Twilight Nightmares (Twisted Tales Special Edition Book 1) (11 page)

The musty smell of the garage only got mustier the farther back Alan walked. It had been a few months since he first considered cleaning the carport, and he’d finally taken the time to get it done. It felt good, like he was finally being useful.

The water heater clicked on and made a low rumbling sound, and a moment later the pilot light ignited the burner. It didn’t last long, though, because it was broken. A few seconds later, it sputtered, coughed, and the burner went out.

This place is such a shithole
, he thought.

He guessed his wife was trying to take a shower. She had maybe three minutes of barely warm water before little slivers of ice showered her. The rental house they had been staying in had many things wrong with it, but the lack of consistent hot water was the worst.

The place was actually one of the many reasons they fought about things. He had at one time held an extremely
well-paying
job, but they laid him off, which forced them to sell their home and move into a rental that the property owner failed to keep in good condition.

To add to the problematic living conditions, his wife paid most of the bills, and he helped when he could, but his job as a security guard paid only enough for gas and other odd items. The tension between them was mostly financial, but it was a very strong cause for irreconcilable contentions.

Alan picked up a large cardboard box. It wasn’t heavy, but it smelled like mildew and old gym shorts, which was bad on top of disgusting. He set it down in a pile he mentally labeled as the one he’d forgo searching and just toss in the trash.

He picked up a few stray articles of clothing, and threw them into the same pile. They were ones he’d worn not long ago, but ever since he’d grown at least seven inches horizontally, they no longer fit him. Yet another lovely side effect of having lost his job. The stress made him thicker, and it further resulted in him feeling terribly insecure and self-conscious. He often wondered if his wife would leave him for a more fit man that could provide better for her.

The next thing he picked up was a shoebox secured shut by a thick rubber band. The label embossed across the side of the box read Giuseppe
Zanotti
, a brand neither he nor his wife could afford without taking out a loan.

I haven’t seen these before, where did they come from,
he thought and furrowed his brow. Then he remembered he and his wife went to dinner two weeks ago. She’d dressed up in a sexy black sequin dress and a pair of shiny new heels he didn’t recognize. He’d even asked her if they were new, but she told him they were just an old pair she never got the chance to wear.

The box felt a bit weighty, as though the shoes were still in it. Even though he knew that curiosity murdered cats on a regular basis, he couldn’t help but wonder what was inside.
So
, he removed the tan band holding it shut and pealed the top off.

He didn’t find shoes inside the box. No, what he found were four green bricks of cash, each labeled $10,000. His heart beat hard, sending waves of lumps into his throat that seemed to kick his Adam’s apple around like a soccer ball.

Alan set the box down and picked up one of the stacks. Hesitantly, he began to flip through the greenbacks. He expected them to be a thick wad of singles sandwiched between two crisp hundred-dollar bills, but instead they were
all
crisp one-hundred-dollar bills.

“Where the fuck did this come from?” He said to himself, disbelieving that he was still in reality.

He examined the box, and below the other three stacks was a small pink envelope. He grabbed the corner and pulled it out. There was no writing on the front nor the back, so he opened the flap and pulled out the snugly placed card. One side was blank, but when he flipped it over, he found a message embossed with gold lettering.

He read it aloud, “For you, my love, to take care of the problem so we can finally be happy together.”

There was no signature at the bottom to tell him who it had come from, and he checked the other side to be sure—it was still blank.

She finally decided to leave me
, he thought.

He tossed the letter back into the box along with the stack he’d picked up, and took the whole thing. He charged into the house, and up the stairs to the master bedroom. When he approached the door, it was slightly ajar.

He heard his wife talking, so he peeked in. She wore a dark blue towel, and her wet hair fell all over her shoulders in thick crinkly strands.

She said, “No, he knows nothing about it. If he did, he would’ve said something.”

A pause. He moved closer to the door.

“I’m positive. I have the money, now. Can you do it tonight?”

