DRAGGED INTO DARKNESS
By Simon Wood
This collection is comprised of works of fiction. All names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are factiously used. Any semblance to actual persons, living or dead, real events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
© 2003 & 2009 Simon Wood. All rights reserved.
For more information about the author and his work, please visit www.simonwood.net
Cover art: GAK © 2003
DRAGGED INTO DARKNESS
The world is a dark place, even in
daylight. DRAGGED INTO DARKNESS features fifteen
tales of horror from the subtle to the extreme. The characters are
ordinary people who are ripped from their daily routines into a dark
world.
DRAGGED INTO DARKNESS is filled with
characters who are one step from the light and a normal existence,
and because of this, their world will never be the same. In "The
Eye Of The Beholder," Dr. Gareth Troy empathizes with his
tortured patients' disfigurements a little too much. For Dave in
"Hungry For More," the eating habits of Americans are
nothing like those of the people in England. In "Acceptable
Losses," Captain John Clelland has struck the worst of bargains
for the lives of allied soldiers. In "Runway Three-seven,"
Neal is forced to land his crippled light aircraft on a runway that
can’t possibly exist.
DRAGGED INTO DARKNESS will make you clamor for the light.
All stories have a history and this collection is no different. If you'd like to know what inspired these stories, go to http://simonwood.net/draggedintodarkness2.html
What They Said About DRAGGED INTO DARKNESS:
"Simon Wood is a powerful new
voice in the art of dark storytelling. His prose is surreal,
unique...and disturbing. The stories in this collection will indeed
drag you into darkness—and you'll love every minute of it! A
promising debut from a future master of terror.”
—
Brian
Keene, Author of THE RISING and NO REST FOR THE WICKED
“Simon Wood's fiction is ominously
deceptive. His quiet, unassuming voice sneaks up behind you, whispers
in your ear the promise of a great story. A chill runs up your spine,
but you feel safe. Then, just as you start to relax, Wood bludgeons
you over the head with dark twists and turns you never expected.
Simon Wood is definitely one hot new writer to watch...but you'd
better buckle up for this ride!”
—
J.
Newman, Author of HOLY ROLLERS and THE WICKED
“Simon Wood kept me spellbound with
each story in his menagerie of macabre; his surrealist prose is
entertaining and equally chilling...While you are DRAGGED INTO THE
DARKNESS with Simon you will be pleading for more instead of
wishing the ride to end. You'll indulge your darkened fears and
befriend the evil that awaits you around the next corner.”
—
Eternal
Night
DRAGGED INTO DARKNESS
RUNWAY THREE-SEVEN
THE SUNSEEKER
THE LADIES ROOM
PURELY COSMETIC
POLKA DOTS
SPECIAL DELIVERY
THE HOARDER
HUNGRY FOR MORE
IN THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER
ACCEPTABLE LOSSES
THE HEAD
THE SHOWER CURTAIN
FAITH
Excerpt from Simon Wood’s WE ALL FALL DOWN
Excerpt from Simon Wood’s PAYING THE PIPER
RUNWAY THREE-SEVEN
It was all going wrong. A storm wasn’t predicted but the weather was turning nastier by the second. Puffy white clouds had darkened to a ditch water gray and were now turning black. The light was fading. Rain was splatting the windshield but the propeller smeared the droplets out of the way. To add insult to injury, the Cessna’s engine had caught a cold. It coughed on a regular basis and it was obvious it wasn’t going to get Neal back home to Davis. All in all, for a light aircraft pilot, the situation was as bad as it could get. He had to get the plane down before circumstances did.
When it came down to it, it didn’t matter how good at flying you were. It was about how good a pilot you were and that meant remembering the training. Half of flight training was about how to deal with a situation when it had gone tits up. Well, it had gone tits up now. He would have liked to say he was being gosh-darned brave about it all. But the amount of adrenaline he was producing said otherwise.
Some pleasure flight, he thought bitterly. Get a grip, Neal. Remember—training, training, training.
He tuned the RT to Davis’ radio frequency. It was a long shot. He was forty miles from the airstrip and their transmitter wasn’t that powerful.
“Davis, this is November two three seven six two, requesting emergency assistance.”
Static.
Neal repeated his message.
He cursed. The Cessna’s engine fluttered in sympathy. He checked his P’s and T’s. Oil pressure was non-existent and the oil temperature was on the rise. He could almost hear the bearings shredding themselves into fine pieces. As much as he hated to admit it, he would have to put the plane down anywhere he could.
He re-tuned the RT to the emergency frequency. Anybody who was anybody would hear him and give him first clearance and any assistance they could.
“Mayday, mayday, mayday, this is November two three seven six two, requesting emergency assistance. Engine failure. One person on board. On a northerly heading for Davis. Approximately, forty miles south.” He released his thumb off the transmit switch on the column.
And waited for his knight in shining armor.
Angry clouds grumbled ahead, less than ten miles by Neal’s estimations. For a plane of his size he was too close to a possible lightning strike.
It was senseless to continue with his current heading. Light had been muscled out of the way and only blackness lie ahead. He checked out the rear screen. It was marginally better. But even if he did turn around, where would he go?
“November two three seven six two, this is Stanton.”
“Good to hear from you, Stanton.” Neal’s relief was apparent. “Where are you?”
“About ten miles away, from your information. Can you give me a fix on any landmarks?”
Neal checked. He banked the plane twenty degrees to the left then twenty degrees to the right, to get a better look-see. Usually, the most obvious landmarks were directly beneath. He spotted a large industrial works. He referred to his northern California chart on the seat next to him.
“Willard Oil is directly beneath me.”
