When you’re dead, it’s forever. There’s nothing at all, and you won’t even know. You will know nada and be nada just like before you were born. Like every cockroach and worm and yes, human, that has ever lived. And there’s nothing you can do about it, except choose the time and place of your demise. I am here to facilitate that.
The forming of the Universe, the birth of the sun and the planets, the development of life on earth, were all unknown to you before your existence. For practically forever, for billions of years, you were nothing. The Buddhists say that to be in that state is Nirvana, the absence of thought and feeling and consciousness.
Now you’re aware of a tiny slice of that consciousness, and this experience isn’t even real. Consciousness is an evolutionary illusion, and according to scientific theory, formed to help you survive. Aliveness is purely a physical phenomenon. Even your awareness is a lie, to help your body avoid enemies. You may ask “but what about memory, isn’t that the story of the self?
Well, if you were only as old as what you could remember, you’d still be a child. These memories are not real either, because the time that they happened does not exist anymore. Your memories are all mind illusion, imagination. What I said three seconds ago has disappeared, except perhaps in your short-term recollections, which as I’ve said, are perpetually trying to grasp onto what no longer is.
I bring you these straight, true words to assist in the choices you must make today. I would advise making the right decision, because pain is all your mind is experiencing. You’re suffering from a terminal illness, causing you useless suffering, and a few more weeks of hurt is all you’ll know. I see you’re feeling the symptoms right now, even though you’re on an intravenous morphine drip. We have the liquids and the instruments right here, to offer you a way out, a way back to nothingness, where we all came from and where we’re all going. Even myself.
I fear too, the end of my life, but as it’s inevitable, my fear is useless. There’s no running away. I focus on other things, for instance the placing of morphine needles in ancient, diseased bodies, for which I am reasonably paid. My goal is to relieve suffering. I help others discover their true nature and the true meaning of existence.
Other people may briefly grieve your departure, but they’re living in illusion also. They’ll die too, and within a few years nobody will remember that you or they ever existed.
My words may seem stark, but they are merciful. Why not cut that suffering short?
Why not end it now? It’s the freest decision you’ll ever make.
Do I take pleasure in discussing this subject? Not at all, my smile is merely a reflection of my brain’s chemical processes. Everyone must capture some sense of the absurd, which we could call humour, in order that we not go completely mad. I want to stay sane. My chuckle is not personal.
What about God, you ask? Well, we all came from the womb, where all our needs were met. Food, touch, rest, we waited for birth, in the meantime we floated and grew. Memory feelings of that time and place underpin a longing to return, and we make up heaven and God as substitutes for our mother’s belly. Yes, we all want to go back to the heavenly womb. But that time will never occur again. The best times happened before we were even out of that place. No use in calling upon God because God was your Mom. She’s passed away, gone into the void. God is dead.
It’s time for me to leave, my shift ends in fifteen minutes. And it’s your time to go also. You’re not capable of helping anyone, or making the world better, all you can do is lie in bed. You need help rising to use the bathroom. It’s not your fault, but your life is useless.
There is no need to weep, but if you must, have a good cry. Tears are dripping with toxins, and it’s natural for our body to force those out. Even in our last moments, our bodies still want to keep going. They are hardworking machines, aren’t they? Indeed, I am smiling again. That statement tickled my funny bone.
Yes, I can make you a final appointment. Tomorrow morning. I commend you for making up your mind. So many people dither until they’re no longer capable.
At ten tomorrow, I’ll be here for the final time, and we’ll end all your worries and suffering forever. Your life will rise to enter Nirvana, the void where all your individual desires and sufferings disappear. That is as close to heaven as you will ever get. Into the emptiness of non-existence and disconnection, forever and forever and forever.
All things must pass, as now-deceased Beatle George Harrison wrote in his song of the same name. George is gone, too, as he predicted. And to quote another deceased Beatle, “there’s no hell below us, above us only sky.” Nothing to look forward to, literally he he.
When the nurse comes to check on you, give her your last breakfast order. I recommend decaffeinated coffee and maybe a slice of rye toast. Try and focus on the taste. Round ten, I’ll bring the needle and the death juice. Wipe away those tears, maybe try and count your heart beats, one way to pass the time.
