F. P. Dorchak

Speculative Fiction (New Weird) Author

Spooky

What Dreams Are Made Of

by

Everyone Needs A Vacation Now And Then. (Image by By Deepshikha Sansanwal [CC BY-SA 4.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)], via Wikimedia Commons)
Everyone Needs A Vacation Now And Then. (Image by By Deepshikha Sansanwal [CC BY-SA 4.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)], via Wikimedia Commons)
Wow, when I first reread this at the end of June, it just blew me away! I’d forgotten about this story, but once I began reading it—not unlike the character in the story—I began remembering things… creepy, unsettling things. Well, about the story. But not all of it! I was thinking about placing this in November… then, when I finished reading it, I just had to place it sooner.

I love these kinds of stories!

I think you’ll see what I mean once you get into it—and I hope you enjoy it as much as I do! There are several instances in this story that are taken from real life: the scene where the character remembers a childhood moment about getting out in the rain to use a restroom and that talk about lights on the pavement—I still remember that moment as a kid as I was the one doing it…remember the lights sparkling on the late-night/early morning pavement; the talk about Dr Pepper…yup remember that day; the time my dad and us went camping on a small island—also true. I also remember at least one—maybe two?—times we went to a KOA.

And the van. Well, that’s taken from a time when I was a kid returning from swimming at the lake across from our house and a van pulled up before me…”asking for directions.” A guy opened the rear sliding door and leaned out to me in a really creepy mode and I suddenly felt quite uncomfortable. You have to understand that where we lived we got stopped many times during the summer and were asked for directions, mainly from Canadians, but never had I ever felt uncomfortable. This time I did. And there were three guys in the van. Right about then, my dad comes purposefully striding down our crushed-stone driveway with a mattock in one hand. “Can I help you boys with something?” my dad calls out from across the road.

They suddenly forgot their question. Sped off.

Years later I asked my dad about that situation and he said he’d asked his State Trooper buddies and they told him they’d found that van down the road a way, abandoned. That it had been stolen.

This story has never been published.

 

What Dreams Are Made Of

© F. P. Dorchak, 1994

 

Wake up, Harry, time to go!

Words that were more than a distant echo, they were pain. I tossed about, caught in blankets that refused release. It seemed an eternity before I finally broke free. It was so comfortable, the warmth of my bed. So unyielding.

Let’s go, Harry—

The words again. Do I know the speaker? I feel I should. Where am I? What time is it?

Summer. That’s right—summer. The first day of summer vacation. I’m home from my first year at Syracuse. Damn, but how those finals twisted your thinking around, getting you to believe there’s nothing outside of school. Nichts. Professors’d have you believe there’s only English Lit, Physics I (and lab), German for Beginners, and any of a number of other courses you’d rather forget. I’ve got big plans, so I bulked up this year. Twenty-one credits. It nearly killed me.

Where am I?

I open my eyes to find it dark, and feel movement. We’re in a car…but I just thought I was at home—the bed, the blankets—

It’s raining outside, a constant, soaking rain. A comforting sound if you’ve ever just listened to it.

I’m so tired!

The voice stops calling me, but reminds me of a time when I was a kid, about thirteen, I think. My dad and us would all pile into that red station wagon of ours at one in the morning. Our big vacation down into Pennsylvania. Amish country. We’d drive straight through, stopping only for potty breaks. Once we stopped at a gas station early one morning. It was also dark and raining. Dad had stopped and Mom had asked us (there were four of us) if we’d needed to use the rest rooms. My sister and I had, and we’d sprinted through the rain until we made shelter, did our business, then sprinted back. I thought how neat it had looked, lights sprinkled across the damp, rain-pockmarked pavement. The fact that it was maybe three in the morning, and the rest of the world was still snuggled away in bed. It was so peaceful, so mystical.

But now I’m traveling down an unknown road with my dad behind the wheel, and Mom, no doubt (because I haven’t actually gotten around to poking up my head yet), sitting against him, eyes closed; drinking in the steady hum and rock of the station wagon, as was I.

But I need to get my act together.

When did I get here? I remember how we’d talked about taking a trip when I got back from college, all of us, but I also remember something else, just outside the memories. I wasn’t coming straight back after school. I was going somewhere else first…a party. Yes, that’s what it was. There had been this party someone I knew was throwing, or maybe not someone I knew…but there was this party I was to go to. Only then was I going to begin my trip north…hitchhiking…to my home at Dead Bog Lake. Despite its name, a beautiful, deep lake that we lived directly across from, complete with boathouse and lakefront property. Dark waters. My dad’s a Forest Ranger. Mom works as an Administrative Assistant down at Land’s End, a rich folk’s estate. But something doesn’t feel right…isn’t complete…like I’m missing a crucial part to some puzzle.

Have I remembered something wrong?

The car’s slowing. We’re coming to a stop. Potty break. Not for me; I don’t have to go this time.

It’s still raining.

 

We’ve been going for several hours now, and I lift my head. Dad’s driving, his right arm around Mom, who’s fast asleep. He and Mom are all wet, as I notice, I am too. The car pleasantly smells of Borkum Riff pipe tobacco, the only brand my dad used. Smoking’s supposed to be bad for you, but I love that smell, especially that brand. Besides, he’s my dad; he’ll live forever.

“Almost there, Son,” my dad calls back. His voice brings out such deep emotional tones from me. I wonder where the rest of us are: Stephen, John—Lindsey. Is it just me on this trip? I guess they all had other commitments. It’s been a while since I’ve seen my folks—about a year. Christmas vacation I had to spend at an apprenticeship downstate. I didn’t mind—I knew I’d see everybody soon enough, and this was school—my first year, as I’ve already said. My first year as—

(how could I have forgotten?)

