Главная страница | Детская фантастика | Half-Minute Horrors

Half-Minute Horrors
Литагент HarperCollins


Fear only takes a moment… but can last a lifetime.How scared can you get in only 30 seconds? Dare to find out with Half-Minute Horrors, a collection of deliciously terrifying ultra-short tales and creepy illustrations by an exceptional selection of writers and illustrators, including bestselling talents Lemony Snicket, James Patterson, Neil Gaiman, R.L. Stine, Faye Kellerman, Holly Black, Melissa Marr, Margaret Atwood, Jon Scieszka, Brett Helquist, and many more.Don’t believe you can be terrified in under one minute? How wrong you are…










HALF-MINUTE

HORRORS

EDITED BY

SUSAN RICH







Contents

Cover (#u936c6890-bb92-5d0b-be09-0428eb7fcf49)

Title Page (#uf6dff7f1-936e-50ba-bbf1-c4557f9c3a3a)



Something You Ought to Know by Lemony Snicket

The Chicken or the Egg by Jerry Spinelli

In Hiding by Kenneth Oppel

The Old Man in the Picture by Richard Sala

The Babysitter by Erin Hunter

Grand Entrance by James Patterson

Halloween Mask by Sonya Sones

Tenton by Tom Genrich & Michèle Perry

Nanny by Angela Johnson

The Legend of Alexandra & Rose by Jon Klassen

What’s Coming by Arthur Slade

An Easy Gig by M. T. Anderson

Mr. Black by Yvonne Prinz

The Foot Dragger by M. E. Kerr

Trick by Adam Rex

Hank by Dean Lorey

One of a Kind by Sarah Weeks

A Walk Too Far by Gloria Whelan

A Very Short Story by Holly Black

Deep Six by Faye Kellerman

The Turn of the Screw by Henry James, A Novel as Told by Lisa Brown in Fewer than 30 Seconds

The Attack of the Flying Mustaches by Pseudonymous Bosch

Takowandaby Nadia Aguiar

Heart Stopper by Sienna Mercer

Up to My Elbow by Jack Gantos

Four Gleams in the Moonlight by Stephen Marche

The Goblin Book by Brad Meltzer

Worms by Lane Smith

The Dare by Carol Gorman

The Ballad of John Grepsy by David Rich

Soup by Jenny Nimmo

The Creeping Hand by Margaret Atwood

Wet Sand, Little Teeth by Mariko Tamaki

A Thousand Faces by Brian Selznick

Chocolate Cake by Francine Prose

At the Water’s Edge by Ayelet Waldman

My Worst Nightmare by R.L. Stine

The Beast Outside by Adele Griffin

Unannounced by Aliza Kellerman

Krüger’s Sausage Haus by Mark Crilley

There’s Something Under the Bed by Allan Stratton

Cat’s Paw by Sarah L. Thomson

Horrorku by Katherine Applegate

The Itch by Avi

The New Me: A Pantoum by Gail Carson Levine

Always Eleven by David Stahler Jr.

Aloft by Carson Ellis

Skittering by Tui T. Sutherland

Stuck in the Middle by Abi Slone

All Fingers and Thumbs! by Joseph Delaney

Don’t Wet the Bed by Alan Gratz

The Final Word illustrated by Brett Helquist, story by Josh Greenhut

The Shadow by Neil Gaiman

A Day at the Lake by Lesley Livingston

Whispered by Jon Scieszka

A Disturbing Limerick found & envisionedby Vladimir Radunsky

Through the Veil by Alison McGhee

The Rash by Daniel Ehrenhaft

Where Nightmares Walk by Melissa Marr

On a Tuesday During That Time of Year by Chris Raschka

Death Rides a Pink Bicycle by Stacey Godenir

I’m Not Afraid by Dan Gutman

The Doll by Alice Kuipers

Easy Over by Frank Viva

Them by Libba Bray

Tiger Kitty by Joyce Carol Oates

Inventory by Jonathan Lethem

Shortcut by Michael Connelly

Strawberry Bubbles by Lauren Myracle

We Think You Do by Barry Yourgrau

The Prisoner of Eternia by Aaron Renier

In Conclusion by Gregory Maguire

Index



About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)


LEMONY SNICKET

Something You Ought to Know

“The right hand doesn’t know what the left is doing” is a phrase that refers to times when people ought to know, but don’t know, about something that is happening very close to them. For instance, you ought to know about the man who watches you when you sleep.

He is a quiet man, which is why you don’t know about him.

You don’t know how he gets into your home, or how he finds his way to the room in which you sleep. You don’t know how he can stare at you so long without blinking, and you don’t know how he manages to be gone by morning, without a trace, and you don’t know where he purchased the long, sharp knife, curved like a crescent moon, that he holds in his left hand, sometimes just millimeters from your eyes, which are closed and flickering in dreams.

There are, of course, things he does not know about you, either. He does not know what you are dreaming about, but then it may be that he does not care. His clothes are rumpled and have odd rips in them here and there. One of his coat sleeves is longer than the other, and this may be to cover his right hand. The sleeve is long enough that if you were to wake up and see him, which you never do, you might not see that his right hand is strange and crooked. It would take a while, in the darkness of the room, to notice that it is missing three fingers.

He comes every night. His right hand does not know what the left is doing.


JERRY SPINELLI

The Chicken or the Egg

“I was first,” said Egg.

“I was first,” said Chicken.

“I was,” said Egg.

“I was,” said Chicken.

“I was!”

“I was!”

“I was!”

“I was!”

“Okay,” said Chicken. “You win.” And pecked Egg. Seven times. From seven holes Egg bled yellow into the barnyard dust. Until all of Egg was out instead of in.

Chicken grinned. “But guess who’s last.”


