The Hole (a flash fiction horror story)

Introduction to “The Hole”

I wrote this story as part of a project I called “13 Seconds,” a collection of one-page horror stories, each with an accompanying full-page illustration. Alas, that project never saw the light of day.

But the stories did. I sold seven to the Barnes & Noble anthology “Horrors! 365 Scary Stories.” The others found homes across a wide spectrum of publications. This story, for instance, was published in Dark Raptor.

What I tried to accomplish with “The Hole” was to glimpse the inner thoughts of a sexually repressed misogynist. In this case, he’s using the telescope sight on a rifle to spy on his sexy neighbor, who’s exercising and won’t sit still. Anybody who’s ever used a telescope sight knows movement will carry the targeted image out of the sight instantly, so it’s imperative they remain still.

In his zeal to get the woman to stay still so he can ogle her, the man gets carried away and … well, something unfortunate happens.

And yes, the word “hole,” as used in this story, has more than one meaning. The protagonist is a misogynist.

—

THE HOLE

Bobby blinked and strained to focus on the wobbling image in the binocular’s eyepiece.

He wanted to see if she had the hole.

But he couldn’t see. Peering from the sliding glass door that let out of his apartment bedroom onto the narrow, vestigial balcony … peeking through the slats of aluminum vertical blinds stained with cigarette smoke and the sharp exhalation of pent-up breath … the bedroom lights off so that if she glanced his way, across the apartment complex commons, a stray look that might snag on the glint of a reflection or his black shape superimposed against the lighter wall. …

But she didn’t look, and he couldn’t see … if she had the hole – the hole that all women who hated him had.

He cursed the binoculars. He tossed them onto the bed, where they bounced like a dead trampolinist. He needed magnification. He needed power.

He needed the scope on the Enfield.

He pulled the rifle from the closet and slid off the protective covering on the sight. He used the barrel to force aside – just barely – one of the blinds so he could peek through. The building facade jerked across his field of view, then a dizzying blur of patios, until he found her patio, at first unfamiliar because of its closeness. But he recognized her potted geraniums, her director’s chair, her faux copper wind chimes swaying from the crossbeam that traversed the patio.

And then he saw her.

Bouncing in the bedroom, an exercise video playing on the TV. Smooth and long-limbed and elegant – not pretty, not beautiful, but … sexy, the way some women transcend those overheated adjectives men use when they are together and talking dirty. She was wrapped in a skimpy pink lycra body suit, like some rare, imported confection, and her dark, dark hair was bound up into a pony tail that was tied off with a bandana, and she was bouncing and swaying and kicking in a way most men would have found sexy.

But Bobby wanted her to sit still.

Because he couldn’t see if she had the hole.

He twisted the focal adjustment screw and tried to zoom in on her, but she was moving so fast, her legs kicking out behind her. And then she was bending, up and down, up and down.

Bobby closed his eyes and swore under his breath. If she would just sit still for a moment. A moment was all he would need.

He slid open the sliding glass door. Now, with only a thin screen blocking his view, he might see better.

But she was doing the deep-knee bend thing, up and down, up and down, and he could not see – he couldn’t see, dammit.

“Sit still, bitch,” he muttered, and slapped the screen door open. It slammed against the frame and made a loud, clattering sound. His heart jumped and he yanked the rifle snout out of the blinds, afraid she might have heard and turned this way.

But no. She had her hands above her head and was bending at the waist, first to the left, then to the right, first to the left –

“Sit still, you fucking bitch,” he seethed and yanked the rifle against his shoulder to squint harder through the scope.

She was bouncing, bouncing, the exercise video seeming to bounce with her –

“Sit still, goddammit – “

Bouncing, bouncing –

“Goddammit – “ he couldn’t see, he couldn’t see –

 – bouncing –

He squeezed the trigger and the gun kicked and for a moment he could hear nothing but an eerie, feverish ringing. He squinted through the scope, and finally he saw her. …

Slumped over the television, her arms dangling, as if she had exercised herself to death.

But she was still, at last, and he saw it. The hole. The hole that all women had who hated him or ignored him or could care less if he even existed. What was this now? The tenth? The eleventh woman he had found with the hole? Someday, all the women with holes would be gone, and only women who cared about him would be left. He would see to that. He would make sure. They would be gone if they had the hole.

The cratered, steamy hole surrounded by a splash of blood.

The hole.

About the author:

Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”

Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.

As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.

Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .