When Malaki comes to his senses, he realizes he’s standing shirtless in the forest.
It’s okay, the voice says. He trembles. Cowers.
Blood flows freely from an inch-wide gash in his left arm. A stab wound? He barely notices the pain because adrenaline courses through his body.
Malaki feels a heavy object in his right hand. He’s gripping it tightly. When he holds it up, a sliver of moonlight catches it just right. Louisville Slugger is imprinted on the wooden bat, and the barrel is coated in streaks of blood. Some of it’s been smeared.
“Jesus,” he whispers, dropping the bat. A small mound of pine needles cushion its fall.
Flashes of memories come back to him. Malaki sees a man in his mind. A pale light. Gunshots. Glass.
Pick up the bat, Malaki, the voice says. It comes from nowhere and everywhere.
Malaki’s heart starts to race, thrumming like thrash metal. He swears he hears crash cymbals in the distance.
That’s when he draws in a deep breath and smells the smoke.
The house. The fire.
“Fuck,” Malaki whimpers. More memories return to him. Only bits and pieces. There are flashlights now, poking through the trees. More voices.
“Malaki!” one yells. “This is the police. Come out with your hands up!”
They’re liars, the voice says. Try to split and they’ll kill you. Listen to their request and they’ll kill you.
Malaki drops to the forest floor. “What do I do?” he whispers despite being alone. His mind races—and tries to play out the possible scenarios and outcomes.
Fight, Malaki, the voice says. Pick up the bat. It’s your only chance.
“My God,” the man says, hunched over. He breathes in the pine needles and feels how soft they are on his bare chest and abdomen.
Fight!
“I can’t, it’s over—”
Kill or be killed, you fool—
“Shut up, shut up!”
Malaki falls silent. His body goes rigid. He grips the bat, white-knuckling it. Stands. Turns to face the beams of light.
A wicked grin surfaces.
And then he charges toward the officers, brandishing the bat, sprinting through the pine trees.
“Freeze!” they yell, as he barrels closer. They backpedal defensively, weapons raised. “Don’t do this!” they plead.
But on and on he runs.
Thank you for reading “Split” today. Thanks for being a subscriber here at Along the Hudson, too. I’m grateful to have you here.
What an outstanding batch of fifty-word horror stories you all concocted this past weekend! If you missed Fifties by the Fire and you’d like to read a slew of scary stories, please check them out here. They really are top-notch.
In other exciting news, my dark, speculative horror story, The Fire Tower, won season four of the
! selected my story as the winning entry and made the announcement yesterday. What an honor! Thanks again for choosing my story and for all of your efforts, Brian.Take care, everyone. I hope you have a wonderful week!
By the way, if you liked today’s story, you may also enjoy one of my other “micro-horror” tales from last year.
I love a good waking up shirtless story. And a good one-word title. And phrases like "thrumming like thrash metal."
So much left to the imagination. I have a feeling he wasn't long for this world.
Bravo, Count Deming.