Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

The chains weren't tight at first.

Elena had been awake for hours — or maybe days. The cold iron wrapped around her wrist like a cruel bracelet, locked to the wrought-iron frame of a bed too elegant for a place this grim. Sunlight filtered in through a cracked window, catching the dust that floated like ash in the air. Somewhere outside, the groans of the infected rose and fell like a haunting lullaby.

She didn't remember how she got here.

Only fragments.

Running through a field of burning cars. A woman's scream cut short. A blow to the head. Darkness. Then… chains.

The room was eerily pristine, as though someone had tried to preserve a world that no longer existed. Velvet curtains. Gold-framed paintings. A decanter of red wine, untouched on the nightstand. And her — a prisoner in paradise.

"Elena."

The voice made her flinch. It came from the hallway — measured footsteps and a voice smooth as silk and glass.

"Are you awake yet?" he asked. She couldn't see him, but she knew it was him. The man with the gloves. The one who had drugged her. Saved her. Trapped her.

"You shouldn't fight the chains," he continued. "They're for your own good."

"Let me go," she croaked, her throat dry.

He chuckled. "Go where? Out there?" He stepped into the room — black coat, pale skin, eyes like a dead man's dream. "It's not safe outside. I've given you something better."

"I didn't ask for this," she hissed, pulling at the restraints.

He crouched beside the bed. "No, but you survived. That means something. You're meant for more."

The words chilled her more than the air. She realized then that the infected weren't the only monsters left in the world. Some still looked like people.

Later that night, she found the key.

He had left it on the dresser — maybe on purpose, maybe a test. She waited until the house was still and silent, until she could no longer hear his steps pacing the halls. With trembling hands, she unlocked the cuff, biting her lip to suppress the sob of relief as it clicked free.

She didn't run.

Not yet.

First, she searched.

The house was a museum of his madness. Rooms filled with photographs of other girls. Hairbrushes, dresses, perfume bottles — all perfectly arranged. Like altars. Like trophies.

In the basement, she found the truth: three more women, barely alive, chained like her. One was already infected.

She had a choice: leave them or fight.

She grabbed a fire poker and whispered, "We're not his anymore."

When he returned to find her bed empty, the only sound in the house was the creak of chains — swinging, loosening — and the first scream he'd ever made himself.