KENNETH OPPEL

In Hiding

My father and I lay tensely side by side in total darkness, not daring to breathe. The space was small and smelled bad. We were flat on our backs, scarcely able to lift our heads. Above us, the thing shifted restlessly on its bed, grunting. I hoped it would settle itself soon.

Finally the thing stopped moving. I counted seconds. Was it asleep? Or just lying there awake, waiting?

“Now,” my father whispered in my ear.

And very slowly we reached out and up to grasp the child’s ankles with our cold, dead hands.


RICHARD SALA

The Old Man in the Picture












ERIN HUNTER

The Babysitter

The phone rang, echoing around the white-and-silver kitchen that was as glossy as a hall of mirrors. Jess was surrounded by a dozen reflections of herself as she went to pick up the handset.

“Hello?”

For a moment there was no answer, just the faint sound of someone breathing. Jess thought of her friends laughing as they told her not to accept the babysitting job from someone she’d never met. “They probably live in a creepy old house in the middle of the woods!”

They didn’t. They lived in a top-floor loft with a view of the city that made Jess feel like a bird. The white leather sofas smelled of plastic wrapping.

Then a little voice said, “I’m coming home,” before the line clicked off.

Was there another child Jess didn’t know about?

The phone rang again. “I’m coming home!” Now the voice sounded old, tired, and fretful. There was a tap of footsteps. Climbing marble stairs. Like the ones that led up to the loft.

Jess looked down. Something was brushing her leg. It was the phone cord. It had fallen out of the wall.

The sound of scratching at the door. Like a dog. In her hand, the phone rang. “I’m home!” rasped the voice, older than sand. “Did you wait up?”


JAMES PATTERSON

Grand Entrance

Here’s what I remember about that night, and though I’ve been told it’s not possible, I remember everything clearly, like a dream come to life. . . .

I felt trapped. There was terrible screaming.

Where am I? I wondered. Some kind of tightly enclosed space.

My fear was extreme. I tried to stay calm, but I couldn’t.

There was water everywhere around me.

The screaming kept getting louder. And closer.

Then a voice broke through.

“It’s a girl,” said the voice.

Suddenly, it was quiet. Another voice filled the room. I realized it was mine.

And I was screaming like a baby.


SONYA SONES

Halloween Mask

I am me, but I am not.

I can’t be sure whose face feels hot.

Is it mine? Or is it its?

So strange how snug this new mask fits. . . .

Gazing in the mirror over my sink,

staring into eyes that refuse to blink,

holding my ground, I stare right back

at eyes the deadest shade of black. . . .

I swallow hard. This can’t be true—

when last I looked, my eyes

were blue!


TOM GENRICH & MICHÈLE PERRY

Tenton

Father said stuffed toys were childish. But at nine Ava still adored hers, most of all Tenton, the white rat. Tenton had velvety fur worn thin and long tickly whiskers, and traveled with her between Mom’s place and here. No matter what Ava’s fear, Tenton always knew how to comfort her.

One evening Father, as usual, nodded good night to Ava and closed the bedroom door. She heard his chair whine as he sat down to work again.

Shadows slowly lengthened into night. Under the covers Ava whispered, “I don’t ever want to go back to school. I hate it!” Something drove her to add, “You go, Tenton. You take my place.” Tenton’s red eyes glittered.

The next thing Ava knew, she was being tossed into the air like a rag doll. She hit the carpet yet felt nothing. In the half-light she saw a creature leap out of bed, a girl of sorts with shiny pale hair, her hair, wearing a pendant necklace, her necklace—but a girl who moved like a rat, scurrying stealthily on all fours. Ava screamed: no sound. She scrambled: no movement.

The girl-size rat crept over, red eyes deep with malice. Reflected in them Ava saw a little stuffed toy flung aside on the carpet, white limbs a-tangle, blue eyes wide with panic. Ava’s blue eyes.

The rat hissed and raced to the open window. A long naked tail snaked over the sill; claws clicked down the trellis. Then the sounds of movement faded.

In the morning Ava heard Father’s alarm, his shuf fling footsteps. “Ava!” he grunted. “Get up, or you’ll be late! Ava!”

Ava did what she could. Which was nothing.


ANGELA JOHNSON

Nanny

My nanny, Sara, tucks me in as the shadows wait for her to leave so they can creep out of the closet toward me. She smiles as she steps over the books and puzzle pieces I’ve left on the floor, then closes my door.

But tonight I decide to escape the shadows. I open the door and dash toward Sara’s room, only to find her at the end of the hall, whispering to them—the shadows— and telling them with a smile that I was waiting for their nightly visit to my room.


JON KLASSEN

The Legend of Alexandra & Rose







ARTHUR SLADE

What’s Coming

My father always used to say you’ll get what’s coming to you and I really didn’t like know what he meant until like this moment right now ’cause I can’t even move my arms and my chest it’s the pressure you see I’d decided to slip into old Widow Sturm’s house and I stole the heavy silver candlesticks and quiet as a rat I snuck back out the basement climbing over this container with old wood on top it’s for catching rain oh yeah it’s a cistern and the wood broke and I fell into this pit that just has thick slimy mud inside and I keep sinking and as it reaches my nostrils I start to bubble and I can’t help but wonder is it the candlesticks that keep pulling me down


M. T. ANDERSON

An Easy Gig

Galv thought the Kennedys’ baby was being very good. He didn’t hear a peep from the kid all night. As babysitting gigs go, it was incredibly easy. The baby was already down for the night when he arrived. So Galv watched TV and talked to Raoul on the phone and ate the lasagna the Kennedy parents had left in the oven for him.

He did not check the baby’s room to make sure the baby was still sleeping. He didn’t check 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.




Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/litagent-harpercollins/half-minute-horrors/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.