The Egg: A Short Horror Story by Alyanna Poe

“Marilyn, you can't just bring wild eggs into my house!” 

Marilyn, a six-year-old who was a bit tall for her age, shrank away from her mother, pulling the egg with her.

The green egg had caught her eye while she played in the backyard. It seemed to shimmer in the sunlight and was much larger than any egg she’d ever seen. Something about it seemed wild and secretive to her as it hid in the grass like an Easter egg. 

“But it wasn’t in a nest. I promise I didn’t steal it from a—”

“Put it back where it came from,” her mother interrupted. She nodded her head to affirm her words, her wild hair bobbing. She’d just teased it upwards and was waiting for the pink mask smeared on her face to dry so she could peel it off and go to the roller rink with Marilyn’s father. “Put it back or no TV while your father and I are out.”

Marilyn sighed, her shoulders bowing. 

“Yes, Mom.”

So Marilyn put the egg back in the yard in the little divot in the grass where she’d found it,

and her parents left for the roller rink,

leaving six-year-old Marilyn all alone.

The image of the egg ate at her as she watched Bugs Bunny fool around on the television, and she realized she’d made an awful mistake. 

Of course a mysterious egg was better than the same cartoon she’d seen a million times. 

She looked out the window from her place on the couch. The sun had set, and it was awfully dark outside.

Grabbing a flashlight, she slipped out the back door, hoping her mother would forgive her curiosity.

Marilyn crept up to the egg, the flashlight shaking in her hand. The shell shimmered, and Marilyn realized the top had cracked open. Wet goo coated the egg, and peering inside, she caught a glimpse of a lizard. 

Marilyn gasped, stepping closer.

It was no lizard.

It was a t-rex. 

It had to be.

As it flailed to life, wiping goo from its face, Marilyn spotted the two tiny arms privy to all t-rexes.

And it brought a question to Marilyn’s mind.

If this is a baby t-rex, where is the mama?

A gust of hot air brushed Marilyn’s shoulder.

The back of her neck tingled, and Marilyn, with every ounce of courage in her six-year-old body, turned around.

Two round eyes stared at her from a t-rex’s head the size of a gazebo. It breathed again, puffing air into her face.

The blood in Marilyn’s body ran cold.

Her father was a biologist.

And when she’d asked why some animals had side facing eyes and others had front facing eyes, he’d gently explained to her that side facing meant the animal was prey and would need to look out for predators.

“And when they’re front facing?” she’d asked.

“Well, honey, that means they’re a predator, and if you are ever faced with an animal with front facing eyes, well,

you are the prey.”

 

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