Eight Days of Madness
Edited by Chris Allinotte
Eight Days of Madness
Published by Chris Allinotte at Smashwords,
Copyright 2011, Chris Allinotte
All works contained within are published by permission of the individual authors. All subsidiary publishing rights are retained by the individual authors.
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Table of Contents
Paranoia - Laurita Miller
Mad Dash – Angel Zapata
The Giver, The Taker, The Monster – Benjamin Sobieck
Heart Shaped Hammer – Sean Patrick Reardon
Still Alive – Erin Cole
Living in a Box – Lily Childs
The Doll Maker and the Rat – Chris Allinotte
In February of 2011, I put out a challenge to the writing community. I wanted to read fresh, original short stories around a central theme of “Madness”.
To my great delight, the responses I received were thoughtful, well crafted and absolutely gripping. Better yet- from seven different authors, I received seven totally different “shades” of madness. Not a single writer approached the theme from the same angle and that’s what made the week of March 13-19 so incredible. Each of these stories first appeared on my blog, the Leaky Pencil. The event was named (with tongue firmly in cheek) “Madness in March”. In order to avoid any anticipated confusion and/or problems with riffing on the NCAA’s most popular tournament, a small name change for this eBook version seemed appropriate.
While Laurita Miller starts things off with haunting tale of unknown, Richard Godwin takes us by the throat and shows us a man at war with his own demons. Angel Zapata treats us to a perfectly normal man on one of the worst dates ever, while Benjamin Sobieck presents a guy who just can’t seem to close the deal, to everyone else’s chagrin. Sean Patrick Reardon explores the depths we go to over the loss of a loved one, and Erin Cole lets us see what happens when the loved one being lost is oneself. Lily Childs’ unfortunate patient who finds herself endangered by her own damaged psyche closed out the series. Because I couldn’t resist, my own story was posted as a “bonus” after wrapping up the weeks festivities.
Enjoy this collection of stories, again and again.
You’d be mad not to.
Chris Allinotte
**MIM**
This collection is dedicated to the contributors.
Thank you all.
Paranoia
Laurita
Miller
It was moving.
He could hear it, the soft shuffling, the creaking of the floorboards.
Creak. Creak.
He scratched his ear, turned back to the fire, and poked at the logs until the sparks flew out onto the rug. The warmth felt good. The fire was good.
He tapped the poker against the floor. Tap, tap. He stopped, listened. It was moving. Still moving.
Creak. Creak.
Did he lock the door? Yes, it was locked. Locked in. Tap, tap. It couldn’t get out. The door was locked.
Was it?
He walked across the room, using the poker as a walking stick, and stopped at the bottom of the stairs. He heard it shuffle to the door. His heart pounded.
Did he lock the door?
Above, the doorknob rattled violently, the sound echoed down the stairs. He scratched his ear and scuttled back to the fireplace, to the light. He smiled.
Yes, it was locked. Locked in.
***
It was moving.
She crouched in the shadows, knees pulled close to her chest, eyes on the door. She was safe in the dark. The dark was good.
She could hear it pacing the floor, waiting.
Tap, tap.
She rocked faster, focused on the creaking of the old floorboards. It couldn’t get in. Couldn’t get in. Creak, creak. The door was locked.
Was the door locked?
She listened. It was moving. She heard it move.
Tap, tap. Tap, tap.
Heard it stop at the stairs.
She scrambled across the room and grabbed the door knob. She shook it with all her strength, the sound echoed down the stairs. Locked. Still locked.
She listened for footsteps, listened to the stairs. They said nothing. Then tap, tap. Back across the room.
She scurried into the darkness, hugged her knees to her chest, and rocked. She smiled.
Yes, it was locked. Locked out.
Laurita Miller lives on a rocky island in the North Atlantic. To survive it, you’d need to be mad. Which luckily, she is.
Visit Laurita’s blog, Calling Shotgun, at http://ringkeeper.blogspot.com
**MIM**
BLISTER
PACK
Richard Godwin
“WE KNOW OUR PROPERTIES THROUGH AND THROUGH.”
The ad grabbed me from the word go, and I found myself reaching for the phone and dialling Happy Homes.
The voice on the other end was upbeat in a sing-song maniacal way.
“Hu-l-lo, Happey Homes, Sin-clair speaking, how may I help you?”
“I’m calling about one of your houses.”
He ran through his repertoire and I answered his questions, making up most of the information.
When he got to the bit about a job, I paused for a few seconds before saying:
“Freelance detective.”
“Oh, rilly? That’s most in-teresting , Jack, I don’t think I’ve ever dealt with a detective before will you be requiring a mortgage?”
His voice reminded me of some musical or catchy little jingle, but I just couldn’t put my finger on it.
I looked out of the window to watch a dog being kicked by its owner while he rabbited on and made my appointment for later that afternoon.
The hotel was cramping my style and I thought that owning a place would give me just the break I needed now that I was able to do what I wanted with my life again.
It started to rain, and I watched it come down, washing the streets clean and sending everyone in doors, especially those who’d been caught out without an umbrella, although that never bothered me, I liked the unexpected element about rain. Then, later, just before I left, the sun came out.
It was a beautiful colour at that time of day, a melting reddy-orange that streaked the clouds just a little.
I thought about that song “Somewhere over the rainbow” and tried to remember the words all the way there on the bus, but couldn’t.
It was a long time ago that I’d last heard it, somewhere in my childhood.
I got to Acacia Avenue a few minutes before Sinclair was due to arrive and took a walk around.
I was wearing the new suit, which I thought made me look professional. It was a little tight and I’d even bought a tie, a coloured one with patterns of boats on it.
The neighbourhood was a good one, a far cry from the council estate I had known growing up. That was before my mother od’d and they took me to the home which burnt down. But that was all a long time ago and I just decided to stop thinking about it, because I could feel something rising in me like a snake.
