SHOCK curates an ongoing series of short, terrifying original horror fiction.
Grandmother’s Skin
By Nigel Parkin
The girl walks through the forest. It is heavy with heat, vibrant with colour. There is an oppressive, warm, suffocating dampness in the air. Clouds sigh overhead, ready to burst. Large creatures hum and cry, beating urgent wings.
She is all too aware of her hair caressing her shoulders. The sharp scent of her skin in the heat. The salt tang she can taste on her lips as she runs her tongue across them. Her body is beating its own urgent rhythm, heavy with heat. Later, as the promised rain falls, she will lie under her sheets and search for relief but for now she must walk. She has a journey to pursue, a duty to fulfil.
She is watched. The hunter, on horseback, follows her with his gaze. He watches the fall of her black hair, the spread of her legs, the shifting curves of her body. He can smell her.
He moves his horse into her path, facing her.
She stops, startled by his appearance. She feels she should fear him.
‘You know it’s dangerous to walk in this forest, don’t you?’ he asks.
‘Why?’
‘Don’t you know there are creatures here that will prey on you?’
She looks into his black eyes. ‘Creatures?’
‘Wolves,’ he snarls.
She notices the length of his jaw, the flash of his teeth. ‘I’ll take my chances,’ she replies.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To see my grandmother.’
‘Does she live in this forest?’
‘Yes.’
‘Brave lady.’
‘She knows the dangers of this place. She sits in her rocking chair with a rifle in her lap.’
‘Like this?’ The hunter pulls his rifle from his shoulder, holding it out for the girl to get a good look.
‘Yes.’
‘Waiting for the day the wolf comes calling?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Why don’t you climb up on here with me? I’ll take you to her.’
‘No. Thank you. I want to walk.’
For a moment the hunter stares at her. She stares back, bristling, defiant, her scent growing stronger. The clouds hang over them, ready to burst.
He imagines the sound of her screams, the tearing of fabric, of flesh. He kicks his horse and they turn, heading away into the humming darkness of the forest.
The girl stands for some time, listening to the hoof beats growing more distant, before continuing to walk. The forest hums and cries more loudly and insistently. Somewhere ahead, clouds clash. Thunder rumbles.
When she arrives at her grandmother’s cabin, the clouds burst. Rain pounds the roof and the hard earth. Lightning flashes. The door stands open. There is a strange smell. In the darkness, flies are buzzing. Something is wrong.
She calls out for her grandmother. There is no answer.
Swallowing her fear and her panic, she ventures further into the cabin. She has a journey to pursue, a duty to fulfil.
There is a figure sitting in the darkness, in grandmother’s rocking chair, with a rifle in her lap. The girl can just make out the white hem of a familiar dress around the figure’s ankles.
The figure leans forward. A flash of lightning illuminates grandmother’s face…stretched over a long jaw, a grotesquely distorted mask, the torn mouth gaping open to reveal the cruel glint of the hunter’s teeth.
The girl screams and tries to turn and that is when the rifle, heavy with its own heat, bursts and cries. The girl feels her knee shattering, exploding. In another lightning flash the air is suddenly vibrant with colour, warm with the oppressive dampness of her blood.
She falls.
The hunter rises from the rocking chair and kneels over her. The girl becomes aware of a hand covered in her grandmother’s skin caressing her shoulder. The hunter lowers his head, enjoying the copper tang of the girl’s blood as he runs his tongue over her leg.
Oh, the sharp scent of her skin in fear.
He listens to the sound of her screams, the tearing of fabric…