Have a good night, my friend. Remember, we’re all living this illusion together, at least until tomorrow.
The tendrils, that’s what Jimmy called ‘em. They got hold of his mind and reached in real far. Slithering, he called it. He said they pulled out something from deep inside, something he never could’ve reached on his own.
Oh, he fought it. That I know. Pills, powder, it didn’t matter. As long as it ‘altered his natural state’ he said, it was fine by him. But it was never enough. Reality was too bent for him to see straight, so crooked was the only way to be. That was the only thing that made sense to him. He said when reality became thought, and thought, reality, he couldn’t tell which was which. And when Jimmy’s mind was in a jumble, so was everything around him. I saw things fly off the shelves when he got upset, furniture jumped around the room when he was mad. Never saw nothing like it before. He just couldn’t control it.
When the walls closed in on poor old Jimmy, they really closed in. I think he lived his whole life in fear. I know I would if I had to live with that kind of…condition. Yes, I seen it myself. That run-down old trailer-home of his, crumpled up like a soda can. Poor bastard worried himself to death.
I’m an author. I specialize in ghost stories, but the ones I write aren’t very scary. My tales tend to be more of the cozy variety. Ghost pets, friendly specters and the like. I enjoy what I do, but there’s one thing missing. I’ve never achieved my biggest ambition of writing a truly terrifying tale. I wanted to write a story that will give my readers nightmares. Better still, I wanted to spin a tale that will stop them from sleeping altogether.
I realized the key was atmosphere. I needed to find somewhere away from the suburban streets where I live. Somewhere windswept and interesting. Somewhere on the moors. It had to be Dartmoor, the spookiest part of England. My job gave me four weeks of vacation every year. My wife allowed me two weeks, no more.
“If you can’t write a terrifying tale in two weeks, then you never will, especially surrounded by all that atmosphere. Me and kids need a break, that’s what the other two weeks are for.”
“Just you wait. I’ll bring back a story that will make me famous!”
I chose the remotest corner of the moor. I chose February, when there are no tourists and the weather was guaranteed to be lousy. I deliberately didn’t go through any websites to find a hotel; I didn’t want to choose a location known by anyone else. I simply drove the back roads until I found somewhere I could stay. It took a few hours, but then I turned a corner and there it was. An isolated inn, standing on the edge of a barren, wind-blasted stretch of heath. It was rundown, with faded, peeling timber and a mossy roof. The only clue it was open to the public was a sign hanging from a gibbet at the entrance. The Wolfshead. I parked and entered.
It was one of those old-fashioned places, so beloved by the British. Low ceilings, exposed beams and an array of agricultural equipment on display. An open fire warmed the room. The room was empty, except for a man standing behind the bar. I presumed this was the landlord. He sipped from a glass of amber liquid.
“I’d like a room for a few days.”
“Not a problem, we’re not exactly busy.”
He was clearly intoxicated.
I was shown to my room. It was small, with a low ceiling and a single bed. It was scruffy, but clean. There was a stained desk and chair by the window, which had a view across the moor. This was the atmosphere I craved.
My evening was spent in the awkward company of the landlord. He managed to assemble some bread and cheese for me to eat. I ate this meager meal and sipped a warm beer.
It reached midnight. The landlord, who was very drunk by this time, made a feeble attempt to tidy up a few glasses, but quickly gave up after he dropped one, the glass shattering over the stone floor. He clicked off the lights and stumbled out the main bar. I heard him wobbling up the stairs. It was obvious he’d forgotten I was there. By firelight, I finished my pint and went to bed.
In my room, I glanced out the window. There was nothing but darkness, with only the occasional light in the distance to show the location of an isolated farm. It was quite the contrast to my home in the city. I slid into bed. It was very comfortable and I was tired, so I dropped off almost immediately.
I was woken a few hours later by the smell of smoke. I leapt from the bed and switched on the bedside light. Smoke was seeping under the door. I placed my hand against the wood. It was hot. There was fire on the other side. I dared not open it, I knew the room would be engulfed. My only option was the window. I grabbed my phone, wallet and car keys. I opened the window and looked down. It was a drop of perhaps ten feet to the ground. I eased myself out, hung onto the frame and lowered myself. I let go and dropped the few remaining feet onto soft grass.