Stanton didn’t reply for a moment. Too long a moment for Neal. “November two three seven six two, change to a heading of zero-three-zero. You are cleared for a straight in approach on Runway three-seven, left.”
Neal didn’t understand.
“Stanton, confirm runway?”
“Runway three-seven, left.”
It had to be a joke. Runway three-seven didn’t exist. Runways ran from zero-one through three-six. They were numbered after the degrees on a circle. North was three hundred and sixty degrees, hence runway three-six. There wasn’t anything after three-six. It became zero-one. He hoped to Christ that it wasn’t some asshole with an RT on a power trip.
Whether it was some joker or not, he turned onto heading zero-three-zero. With his choices limited, it didn’t matter where he came down now as long as he did in one piece. Any place was as good as another. Northern California was full of empty fields, he would settle for any if it came to it.
He whisked out his chart again. He scanned for Stanton. It wasn’t there. Davis, Sacramento and Stockton were there and a number of others, but no Stanton. His mouth soured. What kind of psycho hands out bogus information to desperate pilots?
“November two three seven six two, confirm you are on a heading of zero-three-zero.”
“Zero-three-zero, Stanton.”
“Thought we lost you for a moment.”
“No such luck,” Neal said with a hollow laugh. “Couldn’t find you on my charts.”
“You wouldn’t.”
The frank honesty frightened him. He wanted to ask why, but his vocal chords betrayed him. However, the air traffic controller supplied the answer.
“We’re not licensed yet. But I didn’t think you would care.”
“Not at all, Stanton.”
“We’ll chat when you arrive.”
“And it’s runway three-seven, correct?”
“Correct. You can’t miss us. We’ll have the Christmas lights on for ya. Can you make it?”
“With bells on.”
Neal should have been rejoicing but sweat continued to form on his forehead and under his arms. He didn’t have that warm fuzzy feeling telling him everything was going to be A-okay. Runway three-seven did that. Stanton might not have been on his chart because they were seeking a FAA license but runway three-seven gave them credentials built on foundations of bullshit.
Now rain was splatting off the cockpit. Each strike made a rat-a-tat-tat like bullets strafing the fuselage. More throttle had to be applied to maintain engine revs. The engine only had to last another ten minutes and he would discover the truth about Stanton.
***
Neal estimated he would be overhead Stanton in seven minutes but the wind had other ideas. It tossed him like a salad. He could feel the wind lean on the plane, slowing its speed then releasing its grip only to slap him down again. The clouds got in on the act and bore down, buffeting the Cessna further. Neal had to drop three hundred feet to gain some control and let his aircraft know who was boss.
To Stanton’s credit, they kept in touch, which was comforting. He had a friend with him every step of the way. The only problem was finding Stanton. The storm had taken all light and when Neal stared out for a visual fix, all he got was gray-washed fields.
“How are we doing, November two three seven six two?”
“Looking for a visual on the runway.”
“We have the lights on. Descend to one thousand feet. We should be able to see you. Maintain your heading.”
“Willco.” Neal did as he was told.
He started to fear that he had overshot Stanton for uncharted territory. But he had other problems to worry about. His direction indicator and artificial horizon whirled like spinning tops. With the weather so bad, he had to rely on instruments. With his instruments gone, what could he rely on now?
“November two three seven six two, we see you. It’s good to see you my friend,” the air traffic controller said.
The warm reception gave a welcome respite from Neal’s fear, but only briefly. He looked out below and saw no runway, no lights, no nothing. He was flying blind in every sense of the word.
“I don’t see a thing, Stanton. And I’ve lost instruments.” His voice showed renewed panic.
“You’re directly above. We’ll talk you down. Get on a heading of zero-nine-zero.”
Easier said than done, Neal thought, haven’t you been listening? With no instruments, he didn’t know what was ninety degrees or one hundred and ninety degrees.
Suddenly, he remembered. He dived into his flight bag behind his seat. His hand found what he was looking for and pulled it out. He switched on the small Global Positioning Unit his wife had bought him. It was a daft little gadget she had gotten him for Christmas. One of those useless things that morons with more money than sense bought from The Sharper Image. It told you your position on the planet and the direction you were going.
He always insisted on flying using the navigation skills taught to him. Gadgets could fail but his skills couldn’t. But Jean always insisted he took it.
“You never know. You might need it one day,” she said.
Well, Neal would eat his words when he got home. It wasn’t useless. He turned onto the zero-nine-zero heading.
After what seemed an age but in actual fact was only a minute, Neal’s angel on the ground spoke. “Turn onto one-eight-zero. Cut your engine back to idle. I’ve got you on a tight circuit.”
The Cessna took the decision out of Neal’s hands. The engine died. No second bite at the cherry, he thought. He had to make this landing count.
Simultaneously, he turned onto his new heading, put the plane into glide descent, pulled the throttle out, leaned the engine off, and switched off the fuel pump but left the electrics on. He still needed those. He carried out his emergency procedures as per his training.
The aircraft descended swiftly. The oppressive weather did its best to knock Neal to the ground even quicker.
The only problem was where was he descending? He had to be only five hundred feet from the ground but he still didn’t have visual contact.
“On my mark, I want you to turn onto a heading of two-seven-zero.” The air traffic controller paused. “Now.”
Neal turned.
The plane descended nicely. But still no visual contact. He peered out of his passenger window. The runway should be there. Blackness showed itself to be the only feature.
“We’re nearly home, November two three seven six two. Turn onto heading three-seven-zero.”
Oh, this had to be joke. There were no three hundred and seventy-degree circles. “Stanton, confirm heading?”
“November two three seven six two, you’d better turn or you’ll miss us.”
