Horror - Short

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious and any similarities to actual persons, locations, or events is coincidental. This work cannot be used to train artificial intelligence programs.  No AI tools were used in the writing of this story.

All rights reserved. The Drunk Copyright © Eddie Generous 2026

THE DRUNK

On the smooth stone floor, the old man sat in soiled white underwear, faded and yellowed by misfired streams and dribbles. Draped over his back and shoulders was a long golden housecoat marred by time. Chunks of vomit rode his grey and blonde beard like ocean debris, bobbing along the surf.

There was a mess of small figurines scattered about the floor from a broken wall shelf. The old man opened his eyes and licked his lips, cracked and dry. His breath tasted of bile and gin. There was a sixty-ounce bottle on the floor next to him. He moaned; he had a hand in cause, but the effect was natural—too much Seagram’s.

Shakily, the old man rose to his feet and peered at his mess. He’d done worse before. He hoped he hadn’t broken anything, as it was such a sad waste for the universes to lose. As atonement for overindulgence, the old man would work at picking up the strewn remnants of instability without giving his pain time to settle. It was effort and it hurt to move, but he deserved it.

Only one shelf tossed of several thousand figures, not so bad, really.

While drinking, he liked to touch the glorious things that hadn’t worked, things extinct and impossible. Nostalgia bloomed while fondling the species, mentally carved and fabricated things for the universes. He straightened the oak shelf on its oak pegs and bent to begin collecting creation. Every bend sent a rush to his brain, swirling pain, and then eased upon straightening.

The nearest picture frame window showed the most conscious of all his creations in recent time. He could watch and smile as the wonderful things grew beyond his designs.

There was no time to think about that now.

“Epidexipteryx,” he mumbled, stroking the tail feathers of the scaly bird. It was the last of the figurines on the floor and yet, two shelf spaces remained vacant. The old man rushed about the long stone hall of mounted picture frame windows, scanning the floor and corners for the missing object. His headache forgotten.

He returned to the space where he’d passed out and then awakened, he looked closely at the window. He stretched a long bony finger to the open space and pressed. A ripple flowed from his touch like the surface of a puddle.

“Are you in there?” the old man asked, putting an ear against the soft, invisible windowpane.

—

Stephen Dreger sat on his toilet, mid-morning routine; he’d already showered and dressed. He wanted to force movement before he went into work, as he couldn’t bring himself to use public toilets for that particular duty. There was a splash beneath him and yet he hadn’t evacuated any waste. He leapt to his feet and looked down into the toilet water.

“Jesus!” he said, tugging up his boxers and trousers.

The thing in the toilet continued to splash. It kicked its hooves and whinnied, reaching out a fat grey tongue. Its eyes were bulging and panicked. Filth clumped its mane with several shades of bowel movement. There was flushed food stuck to its horn. It was disgusting, and still, Stephen Dreger reached his manicured hand into the toilet and retrieved the impossibility.

“Incredible,” he whispered as he put the creature into the sink. “A unicorn, a Christ’n unicorn.”

The creature stood no more than ten inches, hoof to horn. Its body was yellowed from its trip through the city’s pipes. Its chest huffed and heaved, and it swished its tail angrily. Stephen let go and the unicorn raced laps in the sink before zeroing on the drain. It dove but couldn’t fit beyond its head.

“Settle, settle,” Stephen said.

At his feet, the cat meowed.

“Not now, Missus.”

Stephen ran the water and reached for the feline shampoo from beneath the sink. It was a natural reaction—Missus often got into the garden outside and tracked dirt into the condo. The unicorn slowed its fight under the soft touch. Once clean, Stephen dried it with a hand towel.

“There, now you’re…oh my god,” he said, the severity once again striking him.

He stared at the calmed eyes of the unicorn and the unicorn stared back at him. Missus had hopped onto the toilet seat, almost dropping into the unexpected opening, and spied the unicorn from across the short counter space. She hissed and swatted. The unicorn turned and swung its horn around at the incoming paw. Missus yowled and jumped down from the toilet.

“Serves you right!” Stephen shouted nervously and then laughed. “Easy now.” He reached out again, now aware that the horn was a weapon. The unicorn let him touch and then lift. “We have to call someone.”