I passed a mother with a baby in a pram and she smiled at me, so I just smiled right back, figuring that was what you did around here.
Her face looked hollowed out and the baby was screaming.
I walked round the block.
No syringes, no used condoms, no graffiti.
I felt respectable all of a sudden.
Sinclair was standing by his car and I spotted him a mile away.
He had agent written all over him, from his mobile phone to the property details he was clutching.
“Mr Steele”, he said, extending a hand.
Limp shake.
“Shall we go in?”
He passed me a sheet.
I glanced at it and dropped it on the floor as he fumbled with the keys.
The house was real nice, all new floors and wallpaper.
I wasn’t sure I liked the design since I hadn’t known much wallpaper in my time, certainly hadn’t seen any for years, just peeling white paint and pipes where I’d been living if that’s what you could call it.
Thinking about it made me want to light up but I thought I’d better wait until I’d seen the house.
Sinclair was rabbiting on about something or other and I just tuned him out of my head like a bad radio station and looked about.
It was clean and easily big enough, and I knew I wanted it.
“Will you be needing a mortgage, Sir?”
“No, this is a cash purchase.”
“Oh, rilly that’s eksellent, you’re an agent’s dream.”
“Do you understand dreams?”
He looked at me, not knowing what to say and I could see him reach for his script.
“Do you like the house?”
“Yeah, I like it just fine.”
It was all happy families, kids in the nursery and cooking, real home cooking in the kitchen, not pies with weird shit in them, and I started to feel that snake whipping its tail again. So I asked to see the bathroom.
That was when it hit me.
I knew it would, it always does, somewhere in a house. I should have known it would either be the bathroom or the bedroom, since that was all that was left, and since these looked like decent folk, from what I could see from the pictures they had everywhere, smiling wife and seriously hardworking hubby, I figured it had to be the bathroom.
A click later and I was standing in it.
Bathtub, loo, some small sink thing on the floor probably for babies to wash or something and a mirror.
Sinclair had followed me in and was standing behind me as I looked at the mirror and saw his face change.
His suit started to catch fire and I saw the mark on him. Yes he was one of them all right the mark was right there all across his face and I heard it loud and clear.
Kill the fucker, cut his headoff.
And his skin started to peel away like burnt paper.
I turned round quickly nearly knocking him over and made some excuse about having forgotten an appointment and could I come back again?
“Yes, no problem, but how do you like the property?”
I left him standing in the hallway looking puzzled and ran for the bus like a greyhound who’s just seen the hare.
A couple of days later I called him. I hadn’t changed since the appointment and I smelt real bad. In fact I hadn’t been out and it was a while since I’d eaten, so I had a quick shower and went to the local caf which I liked because there was never any one in there and it was cheap.
After a hearty fry up I fixed up a second appointment.
Then I cleaned up my room, thinking this was the chance for a new start, for the kind of life they’d told us all we could live.
I looked at the tie again and the boats sailing around on it and wondered where they were going, and then I put it on, making sure I got the knot right.
I was crossing that bridge and I could see normality beckoning on the other side, I could even taste it.
Then I looked around my room scratching my head.
There wasn’t much in it, just a chair and bed, and the small TV I’d bought, and the little picture of ducks on the wall.
But I had a funny thought all that day which I remember now clearly, that I’d forgotten something really important, you know, like the one when people say they left the gas on, or didn’t pay a bill, none of which I’ve ever known, but I just kept walking about my little room trying to remember what it was and eventually got sick of the walls moving in out like they were breathing and so I went back to Acacia Avenue.
I hadn’t realised just how beautiful it was the first time I went there, I was probably focusing too much on all the money involved in buying a new place, but I kept telling myself that I’d just won the lottery, so it didn’t matter. I was going to throw some parties when I met some people, maybe join the freemasons, yes.
The road was immaculate and the people were so friendly, one woman passed me and said:
“Vellcome to da neighbourhood”, and I answered her back:
“Thank you, ma’am, I will be holding a house-warming party later this year and you are cordially invited.”
She beamed me a smile, and I adjusted my tie.
The place smelt of roses and something rotting at the middle but I just ignored the second bit and concentrated on the first.
Then I saw Sinclair again and thought what a nice fellow he was, and gave him a warm handshake.
“Shall we have a look around, Mr Steele?”, he said, and I just nodded and smiled at him, not feeling too bad that was not my real name.
It was a pity I couldn’t find that lottery ticket, but I knew it would turn up one day, probably still will, and anyway, it didn’t matter.
Then I was inside again.
We walked around the house and I told him how much I liked their ad in the paper.
“Well, we do help people have happy homes”, he said.
“Yes. A happy home is a good place to start, but I liked reading how you know your places through and through, it’s that wording that drew me to you.”
I’d watched those programmes on the TV where they help people buy a place and I knew the script pretty good, so he never suspected.
When he got off the phone he saw me looking at a picture of the family and said:
“Are you married Mr Steele?”
“Yes.”
“Any children?”
“One on the way.”
“Oh that’s lovely.”
Then we went upstairs.
That was when it started.
I knew it would.
I can always tell when a place has them.
They don’t rattle chains or wear white sheets, that’s all cartoon stuff for kiddies.
No, they always come out of the mirrors.
That’s how you can tell if a place has got them.
And I can tell you for sure, most places do. And if they don’t they will, because why would squatters stay in the street when there are empty houses?
So we kept on chatting and talking shop and I asked him how quick the people could move because I really wanted to throw that party, and he said:
“I’ll have to check with them.”
And that was when it happened.
There was a mirror in the hallway just between the two bedrooms.
I hadn’t seen it properly the first time I went there but now it loomed out at me from the hall, almost grabbing me.
It had an ornate frame and on the edges there were clear blood stains, deep ones like when the blood has pumped furiously out of a major artery. The blood had sprayed all over it.
Then we went into the bathroom again.
He went in first and I followed him.
And as I did I remembered what it was I had forgotten.