Another
pause,
and he looked down at the cash.

“Good, I can’t wait to get this over with so I can finally be happy again. We’ve had nothing but problems since he got laid off.”

Another
pause,
and he began to shake with anger and sadness.

“I know, I thought about divorce, but I think this way is better,” she said, and picked up a paper from the desk next to the window. “Yeah, of all the places, I kept it in a shoebox in the garage. He always talked about cleaning it out, and never once touched it, so I figured it was a good spot to keep it hidden.”

A final pause.

“Trust me, he won’t see it coming.”

When she hung up the phone, his emotions had already boiled into a fiery amalgamate of bile and fury at the pit of his stomach. A sudden sickness washed to the shores of his esophagus, and before he knew it, he dropped the money and charged into the room.

“Alan, I thought—” she began to say, but he quickly wrapped his hands around her neck.

As he squeezed, he scream, “Trying to fucking have me killed? Couldn’t just divorce me like everyone else? Don’t have enough fucking money in that goddamn shoe box?”

The towel unwrapped and fell to the floor. She kicked, coughed, and dug her nails into his arms. She pulled hard on his wrists, but he squeezed harder and his hands sunk deeper into her skin.

“I loved you!” He screamed as tears fell impetuously from his eyes. “I can’t believe you’d do this to me after everything I’ve done for you!”

It didn’t take long for her to fall limp. He breathed heavy, and he finally let go of her. His hands burned and shook, and his skin contained small pink and puffy scratches from her struggle.

He ground his teeth with the anger that still flowed effortlessly though him. He looked down at the paper she’d dropped when he grabbed her, and kneeled down to pick it up.

Mikey opened his eyes to a mostly dark room. The moon cast a subtle blue glow that lined everything with a touch of silver. He hadn't known right then what had brought him out of his slumber, but when he looked at the ceiling, he saw it.

Normally the moon cast an elongated shadow of the window with four irregular shapes representing the four squares on it. However, one of the squares had an oddly fuzzy shape inside of it. When he looked at the window, he saw Santa Claus.

"Santa!" He exclaimed as he jumped out of bed.

Santa put his finger to his own lips to hush him. He then pointed his satin, maroon finger at the lock. Mikey ran to the window, disengaged the lock, and pushed the window up.

Mikey stepped back as the man entered the room. Santa wasn't as rotund as Mikey had expected him to be, but he had the right look otherwise. Maroon coat and pants with white trim feathering the edges, maroon gloves, silver spectacles, rosy cheeks, black shined boots, and a black belt with a large golden buckle. His giant silver beard seemed a little thin, but it looked all right.

"Hello there young, Mikey." The man said with a normal man's voice. Again, Mikey expected a deep jolly tone, but it wasn't there. "Where are your parents?"

Mikey pointed at his door and said, "They’re sleeping in their room."

Santa pulled the glove from his right hand and placed his palm against Mikey's face. His touch was ice-cold, and he used his thumb to feel the thick puffy scar next to Mikey's blind eye.

Santa stood and walked back to the window. He reached out and grabbed his bag of presents. He heaved them over his shoulder, and walked to the door.

"You stay here, Mikey." He said, "I'm
gonna
hand out presents."

Mikey nodded excitedly as Santa opened the door and exited the room into the hallway. The area smelled like garlic and baked noodles, and it was darker that the bedroom because there were no nearby windows to shed light.
So
, he navigated slowly across the corridor and stopped at the master bedroom.

He leaned close to the door and listened. He thought he heard the soft sound of someone breathing, but it turned out to be his own. He reached down, and turned the knob. It participated silently, and he pushed the quiet door open.

When he stepped into the room, he saw the boy's parents cuddled together upon the bed. The incredibly large master window brightened the room enough that if they'd opened their eyes, they would see him. He quickly walked to the edge of the bed, and set down the red velvet bag. From the sack he withdrew two large knives that had "CC" engraved on the hilt, and with a quick thrust, he sunk one into each of their necks.