Missus watched, curious and jealous, but didn’t mount another attack. Stephen placed the unicorn on the table and picked up his cellphone. Duty first.

He scrolled for a number from his contact list. It rang and a familiar voice answered. “Hey, Janey,” he coughed, “I think I’m dying here.” He coughed again and listened. “Yeah, it’s Stephen.” He listened awhile and then waited. “Oh, good, Ken is good, I’m sure I’ll feel better by Thursday, if not tomorrow. Buh bye.”

He hit end. He didn’t like lying, but it seemed reasonable, given the peculiar situation. He scrolled through his list for the next call. He needed someone smart, someone who knew about animals, someone—a knock hit on his door.

“Missus, be good,” he said as he picked up the unicorn and put it inside his wooden, roll-top breadbox on the counter next to the brushed steel Braun coffeemaker. “Just for a secy,” he added, speaking to the imprisoned unicorn.

He rushed to the door and looked through the peephole. It was a woman in a business suit.

“Hello, my name is Layla Oates, can I come in? I need to speak with you,” she said, her voice sweet, yet powerful.

“It’s not a good time. What’s this about?”

“Sir, I’m with the Environmental Protection Agency and I just need a few words, please.” Layla held up a laminate within a leather holder.

“Um, all right.” Stephen opened the door. “What is it?”

“This will only take a minute, Mister…?”

“Dreger, Stephen Dreger.”

“This will only take a minute, Stephen.” Layla pushed out her chest—the top button had popped to reveal pillowy mounds of feminine flesh. Her skirt was short and tight against firm thighs and she wore high heels.

Pretty fashy outfit for an EPA agent out on foot, Stephen thought.

“Yes, all right, come in,” he stepped aside and pointed to a chair next to a steel table of ‘fifties diner chic. Layla sat, and Stephen fought his tendency to offer a beverage and waited.

“Your cat is certainly focused on your breadbox.” Layla nodded at the swirling tail and intent gaze.

“I keep her treats there,” Stephen said, he closed the door and snatched his cat. He held Missus on his lap as he sat across from Layla. “Now, what can I do for the EPA?”

“Well, Mr. Dreger, Stephen, this is going to sound odd, but have you had any wildlife coming up through your drainage?”

The question struck like a stake. How does she know? He hadn’t even called anybody yet.

“Nope,” he said and felt his cheeks darken a shade.

“You wouldn’t be lying, would you?” Layla pouted these words, leaning back on her chair.

“Nope, never lie. Friends call me Abraham, like Lincoln. Never lie.” Stephen wished he knew how to shut up when nervous.

“Come now,” Layla said as she moved her fingers to the hem of her skirt. “Are you telling me nothing came up your pipes today?”

“Nothing but the usual. Just H-two-oh and whatever they add in to keep it fresh and clean.”

“I thought we could be friends.”

“We’re getting along fine,” Stephen said as he nervously squeezed Missus.

The cat burst from his arms and raced to the breadbox. There was a scratching against wood, from within.

“I think I’ll get your pussy a treat,” Layla jumped to her feet as if she wore Nike and not Jimmy Choo.

“No!” Stephen shouted and reached an arm around Layla’s waist. “She’s had her treat for the day,” he said. Leaning close, her hair smelled of apple shampoo and her neck smelled of something else, expensive and yet complimenting to the fruity scent.

“Pussy’s had her treat? Every pussy’s had her treat but mine,” Layla whispered.

It all came together, her pouting, the fingering of cloth edges, the popped button, her word choice, everything. Stephen pulled Layla away from the breadbox, laughing.

“You got the wrong guy, sugar.”

Layla dropped back onto her seat. “You think so?” There was a flicker in her eye as she adjusted to the circumstance.

Stephen fell into his own chair, smiling wide. Beauty is a bitch when it works and a bigger bitch when it doesn’t.

“Yeah, I don’t—” Stephen started and watched Layla lean and slide forward, her skirt riding upwards against her thighs. A furry tail dropped behind her seat, swishing and swirling.