I could see the pills in their blister pack lying at the back of the drawer in the cheap bedside table at the hotel.
Dr Brown’s face loomed at me out of the darkness as he fumbled with the cord.
“If you take these, you will be OK. No voices.”
His smile always made me feel sick.
He clicked the light on and we went in.
I had my hand in my pocket and just as he turned and became visible in the mirror, I knew.
He had no face.
Nothing.
Just bloody holes and a head full of snakes.
They were writhing around in there hissing and spitting venom.
Some of it landed like semen on the glass and trickled down heavily.
Then he began to laugh.
I could see his body was full of insects, maggots and beetles and disgusting stuff that would make you throw up if I told you.
He just stood there laughing and saying things like:
“I work for them. They pay me very well.”
The light was hissing and fizzing and the bulb exploded shattering us both with shards of glass and as that happened, I pulled out the knife and just hacked his head right off.
His eyes were popping out like a pair of ping-pong balls and his mouth was moving in slow motion, a thread of saliva between his teeth as he tried to speak in their secret language. But I just kept sawing away at his neck, slicing through his Adam’s apple, and watched the saliva turn red and bubble.
His head came away easily like a slice of rotten meat and hung there from a thread while his neck just showered us both with a curtain of blood and I just stood there hacking away at this last thread which was some piece of wire to their headquarters until his head fell off and thumped to the floor.
It was a good knife, and I dismembered him with it.
I cut him through and through, and placed his organs in a neat row by his head.
Then I just left and went home and had a shower.
They must have been following me because later that day the blue people came and got me.
I heard their radios crackling from the street below and knew they had trapped me again and would send me back to the factory, but decided the next time I would be cleverer.
You
probably read in the papers the headlines they wrote. All lies. Don’t
believe a word of them.
Things like:
“Estate agent killed by escaped madman. Married man with promising future decapitated. Lunatic strikes. Horrified family come home to dismembered corpse in the bathroom.”
That’s what they print to stop you knowing the truth.
But they’re out there and they’re taking over.
They have your wife, your children, your jobs and your futures, and they must be stopped. Some people can see them, but they’re only visible in mirrors.
I can hear them in the corridor.
I know the shuffle of their shoes.
They’re coming to give me my pill.
I gave up trying to fight them since I’ve been back here, since they just sit on you and get the fat guys in white to hold you down, then they pull your pants down and stick it up your arse, laughing at you.
So I’m taking them.
But I’ll stop.
And I’ll get them.
I’ll get them all.
They’ve killed two of my allies since I got out.
They say they’ve gone, but I know they did away with them and they’re serving them up in the pies.
That’s why I’ve gone vegan.
It’s my human rights, you know.
I read that out there.
I won’t keep taking their pills for ever.
People don’t know about the plan to take over the planet.
You’re being used.
They’re all agents, they all work together.
Outside, through my window I can see one of them.
They’re coming, I can hear the door opening and I can see their shadows in the mirror.
Richard Godwin’s novel “Apostle Rising” is now available! He is also widely published in magazines such as A Twist Of Noir and Pulp Metal Magazine and anthologies, as well as being a produced playwright. His story “Pike N Flytrap” is in the latest issue of Needle Magazine and his story “Face Off” is in Issue #5 of Crime Factory. You can check out his writing credentials here and listen to his recent interview on The Authors Show
You can order your copy of “Apostle Rising” here http://www.bookmasters.com/marktplc/03188.htm
**MIM**
Mad
Dash
Angel Zapata
They had been talking about voicing one’s needs.
“Speaking of voices,” Shirley rolled up her sleeves and showed Dash the row of scars on each forearm. “I feed them blood. It’s the only way to shut them up.”
She had just come back into the living room from the kitchen. Dinner had been great. Two glasses of wine later, she said she had something to show him.
What the fuck? Dash was on the couch. He nervously played with his tie. “Uh, it’s getting late. Maybe we should call it a night. I’ll… call you. Okay?”
Shirley leapt over the coffee table and straddled him. “Wait!” Her hands were on his face. “Listen.”
Dash strained his ears, but couldn’t hear a damn thing except for his own erratic heartbeat.
It was their third date. When Shirley had agreed to come back to his place he was sure they were going to do ‘the deed.’
Boy was he wrong.
They had met at work. She was training as a cashier. Dash was mopping up a spill at aisle five when he spotted her. She was gorgeous; short blond hair, blue eyes and legs that went on forever. They made eye contact and she smiled. There was something about her that was so familiar. The next night they went out for coffee.
Who would have thought the chick was a psycho? Dash pried her hands loose and examined her arms. “Did you do this to yourself?”
“Yes,” she bit her bottom lip, “one for each voice.”
“You do know how nuts this sounds, right?” Dash clenched his jaw. “Please get off of me.”
She bowed her head and a single tear fell on Dash’s shirt pocket. “I thought you’d understand.” She slid off his body and fell to her knees.
Dash rose and made his way to the front door. Hurting other people he could understand. But hurting yourself? “How do you figure that?”
“Because Dybbuk told me.”
Dash froze. How the hell does she know about you? “What did you say?” He faced her again.
She looked up from the floor. “Dybbuk told me.”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“Of course you do.” She hiked her skirt up and exposed a milky-white thigh. “See?” Blood was oozing from a freshly bandaged wound. “He’s grown quiet now.”
Impossible, Dash thought.
“Nothing is impossible,” he heard Dybbuk whisper in his head. “Can’t you see them?”
Dash focused his eyes on Shirley. She peeled the bandage off and licked it. In the dim light of the room, he could see dark shapes flicker behind her. One of them had horns and fangs. He’d have to do something about that.
“You ever see who these voices belong to?” Dash asked. There were so many sharp items in the room; he didn’t know which one to use on her first.
“Tonight was the first time.” She was laughing, pointing all around room. “Look at all the women you’ve killed. We’re all here with you.”
