Half-Minute Horrors. Литагент HarperCollins USD

the crib to make sure the baby was even still there.

      He lay on the sofa with his head hanging off the armrest and his lasagna plate on his stomach, making up song lyrics with Raoul. They laughed hard.

      And when the parents came home and said, “How was the baby?” Galv said, “Oh, he was good. Really good. I didn’t even hear a peep from him.”

      But Galv didn’t know how the baby was. He hadn’t checked.

      “No,” said Mr. Kennedy. “The baby was bad.”

      “Very bad,” said Mrs. Kennedy. “The baby cried and cried.”

      “No he didn’t,” said Galv, confused.

      “Before you got here,” Mr. Kennedy explained. “The baby was so bad he had to be punished.”

      “And when we punished him,” said Mrs. Kennedy, “we made a mistake.”

      “And then,” said Mr. Kennedy, “we needed somewhere to hide the body. And someone to blame.”

      Galv backed toward the door, terrified. He couldn’t speak.

      “You can’t run from it,” said Mrs. Kennedy. “The police will never believe you. The crime is already yours.”

      Mr. Kennedy smiled. “How did you like the lasagna?” he said.

      YVONNE PRINZ

       Mr. Black

      Every morning at seven sharp, my next-door neighbor emerges from the front door of his house. He has no wife, no kids, and no dog. He disappears up the street on foot wearing a black suit, black shoes, and a black hat, and carrying a black briefcase. We call him Mr. Black. One day my curiosity gets the better of me and I peek into his living room window. Through a crack in the blinds I see that it is not a living room at all. It’s a waiting room. Five more Mr. Blacks sit in a row of plastic chairs, not moving, not blinking, not breathing. I hear a whirr, and a small camera mounted up in the far corner of the room swivels and focuses in on me. A red light blinks. I run.

      M. E. KERR

       The Foot Dragger

      My father thought the reason my older brother was mean was that he was short. He’d grow out of it.

      When he came in late at night, while my parents were asleep, I would hear him heading toward our bedrooms. He would drag one foot and take his time climbing the stairs.

      Step . . . drag . . . step . . . drag. Heavy breathing. The door handle turned.

      I decided two could play this game. As the handle turned, I’d jump out at him. I was ready for him. Step . . . drag. The heavy breathing. He was there.

      “Gotcha, Paul!” I threw open the door and saw him.

      This very tall man.

      ADAM REX

       Trick

      DEAN LOREY

       Hank

      Hank was one of the most adorable puppies you’ve ever seen, which is why it was such a shock when, seven years after the day we brought him home from the pet store, he looked up at me with his big, beautiful Labrador eyes and said, “I’m going to kill you.”

      “You . . . you can talk?” I whispered.

      “Of course, dummy. I just haven’t talked to you until right now.”

      I was alone in the house with him. It was a freedom I gained on my thirteenth birthday—a freedom I suddenly regretted.

      “I haven’t decided exactly how I’m going to do it yet,” Hank continued, stepping closer on his padded feet. Drool dripped from his long front teeth. “I was going to tear into your throat while you were sleeping, but I think I may just go ahead and do it right now.”

      “But . . . but I thought you loved me,” I replied, stumbling backward. “I thought we were best friends!”

      “I know. What a dummy you are.” He laughed cheerlessly. “Yeah, every time I licked you, you know what I was thinking? I was thinking, I’m gonna kill him. Lick. Make him suffer. Lick, lick. Watch him die in front of me with that scared, confused look in his eyes.

      “You thought that when we were snuggling?” I reached behind me. My hands closed around a lamp—a weapon, maybe? “I had no idea . . .”

      “I know,” Hank said before attacking.

      SARAH WEEKS

       One of a Kind

      When I felt the first tug, I knew I had something big on the line.

      “Ka-ching!” I thought.

      People pay big bucks for fresh tuna, and big bucks was exactly what I needed. I’d spent a wad on Gloria’s engagement ring—way more than I could afford—but love makes a man do crazy things sometimes.

      “One of a kind,” the guy at the jewelry store had told me when he showed me the diamond ring.

      “Perfect,” I said, “’cause that’s what my Gloria is. One of a kind.”

      It took me a good half hour to reel in the fish. It put up quite a fight. But when it finally broke the surface of the water, my heart sank.

      “Mako,” I said when I saw the gray fin.

      Shark meat wouldn’t bring in nearly as much as tuna, but I pulled the fish into the boat anyway. After stomping on the head a couple of times with my boot heel to stun it, I took a knife and starting at the throat, sliced downward, opening up the gut. The usual fish heads and stomach juice spilled out onto the deck, but then something sparkled and caught my eye. There amid the slimy stomach contents lay a hand, a woman’s left hand, and on the second finger was a ring. It was one of a kind.

      GLORIA WHELAN

       A Walk Too Far

      I had walked too far, ending up in a neighborhood of homes with a deserted look. The streetlights came on, and I hurried from one pale pool of light to the next, searching for something familiar.

      At last, admitting I was lost, I approached a house where the flick of a curtain suggested it was occupied. Hoping for directions, I knocked at the door.

      The man who answered my knock appeared strangely pleased to see me, as though he had been waiting for me, or someone like me, to appear. He ushered me into a darkened room.

      “So then no one knows you are here,” the man said.

      I heard a key turn in a lock.

      HOLLY BLACK

       A Very Short Story

      Zoe sits on the bed, with her mother at the foot. The overhead light is on, flooding most of the room, although shadows still creep up the walls at the edges.