Horror - Flash

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. Andi Pandi Copyright © Eddie Generous 2026

ANDI PANDI

The air was heavy and pungent with hot curry. Thomas, self-aware of his sloppy eating habits, typically ate in the apron he wore while preparing supper. It wasn’t his apron and it wasn’t Andi’s, it belonged to the marriage. Pink edges, multi-colored polka dots with a pink, yellow, blue, orange, and green rainbow draw rope—a color scheme befitting a pride parade. Aside from all those curry and buffalo sauce stains, Thomas thought.

A layer began congealing over the chicken curry and Thomas sent Andi a text message. Sometimes she was late thirty minutes, he didn’t say much as her high stress position with the securities commission meant she had to argue with lawyers all day. Which earned her some leeway.

That job also meant that he could stay home and paint.

ETA? his text asked.

He held the phone for a few seconds and then plugged it back into the living room stereo. Thomas mouthed along with his favorite parts, swaying and half-stepping, occasionally throwing rap hands, jazz hands, and mime guns at the floor or ceiling along to a new remix of a ‘Pac classic.

Still swinging and nodding, he stirred the long-finished food, added a few drops of water from the tap to the rice so it wouldn’t burn, and began rinsing utensils.

On random, 2pac made way for Prof who made way for K’Naan. He removed the food from the heat and built himself a plate. Thomas pulled the wire from his phone. The music stopped abruptly. He sat with his plate in front of the television, phone on the coffee table. After a few bites, he sent another text.

Andi Pandy?—a pet name.

No reply. He finished supper, flipping channels until he came to the HBO boxing rerun. The curry warmed his belly and he stretched out on the couch, catching only two rounds before napping.

—

Sweat seeped from every pore, his shirt soaked, his hair wet, in the brief time he’d slept, the evils of the night found him and he dreamed of tragedy. Awake, he shot to his feet, spinning before realizing the living room was not Andi’s slaughterhouse. He dropped back down onto the couch and looked at the clock. Nearly 7:00 PM and his wife had not yet returned.

He checked his phone, nothing.

He flipped to his contacts and hit Andi Pandy. The phone rang, each rumbling buzz more wrenching than the last. The rings became an amalgamation of every bully, every boss, every smug curator he’d ever known, mocking his tension with laughter.

“Hello, you’ve reached Andi Riley. I am unable…” Andi’s recorded voice started. Thomas did not need the message service, what he needed was…was what?

“Just a dream. She’s late sometimes, cool your jets, crazy man,” he said and forced a smile.

He went to the kitchen to wrap the leftovers, spilling as he scooped the extra curry and chicken from the pan into a plastic container—not a problem, the apron caught the slop. Once finished, he retrieved two cookies from the jar atop the refrigerator, poured a short glass of milk, and returned to the living room. The third fight of the broadcast featured a Russian and a Mexican, the crowd was only subtly into the action. In New Hampshire, folks paid the prizefight ticket toll to see the local boy, the stuff before the main event was simply fluffing.

The Russian was like a steel bull, most times that kind of will and hard headedness would prime his excitement, but his mind was elsewhere. At the end of the round, he looked up at the wall clock. Tick. Tick. The dream lingered.

With each blink, he caught glimpses of the horror, the bits and pieces of his wife’s desiccation. Andi, chained to a wall and sliced through the abdomen. Andi, kept alive to feel the dull blades tear into her face. Andi’s screams, her tongue poking out a bloody hole in her cheek.

The announcers on the TV started a fevered play-by-play as the Russian toppled his Mexican opponent.

“Good show,” Thomas said as his fingers worked the text screen. He repeated his last message and then restarted his phone, wondering if perhaps he hadn’t lost signal and confused the device. It vibrated as it came back to life, no messages, text or voice, nothing.

He leaned back. The announcers discussed the main event. Two Americans, the one from New Hampshire and the other from Texas.

The crowd settled into a collective state of bananas when the bell finally dinged for the start of the first round.

Thomas peeked at the clock. He called Andi again.

He wasn’t usually the type to put much stock in omens or feelings, but that dream had a severe and ominous heft, and she wasn’t answering her phone. She always answered eventually.

“Sometimes she works late that’s all, doofus,” Thomas said, the phone in his hand had become warm. He wouldn’t let go, couldn’t.

