THIRD GRADERS, THESE ARE SOME HORROR TALES.

Artificial Angel

It sits in the tree waiting for the world to end. Wings spread eagle and arms pressed to its
chest, it sleeps as though it were a bat nestled inside the darkest of caves, eyes closed and face
calm but mute. It’s a thing that few people ever get to experience—the reality of a moment, the
assurance of peace, but regardless, this angel is timeless.
Shifting, the creature blinks, opening its eyes to a world dark and without any discernable
light source. Its first thought is, Where am I?
The thought, though unsettling, is not without purpose. It’s been long since it’s woken from
slumber, much too long. The last thing it can recall is bombs exploding to the distance and harsh
cries sounding from the ruins of a destroyed city, but the creature isn’t sure this matters. That
time is long gone, it knows, and it is not necessary to remember things that have happened in the
past.
For a brief moment, it waits, listening to the sounds of the woods. Then it drops down,
landing on brown earth littered with pine needles.
Stepping forward, but not sure whether or not to proceed, the angel lifts its head and begins
to examine its surroundings. Already it is able to make out details from the area—the silent
expressions in the bark, the glimmer of bugs in the air. The area has changed. This much is
already obvious.
Is this necessary?
Necessary, to wake from slumber without any cause or reason—it hasn’t been called, nor
has it been beckoned from lands devoid of consciousness by anything higher than a voice. It
seems impractical, especially at a time like this, when nothing seems wrong.
A flicker of movement from the sky catches its attention.
The angel lifts its head.
Only one thought goes through its mind.
Snow.
No—not snow, but something like it. It’s falling from the sky like snow would, albeit slower
and with a greater sense of dread, but it isn’t snow. It’s too thick, too corroded with the sense of
unnatural ease to be such a thing. A sad thought occurs to the angel before it begins to cross the
clearing, toward where it begins to remember a road once stood. This may not be the world it
remembered.
Like a child not sure of its first step, the angel hesitates, wings shifting and beak drawing air
through a pair of twin nostrils. Only when it steps onto the road does it see the result of time.
So, it thinks. This is it.
Skeletons linger all around—not of the dead, but of the impractical and weary. Husks of
what used to be lumbering towers shiver in the passing breeze, while lights that once used to
shine remain dead, looking out at the world like eyes hollow and sunk into the skulls of the old.
What should be snow falls greater here, as trees are no longer able to catch its flakes, but that
doesn’t concern the angel—it’s the sky. No longer blue, but a shimmering shade of white, it
swims across the horizon as though moving through a current, fish streaming up rivers that no
longer exist.
The angel’s wings draw its attention away from the scenery. Their metal gleam saddens it.
Never was it a real angel, a being people looked up to. It has always been false, a conduit made
only to serve those who created it.
As it looks upon the world, both saddened and unsure of its prospect, the angel takes a
moment for the realization to settle in. When it finally does, it mimics what would once have
been considered a sigh, then spreads its wings.
It kicks off with one foot, then begins to fly toward the horizon.
Other shapes lurk in the distance.

 Lobotomy

He was so tranquil and undisturbed, serene and unruffled except for fours flowers of
blood that trickled across his smart Italian business suit. At his side was his black attaché
case, the top of a yellow legal pad jutting from it. His shirt cuffs were tattered from the
struggle and his wrists were well lacerated. His breath smelled strongly of beer; his short,
gray hair looked no different than before. His thin whiskers, bulbous nose, square jaw, and all
the rest of his stalky, scowling figure were too, no different than before. But his eyes were
different; those loving brown eyes – so soft they could pool into your hands, radiating an
undying compassion – were now hard, rigid and lifeless. The horror and astonishment of
betrayal was frozen on his features. Etched into his eyes forever.

I stared at the dead body by my feet. I wasn’t sure what to feel. Elation? Regret?

Indifference? But the truth was: I felt… nothing. Nothing at all. Was that wrong? Should I have

felt something? I didn’t know, but in truth I didn’t really care either. It just didn’t matter…

I stared at the curved, serrated knife that was tightly clenched in my whitening fists.

The tip was coated in a glaze of blood. Fresh blood. I slowly, deliberately released my grip

and allowed the knife to clatter to the kitchen floor beside him, spattering blood across the

wall. But I didn’t even notice. The TV blared in the corner and the microwave hummed as it

prepared his dinner – the dinner that he would never have. And I just stood there and stared

at him. What was that that I felt? Awe? Shock? Disbelief? No. I felt nothing. Entirely empty.

I heard the faint patter of rain as it fell onto the roof, listened to the hum of an

engine as a car drove leisurely by, heard the shouts and giggles of children as they performed

their daily childhood antics. But yet, I heard nothing. Felt nothing. I was empty inside.

The microwave beeped, informing me that its task was complete, the rain fell harder

onto the roof and the conceited poodle of a news reporter droned on about the most recent

of the many car crashes, his dull voice rambled on in the tiny box of a TV in the corner of the

kitchen counter. Beside it, the front door was ajar – just how I had left it – and the lock had

been picked so that if a curious neighbor was to waltz up to the door, they would’ve seen me.

And him.

So be it. I couldn’t explain why, but I just didn’t care. Maybe I wanted to get caught?

Maybe I couldn’t live with myself if I wasn’t caught?

I stood rooted in the spot, my eyes transfixed on his limp body. He was sprawled

across the tile, kitchen floor; his arms were outstretched and his legs contorted into a

hideous V shape. His blood had now fully engulfed his custom-made business suit where it

pooled around his head, dyeing his gray hair a sickly crimson. He was clad in his fancy work

attire, fresh off escaping from his wearisome job. Lawyers. He never even had the chance to

change clothes, or to even see his attacker. He was still fidgeting with the doorknob when it

happened. When the knife was plunged into his chest.

I stared down at him wearily, and nearly turned away at the sight of the blank slits

that had once served as his eyes. He was such a success in his profession: top of his class at

Harvard, even better at Yale Law, editor in chief of the school newspaper, renowned defense

attorney now dead before me. And still, it evokes no emotion. Absolutely nothing.

The sleek glass edifices of New York City were barely visible on the horizon as I peered

at them through the small kitchen window. His home. My home. So far away. My brain was

numb, my ears were ringing, my head was throbbing but no thought crossed my mind. Not

even the slightest hint of emotion. It was inhuman, robotic as if I was some sort of a zombie.

But the truth was: I was no zombie, nor was I a robot. I was just a person and I could not face

what I had just done; I refused to fully comprehend the action that I had committed.

I stared down in awe at my hand which was still dripping with blood, stared at my

bloody sleeve… I had just killed a man. But I could not even remember why. The trauma was

a lobotomy in itself. Why? Why had I killed him? What drove me to do such a thing? And as

much as I wanted to remember, I just didn’t know. As simple as that. Even how I killed him

was already growing fainter and vaguer; I had no idea how I obtained the knife, or where I

was or what I was doing or even WHO I was. But the one thing that I could remember, the one

thing that was certain, the one precise answer amidst all of the questions was the identity of

the victim. Accomplished lawyer, cordial friend, beloved husband… and a father. MY father.

He was my father.

I had murdered my father.