“But three-seven-zero? Don’t you mean zero-one-zero?”
“Not if you want to land on runway three-seven,” the controller said agitatedly. “Now, TURN!”
Was he an idiot? Had everything he learned been a crock? This wasn’t the time to argue. He was less than two hundred feet from the ground and without power. He could argue geometry later. He banked the aircraft.
Neal maintained visual contact with the ground but kept glancing at his GPS for confirmation. The red, three-digit display fed back his direction.
Three-two-zero, three-three-zero. No runway was in sight.
Three-four-zero, three-five-zero. The gap between his ass and the ground was frighteningly close.
Three-six-zero.
Nothing.
Three-seven-zero.
Neal couldn’t believe it. His GPS flashed up the impossible direction. But as if to compound his disbelief, Stanton appeared. Three sets of runway lights sparkled before him with a huge ‘37’ constructed from hundreds of bulbs. Stanton existed. Runway three-seven existed.
In the confusion, Neal let the impossible heading pass and his GPS indicated zero-one-zero. He dropped the handheld unit as Stanton’s runway disappeared from view. He immediately corrected his error and runway three-seven showed him the way home.
“The runway should be right in front of you,” the controller advised.
Neal couldn’t believe it. One second the airstrip was there, the next it was gone. It was like he peeked through a crack in a doorway. If he wasn’t positioned perfectly then he couldn’t see a thing.
He let his questions go and guided the Cessna down. He set the flaps and made the most perfect landing of his flying career. The undercarriage kissed the asphalt and the aircraft rolled to a gentle halt.
Although mid-afternoon, it was pitch dark. The storm had seen to that. But it wasn’t raining. He hadn’t noticed before. Immediately after runway three-seven came into view the rain had stopped. But the darkness stayed and the storm raged—just not overhead.
In the gloom, it was impossible to see the tower, hangers, service buildings and even other aircraft. Nobody had any lights on. He could make out silhouettes of objects. It was like everything was painted the same shade of darkness.
Neal had switched off the electrics before landing. He didn’t see why he should provide an ignition source for a fire. He flicked the master switch back on and pressed transmit on the RT.
“Stanton Tower, this is November two three seven six two, down safe and sound thanks to you.”
“Good to hear, November two three seven six two.”
“I’d just like to thank you, man, for your help.”
“No need to thank anyone. That’s what we’re here for.”
“Can someone come out to assist? This bird is dead.”
“Sure.”
“Have you got a phone I can use?”
“No, sorry. Doesn’t work.”
“Oh.” Neal found it hard to believe. “I know this might sound ungrateful. Do you have anyone who can fix me up, so I can get out of here?”
“Yeah, I think we can rustle something up.”
Worry trickled through Neal’s veins. No rescue vehicles were on their way. He would have thought they would be jumping all over him. He was planted on an active runway after all.
“Do you know how long it will take?”
“It could take forever.” The controller’s tone didn’t sound like he was exaggerating. “Why don’t you stay awhile. We need good pilots to help out around here.”
The recovery vehicles still weren’t coming and Neal knew they never would.
THE SUNSEEKER
It had started with the Whistler. He had changed Paul Thompson’s life irrevocably but it was Thompson’s life to do with as he pleased and he was doing just that. Thompson knelt on the beach waiting for the sun to rise, reflecting on the events of the last two days.
He had been an award-winning architect. He had dazzled the world with his visions, made stunning by his use of natural light. He had been the creator of the Glacier casino, a glass iceberg jutting out of the Nevada desert. He had been a lot of things but that life was been behind him now.
It all came down to one action. If he had not left his home Friday night to buy the champagne he would not be on the beach right now.
Thompson had clinched the commission for his latest project. As a reward, he wanted to select the champagne for the celebration he was planning for his project team. Back from the presentation, he was glad to be home indulging himself in his favorite activity, watching the sunset. After four long days in a stuffy boardroom with its bleached complexion from too many fluorescent tubes, he was ready for the natural spectacle.
His beachfront property north of San Francisco, the Conservatory, was aptly designed for watching the sun with its large expanses of glass. The bay window stretched from one side of the property to the other providing an unhindered panoramic view of the ocean and the sky. The roof to the room was also glass so he could track the sun’s progress from high in the sky until it melted into the horizon.
Heat radiated down from the sun and he felt his flesh tingle from its touch. He watched the sun change colors as it dissolved into the blue waters. He drank slowly from his wineglass in time with the disappearing sun. He had one more chore before his day was over.
***
Thompson entered Grapevine Wine Importers where he was a regular customer. He ordered two cases of Moet & Chandon for his team and bought a Californian Chardonnay and an Italian Merlot for himself. He left the store with his two bottles; the champagne would be delivered. He made his way back to his car, on a side street away from thieves and meter maids.
The whistling was loud. The Whistler was talented; the music carried easily on the night air. This was not whistling that could be produced by just anyone. This was music and the whistle was an instrument no different from a flute or piano. What was startling about the music was that anyone could whistle that well.
The architect recognized the music as either classical or an operatic aria. He had heard it before but he was unable to put a name to it. It was not that the sound failed to do justice to the score but that his musical knowledge was lacking. All those who heard the Whistler broke their conversations to listen to the crystal clear music.
As beautiful as the music sounded, its menacing nature unnerved the architect. His every step was shadowed by it. Every time he changed streets on his journey he saw fewer and fewer people but the music continued to pursue, as did the Whistler. He looked to locate the Whistler but never found the source of the music. The music intensified in harmony and clarity with each street, ricocheting off the walls of the imposing buildings like a pinball. The proximity of the sound closed upon him with every step. He turned onto the deserted street a little way from the alley where his car stood. He increased the pace of his walk; the whistling matched it and exceeded it.