That’s why she seemed so familiar.
There was a mirror on the wall above the loveseat. Dash stared at his reflection. Behind him, the room was empty. He adjusted his tie and winked. Dybbuk winked back.
Shirley’s bones lay still beneath the house.
“So how do you want to spend the rest of the night, Shirley?” He stretched out his scarified arms.
Shirley slid cold arms around his waist. “Let’s do something totally crazy.”
Angel Zapata is the author of The Man of Shadows, a horror short story collection released by Panic Press and available on Amazon. Visit http://arageofangel.blogspot.com/
**MIM**
The
Giver, The Taker, The Monster
Benjamin
Sobieck
My girlfriend was like, "I'm tired of your my limp dick. Go see a doctor." And I'm all like, "Whatever, bitch, I'm over fuckin' you anyway."
But I figure gettin' checked out ain't a bad thing. For the sake of the snatch I ain't speared yet.
That's called, "being a giver."
They start with a physical. Pokin' this and proddin' that and cuppin' these and strokin' it. Everything looks good. Then on to the piss in the cup. I ask if I should give them a semen sample, too. I'm a giver, see.
They say no. Fine with me, there's no porno in the place anyhow. Wish there was, 'cause they have me waitin' around forever after I give 'em the piss cup.
Then this totally hot nurse comes in and tells me my "cree-at-uh-nin" and "B-U-N levels" are something something. I forget, 'cause I'm checkin' out her fine B-U-N level.
I tell her I can only understand bitches when they talk into my cock. I shake the buckle on my belt.
That's called, "empafizing a point."
She's like, "Sir, you have end-stage renal disease. Kidney failure. This is very serious. Your erectile dysfunction is a symptom of it. There may have been other symptoms, but kidney failure is a quiet condition. You probably wouldn't have known without a urine analysis."
"Are you sure you don't wanna do that physical again, sweetheart?" I says.
She's like, "I'm going to leave now."
And I'm thinkin', good, leave, you prude. Get that fine ass back on the treadmill.
Then in walks Dr. Well. I forget his real name, but he says "well" a lot.
"Well, with kidney failure, there are three options," doc says. "Get a kidney transplant, go on dialysis or do nothing."
"Doin' nothin' sounds good to me," I says.
"Well, if you do nothing you'll die in six months."
"I got pelts to snag. What 'bout a transplant?"
"Well, you'd need to find a suitable kidney donor. But your chances are very low. Your blood type is O. That's the universal blood type when giving an organ or blood. Unfortunately, it's the worst one when receiving."
"But I'm all about the big O when I'm receivin'," I says. "Especially head."
"Well, uh, OK then. Even if you do find a donor kidney, your body will likely reject it. Your medical history tells me you've had numerous infections in your life. As a reaction, your body built up many kinds of antibodies. Your risk of rejection is very high."
Holy shit, this guy is intense. Probably hasn't had pussy in years.
I says, "So do nothing, that sucks. Get a transplant, that sucks. What's left?"
"Well, dialysis. You're attached to a machine that does the work of your kidneys. It cleans your blood. It takes several hours to do. You'd have to do it at least three times per week."
OK, now this guy is just makin' shit up. "Get the fuck outta 'ere," I says.
"Well, people choose dialysis for a number of reasons. Some can't find transplants. Others are elderly and wouldn't recover well from transplant surgery. Dialysis is hard on the body, though."
Now I'm gettin' all sweaty and fidgety. I says, "Well well well, Dr. Well. Looks like you gave me a buncha shitty options."
Kinda wish my girlfriend was here. She always knows how to make me feel better. Run her hands through my hair. Whisper in my ear. Tell me it'll be OK.
But no, she had to work today. It's my own fault. I'm a giver. I gave her permission to get a job. Should be at home keepin' up her figure. Maybe then I could get it up.
"Well, whatever decision you make, do it soon. You have six months of kidney function left. That means six months of clean-ish blood. That's more than a lot of my patients," doc says.
I says, "This is all real nice of you to talk about my kidneys and stuff. But I don't have no problem gettin' it up. I'll show you. Get that nurse back in here."
"Excuse me?" doc says. He's lookin' at me like I just pissed on the Pope.
"I'll universally donate my type O in her mouth," I says.
Doc is shufflin' his papers, gettin' all weird on me. Then he stops. "Well, show me then," he says.
He leaves for a while and comes back with the nurse. And I'm all like, "Hells-yeah" when she walks in.
Doc tells the nurse, "This gentleman would like to demonstrate he can have an erection. Please assist him. Orally."
That doc is a stone cold pimp. No shit, you can't make this up.
The nurse unbuckles my belt. I hop up on the exam bed and lay back. I'm thinkin', "Fuck-yeah."
The nurse starts goin' to town on my junk. I grind it into her face. It helps her do her job. I'm a giver like that.
But, fuck me, I still can't get that shit up. Somethin' must be wrong with this bitch. Probably used to eatin' pussy.
That's when I feel the doc pullin' straps over my chest. "What the fuck?" I says.
I look at the nurse but she's gone. The bitch starts helpin' the doc strap me down. Can you believe that shit?
Then a bunch of these big guys run in. They pull more straps over me. It's so tight. I can't wiggle my fuckin' toes. They unlock the wheels on the bed and roll me out the room.
Next thing I know, I'm beside this little girl. She's on a bed, too, with a bunch of tubes and shit attached to her arms. A big machine is next to her.
The doc leans over me and says, "Jane here is 12 years old. Like you, she has kidney failure. Like you, she's blood type O. But unlike you, she's out of time. She's hooked up to this dialysis machine 24 hours a day just to stay alive. Without a transplant soon, she'll die."
"Good for her," I says.
I feel this prick in my right elbow pit. That shit hurts. Then it hurts worse. They're threadin' something up into my vein. Feels like a motherfuckin' worm.