I ran to the front of the building, but I could already see that it was engulfed in flames. There was nothing I could do. I tried my phone, but there was no reception. I decided to head over the moors to the nearest lights. Since I didn’t know the roads, I decided to head straight across the heath on foot. It wasn’t the best option, but it was my only choice.
It took me about thirty minutes to reach the nearest farm. I was exhausted, scratched and covered in mud. I stumbled into the farm’s kitchen. Despite the hour there was a man sitting by the fire, drinking from a mug. I was gasping from my exertions.
“The Wolfshead! It’s burning to the ground. I can’t find the landlord!”
He remained sitting by the fire, and rubbed the stubble on his chin; not quite the reaction I expected.
“The Wolfshead, you say? Can’t be. That place burnt down years back. Just a ruin now. Landlord got drunk every night. One night he was killed.”
“It’s in flames right now! Even if you don’t believe me, can I least use your phone?”
“Don’t have one.”
Clearly, there would be no help here. I decided to head back to the inn, hoping the emergency services had been notified. I expected to see ominous red glow of the fire to help guide me, but there was nothing but darkness. I stumbled my way across the moor, wondering what on earth was happening. I found the inn after getting lost twice. I stared in amazement at the ruin I found. It was the Wolfshead, the sign was still there, but the windows were all boarded-up and it was surrounded by metal fencing, with stark No Entry signs posted. A forlorn For Sale sign had been attached to the wall near the entrance. The farmer had been correct, this place had been a ruin for years. My car sat in the car park, a very welcome sight. I jumped in, thankful for the chance to go home, to escape that bleak, haunted place. I tried not to think about what had just happened to me.
My wife was pleased to see me back so early, but disguised her emotions with a display of annoyance, complaining that I’d disturbed her ‘me’ time. I was bitterly disappointed, not just because of my traumatic experience, but because I hadn’t written my story. But every cloud has a silver lining. It was my wife who gave me the idea.
“Not that I believe you about what happened, but if it’s true, it all sounds pretty terrifying. Why don’t you just write that?”
Out clubbing, I meet a dreamy guy, you know the kind. My mother warned about deceptive men, but there he was –muscular, with topaz skin, thick lashes, all that goes with. The band is playing silver slipper music. Only one dance, all I ask is make it slow.
It’s “I’ve Got You Under My Skin”, my favorite. But as he tongues my ear, he spits a devil-worm inside. It makes passage through my cochlea, down my auditory nerve, straight into my brain, then powers on to reach my retina and ends at the lens. The last thing I see is the universe exploding under my skin.
Vast Lee Andrew Forman
With each particle of light, the ocular focus retains all—joy, pain, elation, agony. The mind recalls its past as it processes its present. But what the consciousness witnesses is beyond comprehension. It exists outside the realm of belief, on the outer reaches of the horizon of reality. Vessels burst, each from the strain of pure terror. Soft brain tissue shrivels at the sight of what cannot be unseen. Even as the last breath releases from this poor soul’s lungs and the heart ceases to function, in death, these memories are ingrained. Forever will its ghost see, in unendingly denied release, the vastness of eternal torment.
The Collector A.F. Stewart
Is it watching me? What does it see floating in that jar?
I stroke the glass jar and smile at my imaginings. The eye sees nothing anymore. It is only a specimen now.
And such a wonderful specimen. So many beautiful memories attached to it. I stare for a moment, savouring its beauty. Blood still clings to the viscera and membranes, the veins snaking stark red across the white filmy pulp. The satisfaction I felt scooping it from its socket, wet and dripping, plopping it fresh into the preserving fluid.
It isn’t perfect though. I made mistakes.
The pretty hazel hue of the iris faded; no longer the sparkling bright colour I envied. A shame really, her eyes were the loveliest part of her. A pity my hand slipped when extracting the other one; I wanted a matched set. Her screams during the procedure were too distracting. I’ll remember to gag the next girl.