The chilling music was on top of Thompson. He felt the expelled air from the Whistler on his neck. He turned into the alley and looked over his shoulder, frightened. The instant he turned the whistling stopped and no one was there. Where had the minstrel gone? He continued to move in the direction of his car while frantically searching for the Whistler.
“Did you like it?” a voice said.
It was a man’s voice. His speech was calm and level; there seemed to be a smile contained within it. His tone was relaxing and had a hypnotic quality that put Thompson at ease. The voice felt like a comforting arm had been placed around him.
Thompson walked slap-bang into a stranger standing in the alley. He dropped the bag with the bottles of wine in it. They exploded on the concrete surface between the two men and a stain spread across the paper bag. Droplets passed through the porous material and a puddle formed under the men’s feet.
“Shit! I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there. Are you okay?” Thompson said.
“Did you like it?” the stranger said again, in the same mild manner.
“Excuse me?”
“Did you like the music?”
This guy scared him and his stomach made a complete revolution. He could not see his face although he stood right in front of him. Shadows cloaked the stranger’s face in darkness, although moonlight reflected off his Porsche parked further down the alley. The Whistler was the only obstacle between him and his means of escape.
“The music? It was very good. You certainly have talent. Well, if you will excuse me I have to get home.”
He sidestepped the Whistler and tried not to look as if their meeting had panicked him. He made careful, deliberate steps towards his car. To the Whistler he walked like he was about to shit himself or already had.
“What about your package?”
“I don’t want it.”
“Don’t you think it’s thoughtless to leave this broken glass where someone could cut themselves? You might even puncture your tires when you drive out of here. You could put it in this dumpster.”
Thompson stopped. He had been walking away from the man the entire time they spoke. He had not even turned to look at him while they talked. Now he was trapped in no-mans land, he had gone over the top and he was half way between the safety of his car and the malevolent Whistler. He turned around.
Thompson walked back to his spoiled purchases that had leaked out into the alley. His walk was a little more relaxed than earlier but he was still fearful of this man. He bent down to pick up the expensive mess. He lifted the paper bag but the sodden fibers tore, exposing the broken bottles. He cursed the inconvenience.
He did not see the fist. The downward blow struck him on the side of the head. The force of the impact instantly disoriented him and an explosion went off inside his head. His brain shook inside his skull like snowflakes in a snow dome. He fell forward onto his hands and a lightning bolt of pain shot up his right arm. He had stuck his hand into the jagged glass. It sliced open his palm and blood poured from the gash. The blood mixed with the spilt wine making an unpalatable cocktail for most beings. He was hoisted into the air and slammed against the side of the dumpster, which rang out like Big Ben striking the hour.
“Take my wallet but don’t hurt me!”
“I don’t want your money! I want something more valuable than money.”
Pinned down, the air squeezed from his lungs, the Whistler’s face came into view. His eyes were ablaze; it looked as if every blood vessel had exploded at once. The irises were encircled in a ring of red. His lips were drawn back in a vicious snarl that exposed a deadly array of teeth that were misshapen and far too big for his head. The incisors and canines were stained yellow and brown like those of a three-pack-a-day smoker. His cruel smile looked as destructive as the broken glass that had torn through his hand.
The hungry mouth bit down on the Thompson’s neck. The distorted teeth tore through his flesh, penetrating tissue, bursting veins and rupturing arteries. Thompson’s body hemorrhaged; blood gushed forth and the Whistler drank from the massive laceration.
The pain from the wound was intense, overruling the injury to his hand and the concussion. Mercifully, Thompson’s injuries were swiftly anesthetized by the bite and he became disconnected from his body. He felt his neck twitch where the blood pumped from the severed arteries. He sensed the Whistler licking the wound, sucking at his throat and swallowing his spilt blood. The gash in his hand ceased to bleed; there was not much blood left to bleed.
A heavy weight hung over him. The weight was an inexorable desire to sleep. Not just his mind, his whole body wanted to sleep. It took too much effort to lie there against the dumpster—it was be easier to succumb to his longing. He felt himself sink into warm waters that soaked his body and his being. He gradually sank to the bottom of the waters—the deeper he went the darker it became. He was no longer aware of the alley, the Whistler, his wounds or his suffering. He was aware of nothing.
The Whistler wiped his hand across his mouth and licked his lips. He breathed heavily from his exertion and excitement. He had sated his lust and his need for human blood, for now anyway. He stood up putting his hand inside his three-quarter-length coat and removed a packet of lemon scented wet wipes. He took one out and wiped it over his face and neck. He liked to be clean and this was a dirty business so it paid dividends to be prepared. After all, he had been a Boy Scout once, a long time ago. He looked down at the crumpled heap of man and admired his handy work. He smiled and exposed a neat array of well-tended teeth that any dentist would have been proud of. The perfect smile was only tarnished by the small amounts of blood that clogged the gaps between his teeth.
It was time to go. He bent down to the vanquished man and checked his pockets. He removed Thompson’s wallet and looked for cash. He was not a thief but it was always a bonus if there was some cash to be had. It wasn’t as if a vampire had a nine to five job. There was only fifteen dollars and a lot of plastic, various gold and platinum charge cards.
“Christ! Another one who doesn’t believe in cash.”
Disappointed by the small booty he took the cash and hoped for better luck tomorrow. He stuffed the wallet down the front of the man’s shirt.
He picked up the body as easily as if it was a bag of groceries. His strength always increased after a kill and the tall man was not a burden. The Whistler tossed the body into the dumpster with the trash and slammed the lid closed. He walked out of the alley into the street and disappeared into the night.
