Short Story

I inherited everything from my grandfather, as my mother would remind me. His easygoing nature, his curly black hair, his thick build, his pot belly, his profound laziness, his terrible sense of hygiene, his lack of ambition. She rarely intended her comparison to be kind. Rather, any time I failed to meet her expectations, Grandad was invoked to guilt me.

Up until I was 18, Mom and I had visited him around holidays and such.  Maybe she had hoped I would change my act if I had occasional reminders of how Grandad lived.  She never appeared to have any personal desire to see him.  Each morning before our visits, she would be especially grouchy, complaining how she would have to put up with his filth.

When we would visit, I was instructed to never touch anything or leave her side.  She would bring a blanket to spread on his living room couch, and she and I would sit on that. She had a bottle of hand sanitizer in her purse in case we came into contact with anything else. We would talk to Grandad for an hour before she would escort me out. She’d throw away the blanket in the gas station down the road afterward.

I thought Grandad was a nice enough guy. He’d ask about school and buy me things I liked.  I never got to keep these presents – they’d get trashed with the blanket – but he thought enough of me to do that.  His love felt different from the kind I got from Mom.  Hers was the love that only appeared when I didn’t appreciate it.

It’s not like I didn’t understand my mother’s disdain for my grandfather.  He smelled of moth balls and stuffy rooms, and his stained shirts could never cover his gut.  His beard grew in patches and held bits of food.  He always had these long, wiry hairs poking from his nostrils, and they wiggled any time he breathed or spoke.  Even back as a kid, I knew he was gross, but he cared about Mom and me.

I stopped visiting him after I moved away from home, but I would call him every once and a while. Over the years, I told him about dropping out of college, struggling to find a girlfriend, and working odd jobs. He’d always reassure me things would be good eventually, and that helped, especially when I was feeling anxious. He’d ask about Mom, too. Once I had left home, she visited him maybe once every two years.

When he died, it was only fitting that I inherited everything.  He left Mom a buck.  

Her rage came out as criticism. She told me not to live off of his money, to make a life for myself.  She warned me of moving into his house, of taking his belongings. She said I would truly end up like him, reclusive, lazy, and useless. It was the most she had said to me in a few years.

I ignored her and moved in. It was a nice house. Filthy but nice. Grandad wasn’t one to take care himself. Apart from the living room, which he kept clean for Mom and me, every room was a mess of trash and bugs. The bathrooms had more mildew than porcelain, and the kitchen was a garbage dump of crusted plates and utensils. Mom had hired someone to clean his bedroom, mainly because his death wasn’t a tidy one.

I decided to replace him and not much else. My old apartment wasn’t much better than his place, and my grandfather seemed to get on just fine in the filth. He had made his wealth in stocks, which Mom says was the only way he bagged my grandmother.  That wealth was now mine.

I ended up inheriting his lifestyle, too. I messed on my laptop, played games, ate delivery, did little else. Sometimes, I entertained the thought of cleaning.  In a way, I felt connected to him. Only the roaches occasionally bothered me.

When the black hairs came wriggling out of my nose, I wasn’t surprised. Disappointed but not surprised.  It was only logical I’d inherit them. It was also the only thing I didn’t want.

That first month, I would pluck one hair a day. Anymore was too painful. Pulling them out would shoot pain through my nose, make me tear up, make me sneeze. My nose would swell up, too, making me terribly congested the next day. What you’d expect from thick hair, I figured.

Plucking hair was one habit I managed to keep, but I never made progress.  The hair seemed to keep up with me, growing longer and thicker. It was hard to breathe sometimes, even when I wasn’t plucking.

I don’t get desperate all that much, but those hairs made me desperate. I’d been nursing a cold at the time, and I was sick of being stuffed up. I was determined to push through the pain and get it all.  Staring down my reflection that day, I shoved my tweezers deep into a nostril, grabbed a clump of hairs, and yanked.

The tweezers seemed to catch before ripping out the hair.  I can only describe the next sensation as something like a prickly neti pot.  Something tore through the entirety of my nasal cavity and came surging out of my nose.  As I fully outstretched my arm, the sensation continued tunneling inside my head.

When the object did clear, blood flooded from my nostrils.  My skull felt hollowed out, leaving me woozy.  I held one hand to the bridge of my nose, blinking through the blinding pain.  Looking in the mirror, I discovered I no longer had any nose hairs.

Looking at the tweezer, it made sense. Covered in snot, a centipede-like creature thrashed in the tweezer’s grip. Short, wiry legs squirmed all along its thin body, which had to have been two feet in length. Little barbs prickled its back, and it folded along itself, as if trying to reach for the tweezers.

My heart raced, and my breath hitched, coming in shallow, quick bursts. Signs of a panic attack. I could feel blood stream down my throat as I struggled to focus on steadying my breathing.