They choked and stuttered, trying to call for help. Soon, they both died with a bloody gurgle. He left the knives in their throat, a gift for each of them.

He returned to Mikey's room, and the boy had fallen asleep. He wasn't sure how the boy had been able to fall asleep so easily with Santa in the house, but he suspected the boy didn't want to ruin the magic by staying up.

Santa carefully pulled out a box, and placed it on the nightstand. He then crawled through the window and left the boy in peace.

The next morning when Christmas arrived, the boy woke and pulled the box to his bed. He looked at the neat green bow encasing the well-dressed red aluminum-paper box. He opened a small card, and it revealed that the gift was from Chris Cringle.

Mikey tore the gift open, and then unpacked the box. Inside he found a small Ninja Turtle action figure and a letter he'd written to Santa:

Dear Santa,

I only want one thing for
x-mas
. I don't want my parents to hurt me no more. I don't like it. Oh, and can
I also
have a Ninja Turtle toy? I always wanted one, but my parents always said no.

Love,

Mikey

The Cursed Ring

 

 

 

 

Deep in the thick concrete jungle on a street pockmarked with holes and fissures, stood a brown and cream brick building. Inside was the apartment of one
Kace
Connell. Only one light burned weak near a small window that doesn’t open, and it cast the shadow of the apartment’s inhabitant against the far wall just near the entrance to a small grimy kitchen.

Kace
stuffed the final dumpling into his mouth, and as he worked the morsel into something
swallowable
, he reached to the floor next to his chair and snagged a purse. After pushing aside a small takeout box of Kung
Pao
chicken, he set it on the round and flimsy aluminum dinner table.

The handbag wasn’t an expensive one, but worth more than most. The old woman he had stolen it from drove a late model Beemer, and had large diamond earrings he probably would have taken, too, if she had not fought back.

He tugged the zipper of the designer tote, and the lips parted with ease. Inside he found a small box of make-up, a powder brush, a small wallet with a little over a hundred dollars, and a tiny Ziploc bag full of Kleenex. He set everything out on the table, and as he began to move the purse to the floor, a small glint captured his attention.

Kace
reached back into the bag, and fished around. His knuckles rapped something hard, and his middle finger finally found a small metallic loop. He snared it, and pulled the object out. It was a small gold ring, not unlike the kind found on the finger of a washed-up football player. The centerpiece gem looked to be emerald and surrounding it was an inset with raised lettering. The words were either Hebrew or some other language he couldn’t read.

Though it looked expensive, he knew the pawnshop he frequented would probably offer much less for it than he hoped. Barney, the man who operated the shop, didn’t mind stolen goods, which was one of the reasons that
Kace
fenced there, but jewelry that specific could be located, which meant good old Barney had to sell it outside the store to other unsavory people. He called it a convenience fee for putting his life in danger, as if his continued existence wasn’t already a miracle in this God-forsaken city.

Kace
set the ring down just to the right of the stack of greenbacks he extracted from the wallet. He ordered everything by their value, starting with the bills first, because cash in hand was worth a barrel of fish—or some such shit according to his imprisoned father. Then, of course, the ring. After that, he moved the tissues before the make-up kit and blush brush. He didn’t think he’d find value in any of those items, but because he suffered from allergies and didn’t wear make-up, their value of usefulness was obvious.

“What a weak take.” He said to his empty apartment.

A small roach skittered across the table, dived under the cash, and the disappeared over the edge. He picked up the bills, folded them, and put them in his wallet. He picked up the ring, looked at it in the light for a moment, and then slipped it onto his left ring finger. He liked the way it looked on his hand, and enjoyed the way it felt even more.

Maybe I won’t sell it after all
, he thought.

He gathered the make-up, blush brush, and wallet, and stuffed them back into the purse. He stood, and walked to a trash bin near his door. He hung the bag over the opening for a moment, and wondered if he could sell it. He twisted it, sizing up the possible sell, and found a sizable stain of the old woman’s blood on it. He knew there was no way Barney would take it, especially with the death of the woman probably invading the news channel that evening.
So
, he dropped it, and it landed in the bin with a soft thud.