The following morning, a squad car spotted the abandoned Porsche in the alley on routine operations. They ran a check on the license plate and placed a call for a tow truck to remove the car. The tow truck driver found the abandoned car between the two derelict buildings and cursed the scumbag winos that had left the broken bottles in the alley. He picked up the broken glass and tossed it into the nearby dumpster. The driver did not see the car owner who lay on a bed of filth inside. He just got on with his task. He loaded the sports car onto the truck and drove it to the city impound lot.
The day came to an end and a new night began. Paul Thompson awoke from his slumber in his rancid coffin. A shudder ran through his body ending in a scream. Enveloped in blackness, he remembered the attack. Frightened, he burst from the dumpster like a jack-in-the-box and sent a couple of rats scurrying for cover. He clambered out of his place of rest and stumbled away, falling to the ground on the other side of the alley. His hand clutched at his throat for the mortal wound but found a healing scar. He looked at his lacerated hand and saw a jagged line carved into his palm. He realized he stunk like a shithouse mop and probably looked one like as well. His clothes were dirty, stained with wine, blood and filth. The smell was of stale sweat, alcohol and garbage. He saw his car was gone, probably stolen by his attacker.
He was hungry like he had never been before. He was so hungry that his stomach felt knotted. He wanted to get cleaned up but he needed something to eat, so he went into a McDonalds. The people looked at him and wrinkled their noses at the sight and smell that greeted them. The muffled sounds of discontent reached the night manager who came from behind the service counter.
He confronted Thompson and refused him the right to food because of his condition. The architect turned to his fellow diners for support but they looked away or at their food. Others called for him to be thrown out. The manager who wanted no further disruption to his restaurant took a burger from a rack and thrust into Thompson’s hand.
“It’s on me,” the manager said bitterly.
Thompson wanted to pay. He felt guilty for causing so much commotion and did not want to take charity. The manager did not care and pushed him out onto the street and sent him on his way with a “fuck off”.
Thompson walked away from the fast food joint with the food he needed and the meat he had to have. He made large, untidy bites into the sandwich and had made two swallows before he had an idea of the food’s flavor. This is revolting, he thought. It was not that the food was spoiled but that it was repellant to his palate. It was as if what he was eating was rancid and everything tasted that way—the meat, bun, the cheese and the ketchup. He dropped the half-eaten burger onto the sidewalk.
He looked down at the half-eaten sandwich. Peasant food, he thought. He felt that this crap was inferior to his hunger. This was not the type of food that he desired. Arrogance filled his empty belly; he was worthy of better. He went to grind the burger into the concrete with his heel.
He doubled up in pain as his stomach rejected the food. He vomited over the discarded burger. His stomach had not digested the food so it pretty much came back out as it went in. Mucus coated chunks of chewed food splatted hard against the sidewalk. He was disgusted with his lack of control. His arrogance got a slap across the face and was put back in its place. He left his mess where it lay.
He went in search of a cab to get him out of the city. He wanted to get out of this place to seek solace in the comfort of his own home. After many cab drivers refused him, he eventually convinced a cab driver with the story that he had been mugged but that he had money. He paid the cabby with the money he had in the house.
He bathed, removing the grime of the street and the memory of his misadventure. He decided not to call the police in, he had not been hurt badly and they never found these people anyway. He listened to his messages. He had one from the office who wanted him to call in to make sure he was okay. The other was from the police who had his car impounded. At least that mystery’s solved, he thought. He would deal with those problems tomorrow, right now it was time to raise the drawbridge and post the guards. He drew the curtains, locked the doors and went to bed.
He awoke to a world that was already in full swing. He lay in his bed listening to it reassured by its existence. The waves crashed onto the beach and were sucked back into the sea with a tinkling wheeze. People walked along the beach and spoke about their lives, the beautiful day and played with their pets. Surfers completely oblivious to the ways of the conventional world spoke of the cool waves they had caught. Children played imaginatively in the sand and surf.
Partially dressed, he left his bed for the living room. The drapes did their best to cloak the room in darkness but failed to hide the daylight entirely and shadows stretched across the room. A shard of unhindered light only helped to make the model look all that more impressive.
Stopped in his tracks, his breath was taken away by its beauty. His latest project sparkled on the living room table. An overwhelming sense of pride filled him. I created that, he thought. He crossed the room to be close to his creation.
He held out an affectionate hand to touch the warmth of the sun on his model. His hand dipped into the pool of light; he cursed and retracted it at great speed. His arm shook with pain and he held it to him and stared at his injury. The light had burnt his hand as cruelly as if it was a branding iron. His flesh sizzled like meat on a grill. What is happening to me, he thought, how could the light burn me? His beloved pet had bitten him. He ran for the bathroom.
He removed the first aid kit. He looked at the mess that was his trembling hand. The puckered skin was a barbecued red and an odor like charred pork rose from it. His world had turned itself on its head and he did not know when it would right itself. What else could happen to me, he asked himself. He hoped that he had reached the final rinse and spin of the cycle and that his bad luck was over. He bathed and bandaged his hand as best as possible.
He went back into the living room and put his hand on the cord to the drapes to open them. It struck him like a blow to head, like the blow he took last night. Christ, this will burn me! he thought. Suddenly it all started to make sense. A conclusion dawned on him like a rising sun. His hand snapped away from the cord like it was a venomous snake.
He crashed onto the couch in shock. He recounted the series of events that occurred since leaving Grapevine’s—the Whistler, the attack, a hunger for an unknown food and his burnt hand. It can’t be true, he thought, am I a vampire? The evidence led him to a conclusion that he could not accept. He felt his world was a house of cards and he had just removed the wrong one. Craving a drink, he went to the refrigerator.