I slide a new specimen jar next to her eye. Such exquisitely tapered fingers and a pair this time. The axe made nice, clean cuts; no ragged edges. And cauterizing the wounds with the blowtorch kept her alive. I was so proud. She won’t last much longer, but I should be able to remove her lips before she dies. She has such a charming smile, and now it will be mine forever.
Once I’m done with her, then on to the next one. Perhaps that pretty brunette barista at the coffee shop or that teenager working shifts at the farmer’s market. They both have such gorgeous eyes…
Piecemeal Elaine Pascale
Exercise and diet hadn’t worked. She felt she had run the equivalent of marathons, consumed calories approximating that of fumes, yet the scale did not budge. Pharmaceuticals did not work, either. She experimented with prescription capsules, over-the-counter tablets, and illegally obtained powders. Swallowing, snorting, and injecting left her tired, angry, and the same weight as before.
Stapling her stomach in half heralded a margin of success. Her physician prescribed a healthy lifestyle to accompany the radical surgery and assure lasting results. In her imagination, the directions that were printed on the side of the “lasting results” bottle warned that they must be taken along with patience, and she had run out of that years before. She wanted instant gratification. If half a stomach meant pounds lost, what would removing a few organs no longer in use produce?
She crafted symptoms that led to a full hysterectomy. She forged a family history that led to a double mastectomy. She paid out of pocket for lipo. She flew to a country whose name she could never pronounce correctly to have some unnecessary bones removed along with fingernails, toenails, and teeth. The scale was still not where she needed it to be.
The final solution: eye removal. Not only would that eliminate 56 grams, she would no longer be able to see the scale.
Closing Time Charles Gramlich
She made eyes at him across the bar. He didn’t seem to notice. She smiled and flipped her hair when he finally glanced her way. His gaze passed over as if she were part of the pseudo-paneled and pseudo-velvet décor. Now, it was a challenge. She knew she was attractive enough. And surely that was why men came to such places, and why they stayed until closing time. He was mildly attractive himself, in a kind of college professor sort of way. She decided that he needed to make a pass at her, and then she’d turn him down cold for first ignoring her.
She slithered around the bar to be closer to him and ordered a fresh drink for last call. Tipping the good-looking bartender a little too heavily, she slurred her voice while she thanked him, leaning forward on the stool so the hem of her red dress slid well up her thigh. The mark had to be looking at her now; he had to be thinking about how he could take her home and do things to her. But when she glanced provocatively over her shoulder at him, he wasn’t even there. She turned on her stool to see where he’d gone. The bar was empty. She spun back toward the bartender. He wasn’t there either. Before she could gasp in surprise, a long-fingered hand covered her mouth from behind and a man’s voice crooned chillingly into her ear, “Now that you’ve caught my attention, I only have eyes for you.”
Something plopped into her drink. The golden-brown iris suggested it had once belonged to the bartender.
Hatchling Nina D’Arcangela
Pressure from within stretches the gelatenous casing, the soft shell begins to rupture. A tiny heart—so fragile, so young, quickens as the inner-spawn sees light for the first time. The taut opening widens. Its lasting wait in darkness has come to an end. With it, a cry of pain; the release of violent nature, of agonizing entry into existence. It sees its new domain with fresh eyes; it’s teeming with life. A grumble rises from its empty paunch as it tears free of its sack. Dripping in yolk, its unending feast begins.
Infected RJ Meldrum
I thought I’d been smart. I’m a prepper; my basement is full of freeze-dried food, bottled water and guns. I wasn’t getting ready for anything specific. I just wanted to be ready. When the end came, it wasn’t what I expected. I wasn’t ready. I was in the damn supermarket when it happened. There had been reports of a strange new infection, but nothing local. Just in the city, so I gave it little thought.
I wasn’t aware of how it happened, all I know was a crowd of the infected burst in the front door and started to bite and tear at customers and staff alike. I dropped everything and ran, like everyone else. I passed real close to a victim being torn apart by two of…well, whatever they’d become. Just as I passed, they must have hit an artery and I had to run through a spray of blood. I felt it on my face and had to wipe my eyes to clear my vision.