He gulped and let his eyes drink in the woman once again. All the same until he got to her chin. A fat pink tongue leapt from the bovid jaw. He looked into the dark wide-set eyes and every wet dream he’d ever had sat before him. A beast woman, the head of a satyr, body of a goddess. Her fingers roved about her collar, closing the button as fur sprouted, soft and inviting, beneath. She’d hidden the prize below cotton like a candy wrapper on a sweet.

“I mean…I should be getting back to…” Stephen shook his head. “You can’t take it, I found it.”

“No, I can’t, but you could give it to me, of your free will, you could,” Layla’s voice was still sweet, but it had a hardness about it. “How would you like to trade me?”

“Trade for what?” Stephen asked, unaware that his head nodded slightly and his pants had become tight around the groin.

“Trade a little something you found this morning, something hiding in your breadbox, for something so sticky and wonderful that you’ll never forget it? Something of my dreams for something of your dreams?”

“You were a woman,” Stephen mumbled. “How did you know?”

“Hush,” Layla said and rose, guiding him upward with a strong hand. She led him through the only bedroom door in the condo.

Missus ignored them and jumped up to the breadbox, pawing at the hidden creature, as the bedroom door closed.

—

Layla Oates left Stephen Dreger’s condominium with a unicorn in her pocket. The creature she’d worn melted from her figure. Lust was complicated and she settled with the beautiful feminine form she’d worn out into the world. It was a comfort to feel so pretty, but there was only so much room in that silky flesh.

She stroked the animal in her pocket, thinking she ought to celebrate. It was a fair trade, fantasy for fact, although Stephen Dreger would forever confuse which was which.

Layla walked along the clean streets toward the alleyway next to the Tico Variety. Pleasing Stephen had taken a lot of work and Layla entered the store, exiting minutes later with a bottle of Evian and a brown paper bag. She drank back the Evian and recycled the bottle in the alleyway bin. She twisted the cap on the bottle within the brown paper bag and inhaled the familiar scent. After a small sip, Layla pulled aside a flap of cardboard that leaned against a non-descript brick wall. The corner of Tico Variety shimmered and Layla stepped down through, crouching until she’d travelled clear of the structure. Layla snapped her fingers and the shimmery doorway behind her solidified.

Before her was a white, white hall. She stood and tossed her jacket and blouse. She wiggled out of her skirt and continued, sipping from the heavy bottle of Seagram’s gin as she passed the various windows.

Visiting always took away some of the mysticism. Layla decided after she’d replaced the unicorn on the shelf, she would visit a different creation and watch; maybe a fledgling, see if any progress occurred in her absence.

She pulled the complacent creation from her pocket. “It’s a shame you didn’t work out, you should’ve grown like your brethren, maybe you’d still…no bother.” Layla kissed the unicorn and it hardened into a figurine. She placed it back on the shelf and moved on, wearing just her shoes and her silky undergarments.

She slugged from the gin bottle and stared at the last picture frame window of a never-ending hallway. The landscape was reddish under the close sun—a world full of hard decisions as life hadn’t moved beyond flora.

Layla grew bored, put her lips to bottle and drowned her loneliness and uncertainty as she sat down with her back against the cool stone wall.

—

The beautiful woman awoke, her breasts hung below the unlatched bra—Victoria no longer keeping her secrets. Vomit covered the silk and the soft, gently veined flesh. A bottle hiding within a brown paper bag lay on its side next to her. A small dribble of gin pooled on the stone floor, but very little. She massaged her scalp. The apple scent of her hair mingled with her hangover and induced a series of dry heaves from deep in her gut. She’d forgotten to eat before drinking.

She looked at the shelving on the far wall. Several figures were missing, most didn’t mix well, and worry fluttered alongside her hangover.

“Not good,” she moaned, looking about the hallway, hoping she hadn’t tossed retired creatures back into existence, again.

Pushing her hips and spine against the wall for leverage, the beautiful woman got to her feet and looked through a window onto a young red world. There was chaos, elements and creatures fighting for their rights as figments of the greater imagination. There was blood and there would be more.

The beautiful woman turned away. It could heal or fade. Two choices, she had the power to let it.

After all, it was only one world of many.

XX