Doc says, "An IV normally puts things into blood. But it can be used to drain, too. It can do it very quickly. Time is of the essence in Jane's case."
What the fuuuuck?
"Remember how I told you O is the universal donor blood type?" doc says. "Life is all about givin g."
"I been g ving all my life. She cant hav e my blood," I says.
"I 've seen pe ple like you b fore. Evil. Monsters. Mad on domination. You take an d tak e and t ke. Now you'll kn w what it is to give. I'm g ing to take your ch nce at lif e. With your bl oo d Jane m ght live l ng eno gh to get a tr nspl nt."
And I was lik , 'T is is some cr zy s it.'
Oh mn ths is sm crz sht
I ai nt n giv r
f k...
Benjamin Sobieck really did receive a kidney transplant in 2010. He writes crime novels and flash fiction, but pays the bills working for a non-fiction publisher. Check out his website at http://CrimeFictionBook.com or http://MinnesotaAuthor.com
**MIM**
Heart
Shaped Hammer
Sean Patrick Reardon
I push the Sgt. Peppers CD into the disk player of the Lincoln, select track six, and the tears start coming before “She’s Leaving Home” begins. I have listened to this Beatles song every day for six months, waiting. This will be the last time, forever.
The day she was born.
I was always what doctors and educators now call ‘hypersensitive’. Even at six-years old, “Eleanor Rigby” would have me crying my eyes out. Nobody came. I was not sensitive earlier this evening though and I will not be telling my version of Father McKenzie what I have done. No one except my wife will ever know.
The pink Barbie nightgown.
Julie was fifteen, would have been sixteen last month, if he hadn’t given her the poison that night. I know in my broken, yet guilt free heart, the right thing has been done tonight.
The first day of kindergarten.
We didn’t like him from the start, ended up forbidding it to go any further. Parents know such things, if they have lived fun, adventurous lives growing up like my wife and I had. He was bad news and we knew it.
First Holy Communion.
Sure, Julie protested, sulked, got dramatic, maybe even hated us in the way only a teenage girl can. We honestly thought it was over. The cell phone, computer, and schoolbag were secretly checked out of love, not distrust, of her at least.
The adolescent female secrets I was not supposed to know about.
A Saturday night at the mall with her friends was not something to be concerned about. Trust earns rewards and she hung around with a good bunch of girls. I dropped them off myself, leaving the pickup to another parent.
The junior high prom
We got the call that Julie was not there when it was time to leave the mall. The parent told us the other girls said she left with someone, but had not returned like she was supposed to. Him!
Christmas mornings, vacations, and Confirmation.
Calls to her cell phone went straight to voicemail, text messages weren’t answered. A half hour later, the police called, telling us they knew where she was. We were scared and concerned, but relieved.
The hospital.
We rushed to the emergency room. The officer we met at the entrance mentioned heroin and overdose. She was in very bad condition. He told us the suspect, him, had fled the scene, but was apprehended and in custody at the police station. A house party was where they found her, details were still scarce. Julie died before we got to see her, say goodbye, or tell her how much we loved her.
The body identification.
He gave her alcohol and she sniffed some powder that he offered her, telling her it would make her feel alive and relaxed. Everyone does it. Julie lost consciousness. He left her to die on the bedroom floor of the house where the party took place.
The funeral
My wife and I attended every court appearance. He cleaned up well, even wore glasses. Turns out he was a popular kid, promising athlete, even had decent grades and was accepted to a college. This meant nothing to my wife and I. He was a killer and a coward. Many people spoke on his behalf, but none on Julie’s.
The plea bargain and probation.
We were destroyed. Life as we knew it was decimated. There was no other child to transfer our love to. Julie’s room and belongings were left just the way they were when she left for the mall that night. It was not fair, justice had not been served, and we were helpless. Or were we?
The six-months spent waiting, watching, and suffering.
He hadn’t changed his ways, never went to college, and was selling drugs again. We were sure of this, had the proof. I watched him leave his dealer’s house and as he walked down the dark street toward his car, I pulled up next to him pretending to ask directions. I had sixty seconds and absolutely nothing to lose. If I got caught, I did not care.
The abduction
The bucket hat, long haired wig, and fake beard ensured he wouldn’t recognize me and run. I sprayed Mace in his eyes and jumped out of the Lincoln, clutching an aluminum bat. I cracked him across the side of the head. He fell to the ground, unconscious, and I took his cell phone from his pants pocket. He fit nicely in the trunk of the car, his mouth taped shut, hands and feet zip tied.
All the things we never got to do with Julie.
I pulled into the two car garage at our house and the automatic door closed once I was inside. The other bay was empty. I dragged him out of the trunk, letting his body crash face down onto the plastic that covered the concrete floor. I rolled him over and wrapped more tape around his mouth, before kicking him in the groin and stomping on his face, crushing and flattening his nose. I hit him in the ribs with powerful swings of the bat. He was now ready.
The sledgehammer
I broke him in every possible way. His clothes and skin became nothing more than a facade for shattered, splintered, and grossly disjointed bones. I thought about the disassembly of Steven “Willy” Williams as he looked up at me and I brought the hammer down on his head with all my rage and hatred. He was finally gone.
The hacksaw
My wife did a fine job covering the floor and walls with plastic. There will be no blood evidence, or any other trace of what has been done. I wished she could be there with me, but she decided to stay in the house and keep the bed warm for my return. I started by removing his head, then cut off his legs at the knees, and arms at the elbows. The remaining stumps were severed at the torso.
The disposal.
His body parts easily fit into an industrial strength, black trash bag. The tools, bloody plastic sheeting, overalls, and gloves went in a separate one. As I lifted the bag filled with Julie’s killer and swung it into the trunk, I was happy, smiling…vindicated.
The Our Father and Hail Mary.
