Flash Fiction Friday
⚠️ Content Warning: This story contains graphic violence, animal harm, and disturbing themes. Reader discretion is advised.

Prologue
In London, something sinister lurks beneath the surface of ordinary lives.

Mummies Boy
A dark little tale from Covent Garden. A boy’s jealousy twists into something far more disturbing than a prank — a prologue of innocence lost and horror waiting to unfold.

In the heart of London’s Covent Garden, Mummy and I—her son Barty, aged five—bond over our love of films.

Mummy loves me to bits and would do anything for me.

Still, I slump on the couch, the silence broken only by the clinks of empty bottles littering the backyard and blowing about in the wind.

As night descends, Mummy’s face cracks into a satisfied grin as she eagerly settles in to indulge in yet another gruesome murder—the watching of chilling serial killer films.

The flickering light of the television casts eerie shadows across the room. In the darkness, a darker presence stirs within me.

Envious of the attention the films hold for Mummy, I want to watch cartoons, but she keeps telling me to shush.

I think of a wicked plan to capture her attention.

With the sneakiness of a predator, I creep into the kitchen.

There, I find the unsuspecting victim of my little prank: the cat, Ezmerelda, sprawled atop the refrigerator.

With a sly sparkle in my eyes, I grab the self-satisfied cat, feeling her panicked heartbeat beneath my tiny fingers, and callously shove her into the freezing fridge.

I slam the fridge door shut, sealing her fate in frost and darkness.

I snigger to myself without a thought for Ezmerelda’s safety.

I pop around the door and tell Mummy I am going to bed. She barely hears me, so absorbed is she by the film.

I clatter upstairs, bounce on Mummy’s bed, switch on her television, and watch my cartoons as I snuggle up with the pillow, happy at last.

Twenty minutes later, as the tension in the film reaches its peak, Mummy stirs, hungry.

With her stomach rumbling, she enters the kitchen, the floorboards squeaking beneath her weight as she switches on the light.

She opens the fridge door, expecting leftover chops.

She jumps back, startled. Within the icy depths of the fridge is a sight that chills her to the core—the half-frozen Ezmerelda, her eyes wide with terror and whiskers glazed in ice.

The terrified cat darts past Mummy, miaowing and trembling, desperate to escape through the back door.

I hear the commotion and rush down the stairs to see the results of my prank.

Mummy looks at me, and I grin, cherubic yet cheeky. My mischievous expression only fuels her rage.

Shock turns to shouting as she scoops up the cat, her anger filling the kitchen, mingling with Ezmerelda’s terrified hisses.

Claws flailing, the cat wriggles free and bolts. Mummy shouts, “The poor thing is terrified!” but she cannot catch her.

Determined to curb my strange antics, Mummy confides in Grandmother. The next day, they take me to a child psychologist.

But I do not care. I carry on tormenting Ezmerelda behind her back. To me, it is only fun.

When Mummy tells Daddy—who left years earlier for another man—he visits, shaking his head. Once in a while, he spits his tea out, coughing.

“Jesus Christ, I hope we’ve nothing to worry about. I should have a word with the priest, my god, woman. What’s going on in his head to do such things?”

Mummy laughs. “Give over. He’s only a little boy; he doesn’t know right from wrong yet.”

Daddy scratches his head; he isn’t so sure.

But little do they know, the voices in my head are far more ruthless than they could ever imagine.

Years pass. The dread builds. Now fourteen, I stand behind Mummy with a razor-sharp carving knife. She sits glued to the television as always.

My eyes glaze. She senses me behind her, muttering, “Don’t talk.”

Her last words.

I snap, pounce, and show her who the boss is in this house.

“Mummy,” I whisper through gritted teeth.

She never replies.

I grab her hair, snap her head back, and slice through her throat with savage intent, blood splattering as she gurgles her life away.

I smile, wrench off the severed head, dripping in crimson.

Her eyes bulge in shock. Laughing, I plant a kiss on her face.

From the corner of my eye, I see Ezmerelda darting through the cat flap, desperate to escape my madness.

Irritated at missing my chance, I take Mummy’s head to the fridge freezer, ram an apple into her gaping mouth, shatter her false teeth, shove the head inside, and slam the door.

I return to the television, laughing hysterically at the thought of Daddy’s face when he finds his ex-wife’s head frozen stiff, her mouth agape.

 flash fiction, horror short story, London horror, Covent Garden, domestic horror, psychological horror, child villain, murderous child, dark fiction, family horror, serial killer fiction, gruesome short story, British horror, Flash Fiction Friday