I got back to my basement safely and locked down. It wasn’t until the second day I realized something was wrong. My left eyeball had a huge inflamed lump on it. It didn’t take long to work out I was infected. I can feel it work its way through my body.
They say the eyes are the window to the soul. I suspect very soon I won’t have one.
The Eye Collector Kathleen McCluskey
Martha woke with a broken blood vessel in her eye. That night she vanished. Townspeople began to wake with bloodshot eyes. Each of them disappeared within twenty-four hours. Detective Sam Harris had seen strange cases. But this one was different. The connection was the bloodshot eyes. As Sam was pouring over the case files, Eliza knocked on his door. She spoke of a legend that had been whispered. The Eye Collector was a demon that fed on the eyeballs of its victims. It could only collect them if the victims offered them willingly. It manipulated their thoughts, driving them mad until they plucked out their eyes. Eliza had a book filled with descriptions for the rituals needed.
That night, Sam felt a presence in his room. A whisper in his ear. “Your eyes, give them to me.” He jolted upright. He ran to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. The burst blood vessel appeared in his eye. He sought out Eliza and told her of the demon’s whisper. They decided to confront the Eye Collector at his lair, a dilapidated house on the edge of town.
As they approached the house, the front door creaked open. The atmosphere was thick with stench. The walls were lined with jars each containing a single, bloodshot eye. The whispers surrounded Sam and grew louder. Eliza began the ritual, chanting the words while Sam tried to keep his sanity. The demon appeared. It was a shadowy figure with eyes that burned like embers. Sam’s hand lifted to his eyes as Eliza’s chanting had reached a crescendo. The jars shook violently. They toppled off the shelves, shattering. Silence. Two jars remained intact. In one of the eyes, the demon’s eyes flickered.
Penetrating the Ball Harrison Kim
C. and I open our tentacles to touch down and fasten on the red spot of the Black Ball, which resides in the alternative non-liquid Universe. We’re the front-line explorers for our teeming Swarm and will report back via pulse communication about what we find. We left our orbit shells in the swirling waters up front, then slipped under the edge of the Ball’s artificial protective covering, which forms a barrier between our liquid world and the air based world of the Ball. Our mission: to explore the region behind the black centre itself, with a view to its nutritive value. C’s hypothesis is that the ball is attached to the dark mass behind it, which is part of a gigantic alien superstructure. Some type of electrical phenomenon within the dark mass is causing that ball to twitch. That means the alien brain could be located somewhere nearby. We crawl across the red ridged surface of the Ball. Along the way, we hang onto the prominent folded lines of the red spot with our tentacle suckers to avoid being tossed off. Then, we let go, drop down towards the Ball’s centre. Our multiple arms are working hard, but we finally reach our destination. To our surprise, there appears to be a gaping hole. A delicious aroma wafts out. It’s obvious to myself and C. from our previous experiences with the alternative universe that this hole leads to the most nutritious and tasty meal, the living alien brain. We send pulse signals back to the thousands from the Swarm: “Begin the mass attack! First penetrate through the edges of the barrier, then tentacle down into the hole itself. Come and eat your fill for the glorious sustenance and survival of our kind!”
Jerry had always been drawn to the mysterious and the unknown. So when he found himself lost in the dense forest, he couldn’t help but feel the thrill of excitement. Amidst the serene embrace of nature, Jerry found tranquility in the solace of the forest. As he trudged through the underbrush, his senses heightened for hidden dangers, he came across a concealed path. It led deeper into the woods. With a casual shrug, Jerry stepped onto the path. His sense of adventure rose louder, smothering the doubts screaming in his mind.
Jerry followed the path and emerged into a small clearing. His laid eyes upon a village unlike any he had ever seen. The buildings were quaint yet eerie, their windows dark and devoid of life. What struck him the most was the absence of sound. No birds, no bugs, not even the rustling of leaves. It was an oppressive silence that hung like a wet blanket in the air.