Nothing will ever be found. I am sure of this. There is no longer anything left to find. It is after midnight when I pull the Lincoln into the garage bay where justice was served. The door rolls down behind me and I let out a long exhale as the final notes of “She’s Leaving Home” play. I eject the CD, snap it in half, and put the pieces in my coat pocket.
The alibi.
When I get to the bedroom, my wife is sitting up, looking concerned. I crack a smile, nod, and she smiles back as I climb in beside her. We now have peace, closure, and a secret that we alone will share. We cry, holding each other, knowing we will be able to sleep tonight. I have been home with her all night and she will never crack or deviate from that story. I am sure of this.
Sean Patrick Reardon is an aspiring writer from Massachusetts and author of the crime thriller "Mindjacker". His stories have appeared in Thrillers Killers 'n' Chillers, A Twist of Noir, and Do Some Damage.
Visit Sean’s blog at http://seanpatrickreardon.blogspot.com
**MIM**
Still
Alive
Erin Cole
[United States of America Presidential News Conference; May 10th, 2022]
Our nation is under attack. But do not doubt, for a second, that we will prevail. America is one of the greatest countries and we will persevere through this difficult time—today, tomorrow, and in our children’s future.
* * *
The sun faded into a black and green curtain of light from a debris-filled cloud. Her memory flashed—an explosion—the punch of thunder—shards of glass and metal lacerating her chest and limbs.
Smoke burned air from her lungs (though others could still scream) and something else in the dust stung, like the sharp acidity of chemicals.
Leona gasped. Awake. Her eyes blinked open to a dim space. The smell reminded her of a hospital, astringent with medicine and cleaning solutions, but the room stretched long and narrow, with grooved aluminum walls suggestive of some type of disaster relief shelter. A circle of spotlights shined above her, blinding, but warm.
Whatever had happened, she was still alive.
Without access to memories, Leona didn’t know who she was or much of anything else, just an awareness of the present filled with uncertainty—the fear of what doctors would tell her about the extent of her injuries. From what she could remember, it couldn’t be good.
[Two men were talking]
What are the commonalities among them?
Most share your typical impact injuries: severed subclavian arteries, radial fractures, and chemical burns over most…
What? Leona thought, panic-stricken. She’d been burned? She tried to imagine how she must look, the hideousness of her face and body, but it was too much for her to take in, and she focused on her immediate surroundings.
[A news station broadcasted]
Are you saying these are terrorist cells were dealing with, Nancy?
Yes, Jim. That’s what the FBI is telling us. So far, they believe that this was a biological attack—a new strain of anthrax laced with a synthetic spore.
A synthetic spore?
That’s right. But the physicians at Emanuel Institute won’t say anything else until more tests are concluded.
Dread sunk into Leona’s gut, thick as oil. Charged with fear, she needed to get up, walk around, eat something—pretend that things were normal again. Her stomach growled with an appetite ferocious enough to be its own separate entity that wanted to climb from her jaws. She tried moving her limbs, suddenly fearing that she might not have all of them. Her legs jerked and her arms flinched under a crisp sheet.
She, at least, still had those.
“What the hell?” One of the doctors said. Pitch shook in his voice—something was wrong.
Leona sat up, but with difficulty. The sensation that her head was larger than usual pained her neck. The room swayed. She fell back onto a bed, colder than a mountain river.
One of the doctors leaned over the foot of her bed, starring Leona into stillness. His eyes resembled those on fish, all round and big like. His mouth fell agape. He was trying to scream. When he finally found his voice, it came out shrill and pain-ridden, and he tripped over a tray dangling with bags of yellow and clear liquids.
He crashed to the floor, whimpering like a kicked dog.
Leona rolled her head sideways. The other doctor, staring at her in the same way, grabbed the fallen doctor’s arm, and pulled him to the wall where they both shouted into a speaker next to the door. Dear Lord, Leona thought. I look worse than I can possibly imagine.
She slid her eyes downward and lifted the sheet. Terror stormed through her. The kind of terror when your child runs into the house with blood spilling from somewhere on his face; terror like the laws of nature have fractured and the gates of hell have opened. Her body had been severely cut up. No. Not cut up. Sliced apart, into two gory sections of flesh and muscle. One long line that started below her naval ripped up the charred flesh of her torso to where she could see the curvature of rib bone beneath.
How can this be? She questioned. How could she still be alive? Or even conscious?
[A lab technician beeped through the intercom]
Dr. Gerald, it looks like we’re dealing with a more serious strain of anthrax than we originally hypothesized, one that sustains metabolic processes and prevents organic decomposition through bacteria eating sporophytes. What this means is that the injured might not die, no matter the extent of their injuries. I advise everyone to evacuate, this strain is highly contag…
The doctors, with mannerisms of wild chimpanzees, neglected to hear the voice from the intercom speaker over their yelling and banging on the door.
Leona sat up again. Blood-covered organs glistened and slopped from her gut. She pushed her hand (good Lord, she had only two fingers!) against her gut to hold them in place, but at the touch of warm, squishy tissue, the sweet, coppery smell of blood, her hunger overrode reason. Leona took a bite of her own liver. Madness—hot, black tar—spilled into her thoughts.
What is wrong with me? She pleaded, before taking another bite. She couldn’t help it. It was one the best things she could ever remember eating. And she couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to. Leona yelled for the doctors. “Doctors? Please, help me! Please!”
She couldn’t tell if she was actually talking, but the doctors wouldn’t hear her anyway. They had already opened the door and were scrambling from the facility, moving their arms and legs faster than they could effectively function. Leona wanted to do the same. How could they leave her? Like this?—Eating her own body parts. “Please, somebody, help me.”
Emotions, as feral as primitive reptiles, stirred her with strength and determination. She crawled off the cold bed. One foot gave way under her weight and twisted sideways. Oddly, it didn’t hurt. She tried to look up, grappling to lift her head. It fell to the side, but she could lift it enough to look in the mirror, as much as she didn’t want to. She had to look at herself, like gawking at a car accident or descending into a blackened basement. You don’t want to do it, but you do anyway—darkness has a place in every mind and it must be replenished.
