Memoirs of the undead

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
A short story from the point of view of a zombie

Submitted: February 16, 2012

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Submitted: February 16, 2012





This short story is not for the faint of heart. It is very violent and should not be read by paranoid, easily frightened and/or young people.

Consider yourselves warned…


I can see the outline of her body beneath the blanket. The slow, steady rise and fall of her chest as she breathes is hypnotic. As I watch she stirs in her sleep, turning around until her innocent face is next to mine.

Her eyelids flutter open then she squints at me. Her spiraling brown hair tumbles past her shoulders as she raises her head off her pillow. “Mommy?” Such a clear, high voice she has.

My eyes trail along her arms that reach for me. They are young and plump, with veins that stick out against her paper-thin skin. Her fingers curl, beckoning me forward.

“Mommy, you look sad.”

Without a conscious effort my feet begin to move. My arms open wide, making my baby girl beam. She sits up in expectation of my embrace. “Can you sing Frère Jacques to me?” Her eyes practically glow they are so bright.

My lips open but the sound that escapes my throat is not a song. It is a scratchy moan that causes my daughter to scrunch her eyebrows together.

“Mommy, are you oka-“

She screams as my teeth sink into her throat, tearing at the fragile skin. Again and again I clamp down, making her shriek every time. Her hound pounds in her chest. Her nails rake down my face, trying in vain to pry me away.

I feel no pain. The only thing that matters to me is my hunger, the burning in my stomach for food… Something I know she can provide.

Her flesh.

Gurgles escape from her mouth, her lungs flooding with her own blood. Regardless, I devour as much as I can of her in the time given. One more swipe from her fingernails and my daughter’s heart stops.

Disgusted, I push away. Her dead body falls to the floor in a heap. The moans resume from me once again, my eyes darting around. Still hungry for more.

Another heartbeat pulses not too far away. I can hear footsteps running in my direction. “I’m coming, Dianna!” the person calls out.

A second set of moans join my own. A body presses against me, fresh blood still coating her spiraling brown hair. We move together, both in search of my husband. 

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