I wish we had never crossed her.
It started out so well. Me and my mate, we—we had a great little side hustle going on. We’d lurk on horror story forums, find the best stories on there, and nick them. Next, we’d bodge together some am-dram narration, creepy music, stock images and a bit of animation, stick it all up on YouTube, and let the hits flood in.
Copyright strikes? We just moved it all to a new channel, tweaked the vids a little, and continued the scam.
What do you mean we were doing something wrong? Hey, what can I say? Property is theft, which must mean theft is property. As long as you’re the sucked and not the sucker, know what I mean?
Anyway, we found this great story. Right weird one, about a woman who kept giving birth to mantises. The twist being that she and her “babies” kept feeding on the men who knocked her up. OK, it sounds a bit weird, and the author’s profile and posting history were “unusual,” to say the least, but it read well.
At first, we didn’t want to do it. Mantises are a bit obvious. I thought spiders were a better choice, but my mate pointed out they were also overdone. He wanted something about slugs, but then we realised being chased around the house by a giant slug just wasn’t working either. Mother Mantis it was, then.
So me and my mate got recording. He’s not the best falsetto in the world. But it was either that or hire a wannabe actress with a BAPA slumming it at Starbucks to do the voice of Mantis Woman. We watched lots of documentaries about insects eating other insects, just to get the sound effects right. I was particularly proud of the crunching noises, when the baby mantises and Mum gobble up their latest victim. It was me, eating crisps.
The video went live and the hits started rolling in. We’d had a lucky streak, as YouTube hadn’t issued a copyright strike in ages. The revenue began to trickle in too. Not that much, of course. But enough to keep us in Moroccan resin, care of our old mate, Spliffy. It was not like this was our day job.
But I digress.
Anyway, I got a private message in my inbox a few days later. It was from the author. One word. Nothing else.
DON’T.
I shrugged and pressed delete. It’s the web. Everything’s free, and if it’s not, we’ll take it anyway, yeah?
So, we skinned up and got boozed at my bedsit that night. My mate was claiming he was going to find out where the author lived and piss through their letterbox. I laughed, but sometimes he does creepy things, you know. Like that ex of his he wouldn’t leave alone until the police got involved. All because he left a dead rat on her doorstep.
Stupid cow, overreacting like that. She knew what she was getting into. Speaking as a ladies’ man, I get them drunk, shag them, and dump them. It saves a lot of time.
My mate passed out on the sofa, so I staggered off to the sweet warmth of bed.
But it must have been the booze or the ganja, ’cause that night I had some strange, anxious dreams. I dreamt my vision was ... weird, like seeing a hundred versions of the same thing. The sunlight poking through the curtains was less glaring. All the colours were muted, and everything moved much slower. I could, I dunno, feel the air, and everything that moved in it.
I could feel my friend. He’d just staggered up from the sofa.
It was strange. The dream had me chasing him around the room, and he was screaming. He tried stabbing me with a bread knife and beating me off with a broom handle, but my exoskeleton stopped him hurting me. I remember finally gripping him, tight in my big, strong arms.
Things got even blurrier then. Wet. Crunching, but not the kind you get when you eat crisps. Screams, then gasps, then nothing. And gnawing. Gnawing and gnawing and gnawing. The flutter of wings. The twitch of antennae.
I can’t remember much else.
The police kicked the door down and found me drenched in blood. Bits of my mate were scattered across the flat. I dimly remember being dragged out and thrown into the van, where they sedated me. When I came into the secure unit, I recall meekly bending over while the nurse gave me another shot of sedative.
This was no dream.
They say I’m mad, that I killed and ate my friend in a psychotic episode. There was enough THC and booze in my system to zonk out an elephant, but I’m not so sure that’s the cause. I’ve been a recreational user since my teens. Something else happened. I begged them to pump my stomach, and they didn’t take too much prompting.
Let’s just say they found plenty of extra evidence.
I’ve managed to get a smartphone smuggled in, just to keep me occupied and stop going properly mad. It cost an absolute fortune. Robbing bastards.
They’re going to try me soon, and the odds are, I’m never leaving Broadmoor. I heard rumours that what was left of my friend didn’t look like it was eaten by human teeth. But I doubt a jury will ever hear that. I’m going down.
But that’s not the worst of it. I feel something ... moving inside me. Some things. I didn’t just eat my friend. I did something else. Something somehow worse. Far worse.
It’s beginning to hurt, like dozens of tiny needles jabbing my insides. They’re trying to get out. And they’re hungry, so very hungry.
I think I’m pregnant.