The thing swung back and forth at the end of my outstretched arm, flinging mucus across the bathroom. It came close to grabbing my t-shirt, and I shook it.  I wanted to throw up. I wanted to pass out. I couldn’t. Not with this thing here.

I stumbled to the toilet and threw the tweezers and creature into the bowl.  I could see it hit the water and flail about on the surface before I slammed the lid down and lurched onto the seat. The world spun as I gasped for air. I jerked the toilet handle, breaking it off as I did so.

Through the pounding in my ears, I could hear the toilet flush. I clutched myself, rocking back and forth as I listened to the water run. Droplets of sweat and blood dripped onto my boxers. I was still hyperventilating, and I couldn’t stop it.

I tipped forward off the toilet and pressed against the opposite wall as the pressure built in my head. I couldn’t make sense of what I was seeing and I didn’t want to faint.  My peripheries grew fuzzy, and I could only hear the toilet water running. 

A black stream seemed to overflow from the toilet, and something slapped against the tile floor.  I groaned and tried to push myself closer against the wall. An itch spiraled up my arm, and my vision went blank.

Only a few seconds could have passed before my consciousness returned. My body trembled, and my head still felt heavy, my temples pulsing.  A puddle of water had collected underneath the toilet and trailed to my legs. 

I lifted my fingers to my nose and felt the tickle of hair against the tips.  I wasn’t bleeding anymore, but I felt a familiar congestion in my skull.  Drenched in sweat, I slumped to the tile and disappeared into my thoughts.

It’s been a few months since then.  I haven’t bothered with the tweezers.  It still tenses when I go to the bathroom. 

Back then, I had made an appointment with the doctor, but my nose started bleeding after the call and didn’t stop until I had called back and canceled.  I’ve had to keep my phone silenced ever since.  It doesn’t like the sound of the screen unlocking.  I don’t even intend to answer my mother if she calls, which hasn’t been a worry since I moved in. 

I’ve since learned it doesn’t know how to read, and it seems okay with the sound of typing.  For now, just writing this down has helped.  It helps me remember that I have time, if I can learn anything from Grandad. 

The cockroaches haven’t been around since the tweezer incident, which explains why I feel less congested at night.  My mouth tastes bitter every morning, but I can ignore that.  The headaches have been harder to ignore.

I have a great respect for my grandfather, for his kindness and care.  I now appreciate the time I had with him more, for our talks.  He focused only on me during them, no matter how much his nose hairs wriggled. I imagine it wasn’t easy for him, considering it probably didn’t like company.

These days I wonder if I actually inherited my personality from him.  Maybe he was stronger and braver than my mother made him out to be.  I at least know he wasn’t selfish in killing himself, mainly because I don’t think he did.  Mom reported his death a suicide by shotgun, and nobody investigated it.

My grandfather never owned any firearms.  Even if he had, I don’t imagine any gun could blow off the front chunk of his head and that’s it.  I can’t imagine the headache he had that day.

• He was a ghost all along.
• Her “parents” had actually kidnapped her as a child.
• The monster had been protecting her all this time.
• Poor little Billy died a gruesome death but didn’t stay dead.
• The secret behind old lady Gertrude’s meat pies are a healthy portion of human fetuses.
• You’re not safe because it’s right behind you!

I’m tired of these stories.  None of you know how to write a good twist anymore. You know how to recycle old ideas, but you don’t do it well. When I can predict your twist by the end of your first paragraph, that’s a problem.

It’s time we changed this and teach you all how to make a proper twist in horror. Let’s run through some scenarios:

1. I’m a charming, good-looking man who has wooed a woman over the course of three dinner dates. I take interest in her hobbies, express concern about her troubles, and “get” her. By all accounts, I’m the perfect man. In reality, I’m a serial killer, and she’s my next target.

This isn’t a twist; it’s a cliché. Let’s take it a step further:

2. She invites me back to her home for sex. We’re reaching the height of our passionate dance, and I’m ready to crush her throat. True to the horror genre, her vagina suddenly opens up into this toothy maw and devours me in the most painful, emasculating way possible.

This is unsettling—and tragic— but not a solid twist. Would-be murderer killed by seemingly innocent victim? Done a hundred times. I can even think of at least three other times a vagina has killed a man. I can think of several thousand more examples if we’re talking figuratively.

3. What if I don’t die once I’m eaten? What if my consciousness takes control of the woman? I become her; I learn how to live as she does. All the while, a primal need grows within, hungering for human flesh.

Some writers would call this a twist, claiming that the story can end satisfactorily because they implied the murderous cycle would continue. This is just lazy writing. This should be the meat of the story, not the butt end.