He surveyed the items in the refrigerator—milk, orange juice, mineral water, wine but nothing appealed to his thirst. He gently fingered the steak under the plastic skin before he dug his fingers into the artificial membrane and scraped his nails across the meat. He removed the steak and threw it into the sink where it splatted against the stainless steel surface. He gulped down the watery blood in the base of the packaging. It was bitter like unripe fruit but it was enough to go somewhat towards satisfying his hunger.
He collapsed to the floor with tears running down his face. It’s true, he thought, I am. His life was over as he knew it. The penny dropped and he understood the bad joke; he was dead and he was last to know. Why couldn’t I have just died, he thought. He knew that his life had the prospect of being the Whistler’s, a killer’s life, having to exist off the living during the night. In this new world he would have to use the power of darkness to succeed.
He moved to the living room and saw the muted light breaking through the curtains. “You Bastard!” he screamed at the light. His thoughts were of the world that was on the other side of that window. He desired the pleasure of basking in the world of light. He did not want to skulk in the shadows scavenging off of the weak and the unwitting. His rage turned to the model that glowed on the table. He snatched up a college award from a shelf and stormed over to it. He decided he would smash the fucking thing that mocked him. If he could no longer enjoy the things he made, then they would not exist. He drew his arm back like a major league pitcher but hesitated and let his arm drop to his side, the award still clutched in it.
He saw again the beauty in his creation and not the spite that he had thought was there. This is beautiful work, he thought, and how he wished he could touch it right now. He smiled in admiration of his achievement and his mind was awash with a flood of memories of his past accomplishments. There was good in his work that came from the gift he possessed. He would be a fool to destroy the memory of his work. The spoilt child within him grew up into the adult he was and returned the award to its rightful place.
He sat staring at the shadows cast by a descending sun. He would not see tonight’s sunset and thought about the times he had watched it from here. He realized that he had never seen the sun rise from the sea like he had seen it descend. He had one wish, and that was to see the sun rise from the sea to give birth to a new day. He decided he would be a genie for a day and grant himself his wish. He flicked through a portfolio of his work and occasionally gazed at his model that changed in color with the sun while the night dropped from the heavens.
When it was dark, a cab drove him to San Francisco International airport. He paid the cabby a tip that he would never forget and that Thompson would never remember. He went from ticket booth to ticket booth of the various airlines. He wanted an overnight flight to the East Coast. American Airlines Flight AA476 would get him to Miami an hour before sun up. He purchased a ticket and checked in. He was asked if he had any luggage and remarked he had everything he needed and tapped the sunglasses in his lapel pocket.
The flight was uncomfortable. He could not sleep and hunger gnawed at his belly like it was an animal trying to eat its way out. He refused the food offered by the stewardess, as he only desired the food that sat in the seats around him. The flight landed on time and he left his fellow passengers at the baggage claim as he exited the deserted airport. He hailed a cab.
“Where to?” the Cuban asked.
“The beach,” Thompson said.
“Which one? There are lots, there’s the-”
“The closest one,” Thompson interrupted.
“Okay.”
The Cuban tried to engage his curious occupant in conversation and wondered what this man would want with the beach at this early hour. Thompson dismissed the questions; this was not the time for a life story. The cabby stopped curbside and Thompson gave him the last of his cash.
He had made it just in time—the sun was not far away. A faint orange glow emanated from the horizon of the Atlantic Ocean. He walked onto the deserted beach, kicking up sand that crept into his shoes but he ignored the irritation. The sun had already filled the sky with light beyond the horizon and it would not be long before it did the same on the beach. He knelt down in the sand. He put his sunglasses on and hoped they would give him protection against the light as he eagerly waited for the show to begin.
The sun broke the surface of the water. A brilliant light was cast over the sea and land like a fisherman’s net. He watched the wondrous sight that blinded him even with the sunglasses. His smile was as bright as the sun that crept over the sea. Beautiful, he thought. He had granted himself his wish of the perfect sunrise. He felt the sun on his skin and it immediately blistered wherever it was exposed. Tears of joy ran from his eyes even as they formed cataracts and it was not long before he lost sight of his final wish. His tears bubbled, evaporating into steam on the super-heated flesh of his cheeks.
The sun continued to climb from the depths of the ocean spreading more light. Paul Thompson’s light-sensitive body burned like a torch on the beach. His smile disappeared in the flames, as did his undesirable future.
THE LADIES’ ROOM
“And finally, the restrooms both need mopping every night,” the cleaning supervisor said.
“I have to clean the ladies’ room?” Terry asked, uncomfortably.
“Of course. There’s no one else here who’s going to do it.”
“What if someone’s in there?”
“Don’t be so damn squeamish. Just call out beforehand and while you’re in there, put the “Cleaning in Progress” sign outside.”
Terry frowned.
“Security will be in around seven. Any questions?” Before Terry could answer, the supervisor said, “Good, I’ll be off then.”
Alone, Terry got on with his job, dodging the restrooms. He opted to clean the offices—leaving the ladies’ until last. It may have been his first night on the job, but he hadn’t come all the way from Boston for this.
California hadn’t been the golden state for Terry. The biotech researcher’s job had fallen through the day he had arrived and finding something else in the same field had proved impossible. The best he had come up with after two months of job hunting was this—office cleaning.
Terry stood in front of the ladies’ room and eased the door open. He heard voices. Just what he hoped wouldn’t happen.
“Did you know a man was killed in here?” a woman said.
“No. Really?” another responded.
Terry thought the building was empty except for him and this was what he feared most doing this crappy job—walking in on a woman with her panties around her ankles.