Intrigued, Jerry cautiously made his way into the village. His footsteps echoed loudly on the cobblestone street. The few villagers he encountered glanced at him with wary eyes before averting their gaze. Their faces displayed a silent concern for the outsider that had stumbled into their silent domain. Jerry observed with curiosity as the villagers communicated through intricate gestures. Their hands weaving a silent tapestry of meaning in the air. A shared language born of necessity. They exchanged knowing glances as they looked at hastily scrawled notes passed between them. They refused to speak a single word.
As night fell, Jerry’s unease only deepened. The silence seemed to intensify, pressing down on him like a weight. As his nerves began to frazzle, he sought refuge in a small inn. A grizzled innkeeper offered him a room for the night. As he led him to his room, their eyes met in a moment of silent understanding. The unspoken tension hung heavy in the air. The absence of words between them spoke volumes, the oppressive silence wrapped around them like a spider’s web.
Alone in his room, Jerry couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong with the village. He tossed and turned in his bed. Unable to sleep, he began to pace the floor. He paused. He thought he heard a faint scratching sound coming from beneath the floorboards.
His curiosity piqued, he tore up the loose floorboards revealing an open, hidden trap door leading down into the darkness. Jerry leaned on the hanging door, its ancient hinges gave a grumbled whine. The stairs descending into the blackened void were weathered and worn. Jerry retrieved the flashlight from the night table. He illuminated the shadowy corridor, and he stepped down. The ancient stone steps creaked softly with each cautious footfall. His flashlight caused the shadows to dance across the dusty walls creating eerie phantoms that beckoned him to venture deeper. As he dared to go further into the underground tunnels, Jerry discovered ancient runes etched into the walls, their meanings lost to time. He gently caressed the outlines. He began to sweat as adrenaline coursed through his body. He was unnerved by the sudden rush of anxiety. However, it was more the sense of dread hanging in the air that chilled him to the bone.
Jerry explored the tunnels. Deep within, the air grew stale as a warm silent breeze wafted over him. He stumbled upon a chamber unlike any he had seen. A vast cavern with a gaping chasm in the center. In the dim light of his flashlight, Jerry beheld a grotesque sight. It was a writhing mass of tentacles coiling and undulating in the blackness. The slimy appendages reached out hungrily towards him. Glowing eyes peered out from amidst the squirming mass, their malevolent gaze fixated on Jerry. The creature seemed to pulse with an otherworldly energy. Its form shifting and contorting in a nightmarish dance as if to defy reality itself.
As Jerry stood on the precipice of the chasm, a chilling realization washed over him like a wave of icy dread. In that moment, he realized that the absence of sound was not just an eerie aspect of the village but a haunting reminder of the looming threat lurking beneath. He realized that it wasn’t merely a choice but a necessity born from the need to keep the creature at bay. As he faced the creature, its own silence seemed to scream louder than any sound he had ever heard. It was a deafening void that echoed with the weight of centuries, old fear and desperation.The villagers were bound by an ancient pact to keep the creature below at constant rest. For even the slightest sound would awaken it from its slumber.
But it was too late, Jerry’s presence had disturbed the being, and now it hungered for sound. As it surged towards him, he scrambled for freedom. He realized that sound was both his enemy and his salvation.
Jerry’s heart pounded in his chest as he stumbled backward. His mind raced with primal panic. Before he could react, the creature’s slimy tentacles shot out at lightning speed, wrapping around his limbs and pulling him closer with an inexorable force. Despite his terror, Jerry’s throat constricted in fear. It rendered him speechless as he struggled against the creature’s grasp. His scream was trapped inside of him like a caged beast yearning to be free.
With the creature’s tentacles tightening around him like a vice, Jerry’s fear reached its breaking point. In a burst of desperation, he unleashed a deafening scream that echoed through the cavernous chamber.
As Jerry’s scream tore through the silence, the creature recoiled, lifting Jerry higher into the air. It howled as its form contorted and twisted as if assaulted by an unseen force. With a guttural roar, it released its grip on Jerry who was tossed onto the floor. He watched, gasping for breath. As if in response to the creature’s rising, the very ground beneath them began to rumble. The walls of the cavern began to groan and crack under the strain.