Leona hobbled over to the mirror. Though pain should have immobilized her, it was tolerable—actually, it felt good. When she steered her eyes up and saw the grotesqueness of her own body, she froze, unable to recognize herself. But…but…No. Don’t say it! She screamed at her thoughts. Because her ruined body looked gorgeous, with all the cuts, burns, and broken bones. The severity of her wounds gladdened her.
She wasn’t afraid. Or maybe, just too hungry to care.
In the mirror, behind her, she realized that she wasn’t the only one like that. There were others and they were waking up too. Leona turned for the door. She wanted to talk to those doctors. Before she ate them.
Shuffling down rickety platform steps, confusion haunted her. She looked around, struggling to fathom just what it was she had wanted to do. She walked ahead, following the scent of people.
More hot, black tar erased her thoughts. Time lapsed with it. She was standing at a door, not knowing why, or how she was to get through it, but one thing was clear—she could smell people behind it. They smelled like a barbeque and she moaned to devour meat from bone.
Shouts echoed across the street. Leona turned to find two uniformed men in army-green, crouched behind cars. The expressions on the men’s faces resembled those of the doctors’—fish out of water.
Their arms extended with long black objects. She knew what they were, that they were dangerous, but she couldn’t think of the name for them.
“Shoot it!” The first one hollered.
—memories suddenly crammed into Leona’s conscience. She was a mother. A wife.
“Shoot Higgins!”
—she went to the market for vegetables to make soup.
“Now!”
—she had just run into a friend she hadn’t seen in months when a blast exploded everything around them.
“God dammit, shoot it!”
—and now, she was an it.
A loud pop ricocheted through the streets. Then again and again, a violent crackle of fireworks. Leona felt an invisible punch throw her backward into asphalt. She pushed herself back up. More fireworks boomed, but it didn’t stop her from reaching the door to the building.
How to open? She grabbed the handle and pulled. The hinges snapped and the door fell off the frame. The people inside looked like fish too. Leona grabbed one by the head, went for the neck.
Yes, she was still alive.
Erin Cole has been published in various online magazines and print anthologies, including 'The Best of Lame Goat Press,' 'Back to the Middle of Nowhere: More Horror in Rural America,' and 'Howl: Dark Tales of the Feral and Infernal.' Her stories have been shortlisted in the 2009 Tom Howard / John H. Reid Short Story Contest and won honourable mention in the 2009 Kay Snow Contest. She is the author of Grave Echoes: A Kate Waters Mystery and is currently working on the sequel.
Visit Erin online at http://erincolelive.blogspot.com/
**MIM**
Living
in a Box
Lily Childs
Quivering, vaporous forms. They are indistinct as my eyes open to the familiar pale green of the box. Walking, talking photographs, paintings even - that morph back and forth.
My mouth is dry – it’s always that way. Someone sticks a tube between my teeth and I suck in the salty, pale-orange liquid. It tastes of electricity and saccharine.
The figures are clearer now. I recognise them from yesterday and the day before that. One’s a man – an old man. The other is young; his daughter perhaps. She is so thin I call her the Spindle Queen. Inquisitive, her tight face bears more lines than the father, but she has scarlet lips; lips that pout, lips that squeeze when she is angry. I’d like to eat them but she draws back as I lunge, a fruitless effort.
“God, she’s fast.”
They nod heads and play out a psst, psst, psst tittle-tattle game of whispers before turning back to face me. My head dips to one side and I carefully emulate the woman’s fake smile. Mine reaches my eyes where hers does not. With a little flare of the nostrils she backs away, fading though the door until it is an empty picture frame.
I would love to stand up. When did I last use my feet? There are straps at my wrists, at my ankles; around my calves, my thighs and up, up, up to my chest where, without warning my heart swells hot then cold – freezing cold; pulsing fast, fast, faster. I can’t bear the panic. I need to run away. The chair is bolted to the floor but still I try to rock my way out of it, going nowhere. Quickly, my body gathers momentum until with every spasm the leather cuts into my skin, spraying blood over the thin gown. It spreads.
The old man calls into the wall.
“Assistance!”
I’ve heard that word before. It makes everything go black.
From somewhere within my belly I feel the squeal. It mounts and grows, taking my soul with it to the ceiling as its pitch rises. From a great height I circle the seated echo of me and join in with the scream pouring from my other throat. We labour as twins to fill the room with unique harmony.
Assistance arrives through another door. It’s the Spindle Queen. She winces at my song. She calls me Banshee.
I can do that. I’ll visit her in her dreams later, steal her children.
My ethereal being flails at Assistance as the needle is rammed into my corporeal arm. Although she cannot see my wraith she swipes at it anyway, but no matter - I am already sliding back inside. I have just enough time to spit in her face. There is red in it. I have bitten off the end my tongue.
***
Black.
***
“She’s not who she says she is,” the old man tells a gaggle of bespectacled onlookers. He smiles benignly at me so I guess it’s time to show him my claws. Midnight blue. I stretch them out as far as I am able.
“Can you tell our guests your name?” He is bent towards me, not too close but near enough that I can smell pipe tobacco.
“Lompster. Snap, snap.”
The visitors scribble onto notepads and clipboards, muttering and frowning. Old Man Pipe speaks again without averting his gaze from my lovely claws.
“Miss Pearce believes she is a lobster, for today at least.”
One of the group stares at me longer than the others. I wiggle my antenna and hope he will fall into my trap. I’m hungry.
Sniggers and half-concealed smirks ripple through the rabble, and then I spot her; Pipey’s daughter. She’s telling them I claimed I was a doctor last week. That’s ridiculous. I’m only twelve years old. Look at them – they’re the deluded ones in their white coats, writing and gossiping as though they can see inside my head. It’s the reverse. It’s me that knows they’re all after Thermidor for dinner; wondering whether to cook me gently, turning the heat up until I fall asleep – or plunge me into a boiling vat.