“Hello,” he called, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Janitorial services. Anybody in here?”
No one answered.
Terry edged his bucket forward into the restroom with his mop, like it was on point duty. The bucket was on castors and easily followed orders. No one took a potshot at his GI so he hooked his head around the privacy wall. He didn’t see anyone.
“Hello. Is anybody in here?” he asked.
No one answered, again.
Terry swallowed and ventured into the restroom. No one stood at the sinks and the stalls looked empty but he knocked on all the doors to make sure no one was inside. Who the hell had been talking and more importantly, who had been killed?
Terry cursed. His nerves were getting the better of him. The best thing was to mop this place as quickly as he could and get the hell out. He left the ladies’ room, moved the “Cleaning in Progress” sign from the men’s to the ladies’ and re-entered.
Terry started to mop. He didn’t like being in the ladies’ room. He felt like a pervert sifting through women’s dirty underwear. Men were just not meant to be in the ladies’ room—it was for women and it felt sacrilegious to be in there. Being the night-cleaner might give him license to break the rules but his guilt was making him sweat.
He had washed in-between the stalls and was mopping the edge of the sink units, when what he saw in the mirrors stopped him in his tracks.
Blood bubbled up from the grout like it was coming from an underground spring. He knew it was blood. It had to be. The color, texture, everything told him it was, but how and why it was happening, was a mystery. How could the floor bleed?
The blood broke the law of gravity. The ladies’ room floor was sloped from its walls to a central drain. From its source, close to the drain, a single crimson bead ran in the grout. It traveled between the tiles and along the floor, uphill, against the gently sloping floor. Transfixed, Terry could only watch.
The blood’s redness was in stark opposition to the cream tiles. The contrast drained the tiles of their color and bleached the floor whiter than the sterile fluorescent lighting did. The unappetizing slick made Terry dry-heave.
The trail continued in a straight line for four feet before bloody branches split off at ninety degrees, making a geometric skeletal tree. It continued to bubble from its implausible spring. The blood stopped branching out at the top of the tree and began to pool. And the pool grew.
Fearing that if he didn’t do something, his Burger King lunch was going to make a surprise reappearance, Terry charged the gruesome mess with his dripping mop. He slapped the mop onto the blood spring and frantically tried to staunch its wound. Terry’s mopping didn’t erase the bloody trail; he only assisted in spreading the diluted fluid across the width of the floor. The bathroom looked like a butcher’s countertop after a side of beef had been chopped into pieces.
The blood spring continued to flow.
Terry slopped more water onto the blood to dispose of the mess, but the tainted water expanded across the floor and under the stalls. In a final attempt to overcome the blood, Terry kicked the bucket on its side and the water washed over the floor, cutting a furrow through the red sea. Terry followed through with the mop and guided the blood down the inadequately sized floor drain that was meant for the occasional spillage, not the contents of an abattoir. His toes wrinkled in his sneakers as the blood soaked through and his feet squelched inside.
“Jesus, stop bleeding,” he pleaded with the hemorrhaging floor.
The blood spring ignored him and continued to flow unabated.
The bathroom door burst open and a security guard stormed in.
“What the Sam Hill is going on in here?” he boomed. The security guard immediately looked confused, obviously expecting to find something other than Terry standing awash in a bathroom of blood.
Terry stammered for an explanation but came up with nothing.
“Who are you?” the guard asked, after a minute of Terry’s babbling.
“I’m Terry, the new night cleaner,” he managed.
“Well, you’re not a very good one with all this water everywhere,” he added.
Terry stared down at his feet. The blood had disappeared and his feet were awash in soapy water. It was gurgling down the drain. There was no trace the blood had ever existed, but where had it gone?
He started stammering again before he said something tangible. “I kicked the bucket over. I’m sorry.”
The security guard snorted. “Sounded like World War III had started.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry.”
“Okay. Let me know when you’re going,” the security guard said, then hoisted his pants over his ample gut and saw himself out.
Terry stood pathetically, with his mop in hand, alone in the ladies’ room. I hate this room, he thought, I hate this job. The quicker he got finished, the quicker he could get out of there. He righted the bucket and started soaking up the water.
Terry squeezed out the mop in the bucket and tried to comprehend his experience. He would have believed he had suffered an acid flashback, but he had never dropped LSD. Had the stress and strain of moving to California caused him to have a breakdown? Sure, things were crap, but he knew he hadn’t flipped his wig just because a job fell through. He gave up. It didn’t matter how many times he sliced it—he couldn’t explain what he had seen. The last of the water trickled down the drain and he mopped up the residue.
With everything neatly put away for the night, Terry crossed the reception area. The security guard looked up from his newspaper and Terry gave him a self-conscious nod.
“All finished for the night?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Terry answered.
The security guard nodded and eyed Terry with suspicion.
“Sorry about earlier,” Terry offered, reading the guard’s thoughts, then continued, “I think I spooked myself being on my own and all.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. Someone told me some spook story about the ladies’ bathroom. Some bullshit about someone being killed in there. You wouldn’t know anything about that would you?” Terry inquired heavy-handedly.
“Nope.”
“Have you worked here long, er…”
“The name’s Kyle. And, I’ve worked here fifteen years and I’ve never known of anyone to be killed in the ladies’ crapper.” Kyle turned the page of his newspaper and snapped it taught. “I think someone’s been yanking your wang, son.”
“Sounds like it.” Terry laughed nervously. “Probably just wanted to make the new boy look like a jerk.”
“Well, they did that alright,” Kyle said abruptly.
“Yeah. Yeah. Well, I’ll be going then. Seeya tomorrow,” Terry said and quickly made for the door.