The ground under the village started to split apart, fissures snaked their way through the cobblestone streets. With an explosion of dirt and rubble, the creature burst forth from the ground with an ear splitting roar. Its massive form towering over the village like a wrathful titan. Homes crumbled in its wake, reduced to splinters and dust as the villagers ran for cover. Their silent world was shattered by the unleashed fury of the being below. Its massive tentacles lashed out indiscriminately, reducing buildings to rubble. With each step, the ground trembled beneath its monstrous form.
Even as the village lay in ruins and the creature’s hunger sated, there was no sign of it returning to its peaceful slumber. Instead it continued its relentless march. Its glowing eyes fixed on the horizon with an insatiable thirst for destruction. As it disappeared into the depths of the forest, a sense of dread fell over Jerry and the villagers. They knew that the true horror had only just begun.
Adorned with only a simple handle and the number 57, the door stood closed. I stared at it for some time, eyes darting between the numerals and brass knob. It was one among many in this seemingly endless hall, but it garnered my interest more than any other. I couldn’t say why. The reason was just as much a mystery as what was behind that door.
Sweat dripped down my brow as I contemplated opening it. I feared I might be caught, only more reason for them to keep me here… But my curiosity outweighed my worries. I reached for the handle and turned it.
I was surprised it wasn’t locked. Maybe there was nothing there to behold other than an empty room. The darkness seemed to ebb from the small sliver between the door and frame. I pushed it all the way, only to see more darkness. The light from the hallway couldn’t travel beyond that threshold. It was as if the room itself pushed it away.
I had to know what was in there, so I stepped inside. The door slammed shut behind me, leaving me sightless. “Hello?” I called out.
Heavy breathing was the only reply.
Then the sound of dripping.
A rancid stench assaulted my nose as I felt warm breath on my face. Then agony as unseen teeth tore away at my flesh.
I am the spirit of the Ocean Beach Motel off Route 66. My office is run by a witchy clairvoyant name of Madeline Williams. In exchange for her labor, I allow her unlimited use of several rooms for her personal business, no questions asked. We have an excellent working relationship. Between the two of us, we know the score on what goes on inside my rooms.
Room #5: Winning the Lottery had brought her more grief than joy by far. Dorothy Ann Thomas wasn’t expecting company. She rented this room for a month, told no one, not even her sister and certainly not her son, David. He was a liar and a thief and had disgraced himself beyond forgiveness in her eyes. She’d given most of the money to the local animal shelter. Somehow, David found out she’d won, and showed up at her door. She let him in, explaining how she didn’t have the money anymore. He snarled and shoved her. She fell, cracking her head against the corner of a dresser. He saw something was wrong with her neck. He didn’t stay.
Room #11: Rodrick Pierce set the bottle of Jim Beam on the bedside table with a glass from the kitchen. “Nice little kitchen, I could stay here until I rot,” he laughed. “Nobody would notice.” His wife had left him on his birthday last year. That was bad, but not as bad as being fired that morning, two months short of retirement. He cleared out his office, got in his car and drove until nearly dark. Stopped at a liquor store, and then found my place. He’s lucky my rooms provide stout rods on the bathtubs, strong enough to hold a man dangling by his neck. Rodrick will use his belt if he can’t find any rope around here. Probably won’t even finish that bottle before he decides to get the job done.
Room #19: She’d been a little drunk when Robert checked them in. She wasn’t “that kind of girl”, she’d told him that repeatedly, plus he had to promise over and over how it wasn’t going to be a one-night stand. “No, Sherry, I promise. Being with you is all I want. You want me too, right?” And so on, but he had to get another drink down her before she’d let him unhook her bra. After it was over, she fell asleep, or so he thought. He was sneaking out the door at the crack of dawn when he heard “Robert Botts, that better not be you going out that door!” He turned, surprised, to see his silly little Sherry holding a Glock. Where it came from, he couldn’t imagine. “One night stand,” that’s what this was all along!” she cried. Robert didn’t have a chance.
Indeed, there are more like this on any given day. As motels go, I do a pretty interesting business. Another example, if you like naughty, the extraordinary things that go on in my hot tub never disappoint either. Stop in, sometime!