As he began toward the kitchen to grab a beer, someone knocked on his door. He stopped, and raised a quizzical eyebrow. Everyone he knew called before stopping by his place. It was the rule among thieves, dealers, killers, and all other unsavory types. If there was a knock with no call, then it was always best to assume that police stood on the other side of that door.

He waited for a moment, hoping his guest would go away. Again, someone pounded on the door, rattling it against the frame. He cautiously approached it so he didn’t make any noise that might reveal he was home, and peeked through the eyelet. The glass warped the hallway, and even though the light in the corridor blinked in and out, it was on long enough for him to see that no one was out there.

“Hmm.” He said, and walked to the kitchen.

The refrigerator didn’t have much in it. There was a stick of yellow butter on a plate so old it almost looked like a slightly melted bar of cheddar, an opened can of beans, four off-brand Mexican beers, and a jug of water he bought three weeks ago when he told himself he was going to get back into shape. He thought about grabbing the water for a moment, but instead snared one of the longneck brews.

He let the fridge close behind him, and it slammed as if he kicked it shut. Then, it began to bang as if someone was inside it.
Kace’s
heart raced as he watched the refrigerator actually move and rock with each loud crash. He backed away from the kitchen, and ran into something that shouldn’t be there.

He twirled around, and dropped his beer. It crashed upon the wood floor, tiny bits of the glass from the explosion embedded in his foot causing little beads of blood to form. Standing in front of him, was an elderly man with thin silver hair. He had thick hands enlarged by arthritis and calloused by decades of manual labor. He wore a black suit, white shirt, silk tie, and black polished shoes.

“How the hell did you get in here?”
Kace
said, and eyed the knife on the dining table.

The man took a step toward
Kace
, extending his arms out with his hands stressed into arthritic claws, and
Kace
saw the ring on the man’s finger.
It was the same one he’d taken from the woman.
He looked down to be sure, and there was no doubt.

“Who are you?”

The man took another step closer, and
Kace
attempted to move away. However, he tripped over a UPS box he’d stolen from his neighbor, which he’d now wished he left at their door.

When he hit the ground, he fell back and rapped his head against the floor. A crack of white lightning sliced through his eyes, and he scrambled back toward the kitchen. He looked up, and the man was no longer there.

Panting, he stood and his left hand suddenly filled with pain. He looked down, and the skin around the ring on his finger began to turn black.
Kace
screamed and tried to pull it off his finger. He twisted, pulled, and yanked but it wouldn’t budge. The pain became more intense, and the blackness continued to spread.

As it moved its way up his arm, he felt the pain move as well. First his hand, and then the rest of his arm. He tried to wrap his other hand around it to keep it from spreading, but it moved beyond, unaffected by his effort.

Kace
tore his shirt off, and ran to the mirror in his bathroom. The blackness continued to move, turning his veins dark, skin fading from purple to black with each inch. Eventually it spread to his other arm and completely covered his torso. It worked its way up his neck and down his waste, each inch of skin burned as if seared against the metal of a hot pan. Silver whorls and fissures invaded his vision, and then he passed out.

 

~

 

He didn’t know how long he’d been out, but he woke some time later because the pain all over his body had become far too intense. His hands, body, eyes, and everything connected to them burned. He crawled out of the bathroom, and into his bedroom. His muscles ached, and he was barely able to make it. When he reached the withered nightstand in the corner, he opened the drawer. After retrieving a revolver, he pulled the hammer back and placed the nose in his mouth.

As he looked upon the ceiling, his tongue grazing the cold bitter metal, he watched shadows dance up the surface. It appeared as if there was a crowd watching him, waiting for him to pull the trigger. His finger quivered, and the pain intensified. He screamed, and squeezed the trigger.