4. Now let’s imagine I become aware of three other states of consciousness in my brain. There is another man, and I know of his life just as well as I do mine. He was a womanizer who picked the wrong woman. He “ate” me. Another consciousness exists “below” him, that of a lesbian lover who hoped things would go right this time. Her life is fuzzy, almost like a worn VHS tape. The guy below her feels only like a silhouette of a man. I can barely understand any events of his life. Just raw emotions. We can add that they are all crying, pleading for me to not kill anyone. The lowest state of consciousness is stuck on a constant, low scream.

At this point, we’ve finally reached some level of creepiness, the hook which allows for a later twist. Let’s add something more absurd to build the suspense.

5. Below all of these consciousnesses is an empty pit, a void. I could confuse it for the edge of my awareness, but it’s something else. Some entity exists in there, and I can feel its pull. Sometimes the others warn me about it.

Ready your pencils: is this a twist? If you’ve paid attention this far, you know it isn’t. We have the hook and now a conflict. We need a climax, and the twist could fill that role.

6. Now, allow time to pass. I succumb to the urge and consume another human. My consciousness is “pushed down” a layer, and the screaming guy disappears into the void. Now the woman has descended into incoherent babbling, and I find my personality blurring with the others, specifically the new dominant personality.

The answer to scenario six is the same as the ones before it. There be no twist here. It’s important to understand this next part because I will add a minor twist. This twist is meant to add spice to the story, not be the main flavor. A little salt improves a meal. Too much ruins it.

7. Through sheer willpower, I wrangle control of the body from the dominant consciousness. I still exist on the second layer of awareness, but I get to control the girl. I get to live as a functioning human a little longer. However, I cannot stave off my urge to feed, and soon enough, after two more helpings, I find myself as the lowest state of being. I still control the girl, but one more feeding and to the void I go.

Again, this is all exposition, allowing a twist to fester and grow. We haven’t fully prepared for the twist yet because we don’t fully understand the void. We must look into it for a bit.

How much description do we need? We need to capture the atmosphere at least. We could say that looking into the maw might initially create a feeling of warmth, almost like you belong in there. Your consciousness slips ever so slightly into the void’s pull, allowing the warmth to recreate your physical body. This warmth then turns sickly as you feel it wriggle within your veins, burrowing into your nerves and wrapping around your brain. Centipede legs march along the back of your eyes, and its body chokes you as it extends up and out of your throat. 8. Vertigo sets in, causing your vision to become jagged swirls of shadowy creatures with branching limbs, gnashing teeth, decaying flesh, oozing tumors, millions of eyes. Everyone is screaming but their mouths are fused shut, they have no eyes, and they have stretched into the walls and floors of this place. My consciousness slips 9. stretches sucked into the vortex. The air reeks of vomit I vomit my body melts with other flesh GET OUT OF MY THOUGHTS I’m burning and10. they’re eating us it hurts and they won’t stop stop it it hurts stop 11.

That’s about all you need describe the atmosphere. Add more if you’d like, but this is enough to get me going.

This leaves us with the twist. I’ll give you three options and see if you can identify the good one:

1. This void exists in all of us. Only my character is distinctly aware of it.
2. Channeling his own murderous energies, my character devours the void and becomes the true monster.
3. In my character’s attempt to push the other states of consciousness below him, he shatters the mental bonds which trapped the void, thus unleashing its apocalyptic being upon the world.

Have your answer yet?

If you chose option 1, you’ve learned nothing. “It’s in all of us” is one of the most stereotypical twists out there. If you said option 2, you selected an “unrealistic” twist which the audience will reject. How can a mortal “eat” an ancient, intangible monster? Lastly, if you picked option 3, you fell for a more complex version of “it’s right behind you.” By “endangering” the reader, you have given up on creating a twist by yourself and relied on scared teenagers up past their bedtime to “fill in the blanks” for you.

What’s the true answer? I don’t know. I believe I have been crafty in developing the story this far, but I’ll acknowledge I can’t create a satisfactory twist for it either. I’ve set myself up without thinking it through. I’m only good enough to be the writing teacher, not the writer.

The story could finish here, with my character suspended above everlasting doom. It could still be considered good horror. Not all stories need a twist, especially not a bad one. Some end just as everyone predicted it would, and sometimes the horror comes from the fact that the ending was inevitable.

I find such a conclusion unsatisfactory. I believe our lovable serial killer deserves a more unexpected ending, one that does not see him fall prey to the void. Because I can’t create it, myself, I challenge you all of prove your writing ability and make it for me. Show me what you have learned. With all of your minds working together, maybe one of you will strike a fountain of creativity. Clichés will not be tolerated.

I’ll be the first to admit this is not an easy task. Personally, it’s been driving me insane for weeks. Any longer, and I don’t know what I’ll do.