“Yep,” Kyle said, not bothering to look up from his newspaper.
***
A six pack of Buds and a solid dose of TV put pay to any thoughts of blood-filled bathrooms from an invisible victim, but stepping back into that bathroom the following night replayed all his fears at full volume. Gingerly, he re-entered the ladies' room.
“You should have seen the blood. It looked as if he lost every last drop in his body. He must have been lying there for hours,” a woman’s voice recounted.
“Janitorial services. Anybody in here?” Terry called.
No answer.
Without a hint of fear, Terry barged into the ladies’ room. He was pissed off by whoever wanted to play jokes on him. It wasn’t funny and it damn well wasn’t clever either. Like the previous night, no one seemed to be in the bathroom. Anger replaced his previous bashfulness and he kicked in all the stall doors. Each one crashed into the partition wall making all the stalls shudder. Every one of the stalls was empty. He examined the walls and ceiling for listening devices and speakers but he couldn’t find anything.
Frustrated, he said, “Who’s taking the piss out of me?”
No one replied.
Suddenly, one of the fluorescent tubes started to hum loudly and the light dimmed.
“God damn it,” Terry cursed.
The light started to flicker; bands of light and dark pulsed the length of the tube.
“I can’t work in this,” he told himself. He couldn’t clean the ladies' room with a dodgy light. First, it would give him a headache and second, his supervisor would chew him a new asshole if he didn’t change it.
For ten minutes, Terry ransacked the Janitor’s storeroom. The place was a mess. What had his predecessor been up to? Finally, he found a replacement light and snatched it up.
By the time he got back to the ladies’ room, the light was continuously strobing and his reflection in the mirror had a stop-go animation look.
Terry cursed, remembering he hadn’t brought a ladder with him. He couldn’t be bothered to go back to get it. Using the mop as an arm extension, he dislodged the light diffuser. The diffuser tumbled from the fixture and Terry deftly caught it. He rested the diffuser against the sink units.
Substituting the sinks for a stepladder, Terry climbed on top of them with his replacement strip-light in one hand, giving him a biblical presence—Moses leading his flock. He plonked the fluorescent tube in a sink basin and with great care and balance, reached out from the sinks for the defective strip-light. He had to grab hold of the ceiling framework with one hand, dislodging one of the foam tiles and in the process taking one foot off the sink for balance. With fingertip reach, Terry managed to hook out the fluorescent tube. The tube was red hot. He cursed and panted while he bobbled the tube from hand to hand like he was holding a boiled egg fresh from the pan. He just managed to get the tube into the sink without dropping it.
“That’s you out of the way,” he said, shaking his hands.
With the strip-light removed, the lights were at three-quarter strength and the ladies’ room would have had a seductive mood, if it weren’t a toilet. Terry extracted the new strip-light from its cardboard sheath, letting the sheath fall to the ground. Performing the same balancing act as before, he reached out for the light fixture.
Replacing the tube proved more difficult than taking the old one out. After five attempts, Terry was losing his patience and was thinking of conceding to his human limitations of dexterity and getting the stepladder.
“One more go, then that’s it—okay?” he told the light fixture.
The light fixture didn’t object.
Again, Terry reached out and wedged the tube into one end of the fixing. He carefully pushed the tube into position but was fractions of an inch from slotting the damn thing into place. He edged his foot out a touch then another to give him the vital inch he needed.
“Gently, gently,” he cooed.
Terry edged a final fraction and the tube slotted into place.
“Bingo!”
Terry’s euphoria was short-lived. His focus on success caused him to lose his balance and he crashed to the floor.
The newly installed light flickered twice before it brought the ladies’ room lights back to full strength.
Terry’s head cracked open on the tile floor like an egg and made a similar sound on the unforgiving ceramic tiles. Blood oozed from his massive head wound and down his face, making a pool. He gazed at the bead of crimson funneling between the tiles, in the grout, towards the floor drain. It branched out at ninety degrees as his blood collected in the opposing grout channels.
***
“Did you know a man was killed in here?” June asked. “No. Really?” Karin responded.
“You should have seen the blood. It looked as if he had lost every drop in his body. He must have been lying there for hours,” June said.
PURELY COSMETIC
Grace looked down at the scales and sighed. Even after the liposuction she still weighed one-eighty-seven. For her height she should have weighed one-thirty but she had made her target weight a realistic one-forty. She had tried everything to lose weight--jogging, working out with a personal trainer, every fad diet that had ever been conceived, but to no avail. Her body seemed to have an aversion to losing weight and she felt the grip of desperation tighten with every extra pound like a pair of pants two sizes too small. She had to get down to her target weight, whatever the cost.
Grace stared at her toes and wriggled them. How much did her big toe weigh? Two, three ounces? It was difficult to say, she had never weighed individual body parts.
Would it matter if she lost a toe? Nobody would see it, especially a man. At forty-one, Grace was husbandless and boyfriendless, and who could blame any man for not wanting her in her condition? She looked up from the scales at herself in the bathroom mirror.
“Gravity and cellulite should be tried for crimes against humanity,” she said scornfully to her reflection.
She peered down at her toes again. Removing her big toes wasn’t a good idea--her balance would be severely affected. But her little toes weren’t that necessary. She was a surgeon. She could do it.
She would do it.
She returned home from Mercy General the following night, having managed to smuggle out equipment and write a bogus prescription for anesthetic. Grace cleaned the kitchen vinyl with disinfectant before positioning herself on the floor with her medical bag. She injected each of her feet with the local anesthetic and waited for the drug to take effect. After fifteen minutes she pricked her toes with a pin. She didn’t feel a thing.