the handle, but no such luck. The door was shut, and I wasn’t allowed in there. It was Dad’s workshop, far too many dangerous tools. But if Acorn was in there, I had to help him before he got hurt.
Taking a deep breath, I grabbed the door handle and swung it open.
Dad was inside. And Acorn was there too, lying on a sheet on the floor. But something was wrong.
He looked like he was asleep, his tongue lolling out of his greying muzzle, sopping up the puddle of blood that was the only thing connecting his head to the rest of him.
It wasn’t just Acorn. On the shelves of the shed, there were jars filled with dead animals floating in liquid. I recognized some of them. Whiskers, Beaker, Lucky, and a dozen dozen other squirrels, birds, our neighbor’s missing ferret, and even the severed head of a raccoon.
For all the animals in the shed though, everything but Acorn’s sheet and dad’s apron was slickly cleaned, reeking of ammonia and bleach.
Dad stood in front of me, a bloodied hand saw on the counter next to him, along with some bags from Home Depot filled with jars and bottles. He squatted down to my level and looked at me with clinical, calculating eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice void of emotion. “But I had to. You understand, right?”
I didn’t understand. I glanced over at the jars of Whiskers, Beaker, and Lucky.
“Why did you do that to them?” I asked Dad. He shook his head and sighed.
“Because your work was messy,” he said. “And you’re lucky I found them before Mom did.”
Whiskers had it coming when she bit me. Thankfully she was easy enough to wrap my fingers around her neck later. Beaker just wouldn’t shut up squawking when I shouted at him. Didn’t take anything more than a kitchen knife to finally shut him up. And Lucky, that thing pissed all over my shirt sleeve. As if I needed to give the kids more of a reason to make fun of me. All it took for her was a heavy toss against the wall.
I’d tossed all the bodies in the backyard. When they’d disappeared, I’d figured an animal must’ve gotten to them. I was right.
“Your technique is sloppy,” Dad said. “You don’t even get to enjoy the best part. Watching the life drain out of their eyes in front of you.”
Hearing Dad say that, out loud, was the most wonderful thing I’d ever heard. I finally felt understood. All those times at recess when I was busy crushing beetles and the other kids thought I was gross, they didn’t get it. The same way warm joy flowed through them playing dodgeball or on the jungle gym, I got it through listening to the final squeals of a formerly living creature.
To have such power over another living thing. To be able to decide whether it lives or dies underneath your shadow. To cripple it with your own hand and leave it writhing alone, such that it will never recover, its innards dribbling outward for the remainder of its painful existence.
I always thought I was bad with pets. Apparently it ran in the family.
Dad patted my shoulder and stood up. “Don’t worry, I recorded Acorn. We can watch it together if you want.”
My lips curled over my teeth into a wide smile and Dad nodded.
“You’re so much more understanding than your brother was,” he said.
Be sure to check out the video for some dramatic readings!
If you want to join us and help write a story by trolling in chat, or share your own writing for feedback, then we’d love to have you join us on Twitch.
And you missed the stream, you can still watch them on the YouTube channel or watch the full stream reruns.
Hope to see you next time, friend!
Top image: Flickr/Angie Linder (edited by me)