It’s time for Weird Fiction Monday, when I post stories that I’ve written — both new and old — for the entertainment (hopefully) of my readers! As always, I note that I haven’t done extensive editing of the tales here, so don’t be surprised to find the writing a little rough.
This particular story is much darker than many that I write, and is oddly personal, as I note in an afterword. It was written almost exactly fifteen years ago, in 1997.
The Worm
The dream, again. He was shoveling, the worm was giggling, and someone was screaming.
He awoke suddenly, staring up at the ceiling, affixed to the bed by feelings of horror. His throat felt raw; the voice screaming he always heard was, he suspected, his own. If his neighbors noticed, though, they never commented.
Richard Dewar had needed no alarm clock to wake him for quite some time. The dreams chased him from sleep every morning, and kept him from true rest every night. Would they fade in time, as the memories became distant and unfamiliar? Would the memories ever become unfamiliar? Richard would not even dare hope.
Images of the people, and their eyes, lifeless, remained with him as he crawled out of bed, and echoes of the worm resonated within his skull.
“Your feelings are perfectly normal,” Richard told himself, rinsing up at the sink, but the words sounded hollow. Richard’s therapist had spoken those words, many times, but how could his therapist possibly know? She had not sat in the darkness, with the stench, and the blood, and the worm, shoveling…








