Ding-Dong Crunch

flash fiction | horror

Oct 30, 2024

Ding-dong.

“READ THE SIGN, DUMBASS!”

I lay back and re-spoon my Honey Bear, nuzzling his scruffy neck for reassurance.

“They’re just kids, Babe,” Brad says. “Maybe they can’t read.” He reaches for the bowl of Cool Ranch Doritos, sets it on his chest, and fishes one out with his tongue like a dog.

Crunch.

“But they can see there are no lights on in here. Or outside. I’m going to disconnect the doorbell.”

I start to sit up and he pulls me back down, planting a Cool Ranch kiss on my pursed lips. I grimace at his breath and try to pull away. He slips me the tongue and I surrender to his over-seasoned advances.

Ding-dong.

“Seriously?!” I un-spoon and snatch Brad’s phone off the coffee table. I tap open the door cam and growl. Nothing to see but the stunningly crafted, glow-in-the-dark, “EAT ME” sign I erected for the night’s unwelcome festivities. “There’s no one there. The little bastards are ding-dong ditching us.”

“Can you blame them?” Brad says, grabbing a fistful of Doritos and shoveling them into his mouth.

Crunch, crunch.

He sits up and wipes the Cool Ranch powder from his fingers onto the couch.

“Let’s just ignore them and watch the movie. They’ll get bored and then we can get busy.” He sets his hand over my thigh and squeezes a swarm of sex-starved butterflies into my mid-section.

“Fine,” I say, throwing my eager thigh over his and sliding my hand under the bowl of rapidly vanishing Doritos in his lap. “But one more ding-dong, and we’re done.” I pluck a chip from among the survivors and bring it to his mouth. He opens wide and I set it on his tongue. His eyes roll back in his head as he closes his salt-dusted lips lustily over his favorite pre-game snack.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

Three ding-dongs later and we’re done. Well … he’s done. I’m just flushed, covered in sweat-congealed Dorito dust, and ready to murder the libido-sucking vampires on our doorstep in the spirit of Halloween.

Ding-dong.

“ARRGGH!! YOU LITTLE PUNKS!” I storm to the front door wearing nothing but Brad’s oversized T-shirt and my resting bitch face. “When I get my hands on you, you’re going to wish you were never—”

I stop short in the hallway. A damp chill wafts across my bare legs. My breath catches at the back of my throat as a low rattling creak crescendos into the high-pitched whine of a dry hinge.

A hollow thud.

Then nothing.

The hallway is dark, except for the semi-circle of moonlight spilling through the wide-open door.

The skin on my limbs erupts into gooseflesh. My senses strain for a sign of movement on the doorstep. A half-sized silhouette. A shit-eating giggle. A rustle of candy wrappers inside a pillowcase.

Nothing.

“What are you doing in there?”

I startle bite my tongue and bring a hand to my injured mouth.

“Nothing,” I manage to call back to Brad. “I’ll be right there.”

“Okay,” he garbles over a mouthful of chips.

Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch.

“Hey Babe … my head hurts.”

I roll my eyes and shiver as another waft of cold air rolls into the hallway. “Idiot,” I mumble.

“What?”

“I’ll get you something,” I recover.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

“Dumbass.”

I wrap my arms around myself and move cautiously to the doorway.

I lean my head and shoulders outside, just far enough to confirm the ditchers have officially ditched, and that my stunningly crafted “EAT ME” sign hasn’t been removed. Or defaced.

I turn on self-righteous heels and shut the door behind me. I shuffle past the living room, the flickering hum of the TV and Brad’s incessant crunching, and into the kitchen. I blindly sift through the junk drawer contents for a flashlight and head to the utility closet. There, I quickly locate the breaker for DOORBELL/DOORCAM and cut it with a satisfying flick of my middle finger.

I wrangle a glass of water and two Advil from the kitchen and shiver my way back to the living room. The TV is still on, but Brad is out cold, the sleep timer ticking down from a minute and thirty on the screen, his head tipped forward onto his chest, the empty bowl of Doritos on the table.

I take the Advil myself and slam the glass down on the table, bitterly. He doesn’t budge.

“I fucking hate Halloween.”

I drag a blanket from the armchair and settle in next to Brad. He’s warm, but otherwise useless. I curl up tight against him and close my eyes. I listen for his heartbeat.

Crunch, crunch.

My eyes snap open and dart to the table. The bowl hasn’t moved.

“Honey Bear?”

A low creak.

My heart pounds in my ears as I cling to Brad’s rigid torso.

A high-pitched whine.

The TV goes dark.

A hollow thud.

I nuzzle against Brad’s clammy neck for protection as my hand drifts into a hot mass of wet, sticky, mush where his left ear should be.

My stomach turns over and I forget how to breathe.

I sit up and wipe Brad’s blood and brains from my fingers onto the couch.

I jerk my head toward a rustle in the hall.