I don’t like it. I start to rock. Here it comes...
***
Black.
***
Get it out! Get it out! It’s stuck in my throat. What are you do...?
***
Black.
***
Apparently I’ve been so well-behaved I can go home to Daddy tomorrow.
I don’t know what they’re talking about.
I only arrived here yesterday. Didn’t I?
I’d rather eat razor blades.
***
Black.
***
London. Gerard’s come to collect me. His tone is laden with pity as he rolls out the questions they’ve prompted him with. He must ask them every day.
“What’s your name?” he says as we sidle through traffic in his battered heap.
I clutch my plastic handbag and reply. “Grace Pearce.”
“How old are you Grace?”
“I’m fifteen.” I don’t know if this is true – I’ve just learned to repeat what they told me.
“Where do you live?”
Nothing, silence. I have no idea.
“C’mon Gracey,” he nags. “Hammersmith. You live in Hammersmith, by the weir.”
Something’s wrong. I may not know who I am but I know there’s no weir in Hammersmith. I turn to examine Gerard’s profile. It is bloated, his face scarred and pocked. There’s a scent of turned vinegar about him.
“You’re not my brother,” I say.
Gerard’s plump hands grasp the wheel for a moment. I watch the set of his expression change to one he must have been practising.
“Sure I am, Grace.” He pats my leg. “The doctors said you might have trouble remembering some of the family as you’ve been... away for so long.
I turn the tables. “Tell me about the family, Gerard. Who’s waiting for me at home?”
He won’t look at me. Won’t. Look. At. Me. He’s not my brother. He’s...
“Dad. Dad’ll be there. With Uncle Barry. And, erm, Uncle Roger.”
Men. All men. I’ve never heard of them.
Sunlight hits the wing-mirror so hard the flash is blinding. I squeeze my eyes shut - once, twice. And there, unmistakable – is the shift. With absolute clarity I recall the day I entered Marston Hospital – Marston Asylum for the Clinically Insane, as it is no longer called. Mama. Mama killing Daddy for loving someone else in their bed. Blood all over her hands and the quilt and the scissors she’s used to stab Daddy and the girl – and she is just a girl; she’s my best friend from school. She’s twelve like me. And now she’s dead. And Daddy’s dead. And by the time the police arrive – because I am clever and phoned them – Mama is dead too. She has cut her own throat. I scream and don’t stop until they give me the needle and...
Black. But there’s no black now. Gerard’s calmly driving, his hand still on my knee, rubbing it too hard. He isn’t my brother. I never had a brother. I think back to the green box, Dr Pipe and his daughter and... Gerard. Gerard was in that group of visitors – how long ago was that? He was the one that paid me extra attention then went off to talk to the Spindle Queen while they shot me full of dope.
I hang my head. It’s obvious.
“How much?”
Gerard slams the breaks on to avoid hitting the back of a bus. “What? What are you talking about?”
“I know what you did. You bought me. She sold you to me.”
He doesn’t even attempt to deny it; simply shrugs his shoulders.
“You were cheap; getting a bit long in the tooth. If you didn’t look so young I wouldn’t have bothered.”
I grab at the door-handle but of course he has put the child-locks on. There’s nothing for it.
The bus pulls into a stop and we draw alongside it; the lights ahead are red. I turn to the window and hammer, hammer, hammer with my fists. A few passengers turn to see what the fuss is about. Beside me Gerard unbuckles his seatbelt and draws a knife; he pokes it into my side. The pain is nothing. I don’t care if he kills me or not. I bite – hard. Red spittle sprays over the window and I bite again. On the bus, children are crying and pointing. A woman has her phone out. “Help!” I mouth; my teeth coated with shards of tongue. In front of us the lights turn green. Gerard, already in gear rams his foot down but the bus-driver is faster, twisting the vehicle into our lane. The car hits it at speed. I fly forward, then back; whiplash tearing through my neck. The last thing I see is Gerard’s broken face the other side of the windscreen. Between his legs the knife he was holding has punctured his groin. I am glad.
Sirens wail.
***
Black.
***
The bus driver was cleared of attempted murder; hailed a hero. Gerard – not his real name – did know me after all. He was a mate of my Dad’s, part of the same filthy gang. He didn’t die; he’s paralysed for life. That’s better than any punishment a court could hand out, though he’s in jail now too. The judge refused to give him a shorter sentence for squealing like a cowardly pig on Uncle Barry, Uncle Roger and the man who was to play the part of my father.
I stand here at the final hurdle. When they sentence the Spindle Queen to life imprisonment I cry my first tears for four years. Now she’ll know how it feels to live in a box. I hope it’s painted a sickly, pale green.
The woman from the bus who called the police is waiting for me in the hallway of the court. We’ve been talking. She stands and smiles, takes a tentative step towards me. I raise my eyes in hope, and she nods.
“It’s all agreed. Come on Grace, let’s go home.”
My bedroom window looks out over the prettiest garden I have ever seen. I can smell the roses from up here. And I have space; space to sleep, space to dance. Space to be me. I turn, slowly at first then twirl, spinning – my arms outspread. I am a ballerina, pink like the walls.
In here, there’s not a spot of green.
In here, there is no black. At least, not today.
Lily Childs likes to dally on the dark side where demons wear corsets and nothing is ever as it seems. Her fiction and poetry has been published in print and online. Find out more on her blog The Feardom at http://lilychildsfeardom.blogspot.com
**MIM**
The Doll Maker and the Rat
Chris Allinotte
Gavin was cold.
He pulled
his smile on when the cell door opened, pulled on his Gavin face.
"Back again, huh doc?"
When there was no reply, he added, "Think this time'll cure me? Get me outta here?"
The doctor inclined his head, paused, and then said, "You seem to be in a good mood, today. That’s positive."
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