I dream of her, my phantom, her haunting face stretched taut with pale skin, wispy white hair falling limp around her red-rimmed eyes. She stares, blind and bleeding, her lips mouthing silent whispers against the aether. Somehow I know she is pleading, screaming, her words drowning inside whatever hell has claimed her. I tremble when she reaches out to me, her fingers inches from my cheek… That is when I awake from my nightmare, drenched in sweat. I should be relieved, the night terrors banished by the sun. Yet, my torment continues throughout the daylight hours, for she never leaves me. She is my shadow in the light, the ghost that haunts my waking hours and bleeds me dry for peace. A manifestation of primal fear and my eternal pity, my personal apparition. Her existence instills both the desire to flee and the need to save her. Am I mad? I have no answer to that question. Perhaps I might welcome insanity. The waking world now threads around me unfinished in shades of grey and gloom, with no vibrancy of colour save red; it taints everything, everywhere. I long for sleep and my nightmares. I long for her pale face and crimson eyes. Each night I sink deeper beneath the surface of my dreams and she draws closer to me; my skin craves her touch now, and it is harder to wake in the morning. I never leave the house and barely eat, often staring at my bed, forcing myself to stay awake. What if I close my eyes and never wake up? Would I finally be with her? The uncertainty of it all anchors me to this world. Will she bring my oblivion or will I be her deliverance? I don’t know. The not knowing drives me, swirls my mind in frantic visions and terrors. Yet, I feel I will understand soon, for her siren’s song becomes harder to resist. When her fingers caress my face, I will have my answer. Only then will my nightmare end. At least I pray it will.
What I remember most from my last relationship is his eyes. They were blue – pale at the center, dark around the edges. Sometimes they would change, lightening when he would smile or darkening when he was angry. Oh, how I miss those eyes!
Well, missed those eyes.
I fixed that problem soon enough. Now I can see his eyes whenever I like. Of course, it’s not quite the same. They don’t change when he smiles, but then again, he doesn’t smile these days. Instead, I keep them in a jar, hidden away in my room. I take them out every now and then, for old time’s sake.
But not too often. I don’t want my new boyfriend to get jealous. As it is, I’m worried that things aren’t going too well between us. And I must admit, I would really miss his lips . . .
It was hot; one of those vile, humid city days when the heat was oppressive and inescapable. Despite the early hour, the temperature was already ridiculously high. The heat wave had been going on for a week and even the overnight temperatures were ridiculously high. He stood at the bus-stop, waiting for the morning bus to arrive. It was late. He was already sweating, he could feel damp patches forming under his arms and sweat trickling down his back and face. The city streets were busy, the traffic roaring and honking through rush hour. Across the street the noise of drills, saws and hammering came from a construction site. The city noise disturbed and distracted him. There was a kid next to him, wearing headphones plugged into a cell phone. The kid must have had the volume turned right up, because he could hear the music over the sound of the city…the thump, thump, thump of a drumbeat, with some indistinct vocals screaming out. His head started to ache, the pain pulsing in time to the music. His feet, encased in cheap leather shoes, absorbed the heat from the sidewalk. He felt angry, on edge. Stupid kid, stupid music; a pointless noise. The temperature increased, his head felt as if it was about to split open, his feet burned. He could feel his fingers balling into fists. He was aware he was about to hit the kid, knock him down and smash his phone to stop the noise. He took a huge, deep breath of warm, fetid air and willed himself to stop.
It wasn’t the kid; it was the heat. The damned heat.
Without thinking he reached down, removed his shoes and pulled off his socks. He stepped off the sidewalk onto a small grassy area next to the bus stop. It was part of the entrance to an office building. A sprinkler sprayed water onto this modest green space. He stood on the freshly watered grass, feeling the cool blades between his toes and the moist soil on his soles. His headache suddenly diminished, the pain dissipating in an instant. He felt cooler and he could feel himself calming down. He looked up to see the kid grinning at him. He smiled back. He knew he looked foolish, but he didn’t care. Being laughed at was better than him hurting a kid half his age.
The bus arrived and he climbed aboard barefoot, clutching his shoes and socks. He whistled as he paid his fare. The air conditioned interior of the bus was a blessing, but it was only the icing on the cake. His day was already looking up.
Pen of the Damned 