short horror
- 3 days ago
- 2 min read
Who says you can't create horror in less than 500 words?
(Originally published on Substack Jun 10, 2026)
If it weren’t for those smallest most innocent of cherubs of plump perfection who do not yet know how above average their test scores are destined to be in a town of expectant parents and eager educators, Mr. Elsenworth’s mail route might otherwise lack the uncomplicated joy he has found these many years previous.
What with that unpleasantness last summer, these folks only want to focus on the absolutely positively outstandingness that all of their children seem to feel it is their duty to imbue on behalf of their worried but hopeful elders. The teens and preteens make it their job to excel in all matters academic and extracurricular, get their homework done in efficient and quietly unannounced frenzy, and never make it to the dinner table late or without a smile in benefit of their weary, grateful parents. And who could blame them? Certainly not Mr. Elsenworth who has seen these people in this small enclave overcome collective tragedy with such ___. The only members of the group not affected by the disappearance of four toddlers last year are the most vulnerable and adorable themselves, the toddlers left, who keep getting born and growing up steadily through the fog of Hope which permeates the coastal town.
Stopping to wave a friendly hello to a child in a kiddie pool on the front lawn with Mom standing ever so close nearby is a beacon of grace much-needed on Mr. Elsenworth’s daily walking tour and what seems like merely a colorful ad delivery service these days with online paperless options overstepping the need for him. He knows all the children and parents by name and it’s clear his encouragement, his dedication and the constancy of his presence are reassuring--just as warmer seasons follow colder ones, and right footsteps follow left, and so on. Such is the obviousness of what is taken for granted in a government worker.
The tempestuous terror of missing (and never found!) innocents was enough to give the whole town (albeit not the youngest and most oblivious of them, the littles with their squishy perfect little thighs and delicate bones) the PTSD. Mr. Elsenworth’s comforting daily arrival in his blue uniform shorts and hightop sneakers, his frail, skinny senior-citizen legs popping out of striped tube socks like a middle schooler is something he knows can bring a momentary sense of relief in a world of modern horror. Thank goodness for good old Mr. Elsenworth they will say who reminds them of the purity of joy in a small town. He stops to pinch a pink cheek lightly as the mothers smile proudly.
If it weren’t for these moments, Mr. Elsenworth himself might not be able to wait, might forget himself and make a mistake, disremembering the tasty meat of a two year old newly fricaseed. Or how his backyard BBQ had never smelled so sweet as on a gentle sunset last summer.
So worth the effort after all.
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