Round after round after round, Thomas glanced at the clock. Tick. Tick. He looked then at his phone. Nothing. Not a word from Andi—Andi with the hole through her belly, Andi with the hole in her cheek, Andi stolen away in broad daylight, taken to a slimy room and chained to a wall.

“Dammit!” He dialed again.

Ring-ring-ring-ring. “Hello, you’ve reached Andi Riley. I am unable to take…”

Ding, end of the fifth round. After 8:00 PM and the sun was sinking. The sixth round began; Texas appeared ahead. The crowd wasn’t happy—New Hampshire had a cut above his eye. Blood trickled over the glistening petroleum jelly smeared on his cheek…Thomas saw Andi dancing around that ring, a shadowy man with knives chasing her after her, no jiving or bouncing, dancing or swaying, pure chase, life or death. Andi screamed, the knife sliced through her leg and she toppled…Ding, the round ended and New Hampshire tagged Texas with a jab-jab-hook combo that evened the cut status.

Thomas looked at the clock, two minutes after the last time he’d checked, he dialed again.

Ring-ring-ring-ring, “Hello, you’ve—”

“Dammit!”

Ding, the seventh round began, and New Hampshire exploded…Andi was Texas, New Hampshire’s hands were chainsaws. Andi met the chunking, hunking blades, flesh littering the canvas, and blood spraying a crimson geyser.

“One, two, three, four,” the referee said, swinging his arm as Texas got to his feet nodding and waving, “five, six, seven, eight…good, good?”

The fight recommenced.

Andi was fine. Thomas knew it. The fight represented as much, just as his dream foretold her demise.

He dialed, ring-ring-ring-ring. “Hell—”

He hung up on the service.

New Hampshire belted into Texas, his face a puffy pillow, cuts ran over both eyes, Thomas couldn’t watch, he dialed and redialed over and over, New Hampshire cut down Texas, those early round body shots so obvious in the middle and later rounds, the arena erupted as new blood and spittle showered; pandemonium, the ringside dinged the ten-second bell and New Hampshire charged into Tex…chainsaws ground into the meat of Andi.

“No!”

Thomas dialed again.

“Wha—!” Andi shouted the half word, but that was all. The call ended.

Thomas jumped to his feet, dialed again. Nothing. Immediately to voicemail.

“That means she’s…that means she’s turned her phone off. She answered, you nutcase.” He smiled a genuine smile and slumped exhaustedly onto the couch. He watched and listened to New Hampshire give his winner’s speech.

He felt so stupid about the dream and his calls. She’d been late before. What he saw during the prizefight was something he’d never repeat, ridiculous.

At 9:13 PM a call came to his phone, he didn’t check the caller-ID.

It had to be Andi.

“Hey,” he said.

“Uh, Thomas Riley?” a man’s voice said.

Curious; a twinge worried itself into his belly. “Yes, who is this?”

“My name is Michael Skitters, I did paperwork for Andi.”

Did paperwork, did? “Um, all right, so…?”

“There was an accident. Terrible.”

“What happened? Is Andi all right?” Thomas’ heart thumped and his breath caught.

“She’s, she’s gone. I’m so sorry. She was giving me a lift to the station and then—”

“She’s dead?”

“I’m so sorry.” Michael Skitters’ speech quickened. “She was taking me to the station, we worked late trying to reconcile some legal loopholes taken by—doesn’t matter, she was driving me, she was speeding a bit, late for supper and hungry, said it was curry night—”

“She loves curry.”

“Her phone rang incessantly, she didn’t want to answer and drive, something about her Bluetooth kicking the bucket, I don’t recall exactly, but the phone kept ringing and ringing, she got mad and dug through her purse, finally answered.”

“Oh…no, no,” Thomas said as the morbid realization dawned.

“I didn’t see it either, not really, I was watching her dig through her purse, she was such a nice lady. She missed a red and went through the intersection and there was this truck, oh hell, this truck, a moving cube and it smashed right into us. I broke my leg. The cube exploded its payload, guess it was moving some hunting or supply store, there were knives and chainsaws all over the street…”

Thomas couldn’t listen, ended the call, went to the kitchen, and hung up the marital apron.

XX