The car again slows. Mom’s up. She turns around to look at me, strands of hair matted against her face. She looks as if she’s been crying, but her voice betrays no such emotion. “Hello, dear,” she says, “did you have a good nap?”

“Sure did, Ma,” I say, pleasantly. Her voice also makes me feel warm. I’m happy to be home again. Feels like I haven’t been this warm in a while. After all, don’t know the next time we’ll be together. Like I’ve said before, I’ve got big plans for yours truly….

“Well,” continues Mom, turning back to the front, “we’re here.”

“That’s right,” Dad agrees.

God, I love that tobacco. Cancer or no cancer, it’s a comfortable smell. Brings back warm, cathartic memories: fireplaces, Dad-talks and walks. Fishing. Lord, how it’s so easy to get wrapped up in

(blankets)

studies. School. Fucking finals just throw your life all to hell. But that’s past. We’re on vacation now. Just the three

(where are the others?)

of us.

 

We unload the wagon. Still, it’s raining. Heavily clouded—like we’re going to get squashed between heaven and earth—

It’s a beautiful day.

There’s no one else around. That’s fine, we’re not here to see others. It’s funny that there was only this one old man at the KOA entrance. No one anywhere else. The man had no teeth, it looked like, but a big fat grin. Pulpy face. “Thirty bucks,” he’d grunted. Dad gave him the cash and we found a spot.

“Hey, young man,” my dad shouts out over the top of the car as I reach over to unload, “you sit your butt down. This is your vacation. Let your mother and I do the work. You’ve done quite enough already!”

For some unnerving reason, I don’t quite know how to take that, but okay, I say, and pick out a stump. I almost fall down. My feet are tangled in that damned blanket again. Christ. But the blanket reminds me of the time we went down to Gettysburg, Pee-Aee. We’d stopped along the road one sunny day at a rather large rest area. Mom had pulled out a blanket—probably this very same one—and spread it out over the grass. We sat under a large shade tree. Dad had gone to the soda machine and spent his change getting all six of us sodas.

Dr Pepper. I love Dr Pepper.

Ah, vacations. I wonder how many more I’ll get to go on before I’ve become part of The Working Class. Before—if and when—I ever have a family of my own.

Now there’s a thought.

 

The tent’s all set up and the rain pummels us harder. Dad started a fire that managed to keep itself going despite the downpour, and Mom was busy cooking fish we’d caught after making camp. I love the smell of roasting trout.

“You couldn’t have picked a nicer day, dear,” Mom said, beaming to Dad. Thunder rumbled its throaty growl across a fractured, purple sky.

“Yep, well, I try to get God to bend an ear every now and then.”

They laugh, and Mom curiously eyes Dad. I didn’t for some reason; something still nags at me. It had to do with that party, I think. I’m not really sure, and that bugs me. What went on there? Where was it? Did I even make it? Why is everything so damned hazy? I need to sort things out.

“Mom; Dad; I need to take a walk.”

They both look at me like I’d slashed my wrists or something.

“Honey,” Mom suggests, her voice quivering, “how about we go with you? I mean…how often do we get to see you? You know? You’re away in college; probably take another apprenticeship—who knows?”

I reconsider. She has a point. Anyway, I guess I really wouldn’t mind the company, but I shiver. “Okay.”

Mom and Dad are back to smiles.

“It’s a beautiful evening for a stroll, anyway!” my dad boasts, large drops of water still raging down from an angry sky.

 

We walk. Mom and Dad are in front of me some. I hold back. They’re like lovers rediscovering romance. That’s cool. I don’t have a girlfriend. A couple girls I boinked back in school, but that’s about it. Lookers, too. Well, one was more homely-looking than the others, but, boy, the largest set of knockers. She had this red hair and cute freckles. I met her while working the information booth at the student union. Her name was Anna, and she was also new, looking for some information about movies and stuff. One thing led to another, and we ended up doing the nasty. She had the largest, deepest brown eyes. So understanding and open. God, how I suddenly miss them. I couldn’t loved her. I can’t wait to get back to her. But summer came, and she went to her home in the Catskills and I headed north to the Adirondacks.

North.

To that party.

I’d hitchhiked. Didn’t tell my folks, they wouldn’t have approved. Shit, my dad’s a Forest Ranger, next best thing to a cop up there; a gun, cuffs, and everything. Ranger of the woods. They didn’t always carry ’em, the guns and handcuffs. I can remember when he told me how scary—my word, not his; I don’t remember what he used—it was to him that they were told they had to. Was a big change for The Department. That and all those Coll-edge boys. They’re taking over the place, he complained. Don’t know a damned thing about the woods, but sure are makin policy.

So I get this ride north. Actually more than one, it’s a bit of a ride by the speed limit—which is about all you can do with all those damned troopers out there. They just keep spilling out of the State Police Academy. Thicker’n gnats on a hot summer’s evening, Dad says. Uckers—

That’s when I fall. Now, I mean, following my folks. I tripped over a log I wasn’t paying attention to.

(what’s so important about the log?)

Mom and Dad hear me tumble and turn to me in wide-eyed horror. Rush to my side.

“You okay, Son?” Dad asks, hastily checking me over. Mom’s examining my face, wrists, and ankles. She used to be a nurse.

“You look okay. How do you feel?” she asks.

I start laughing. “I’m fine, Mom! I just wasn’t watching where I was going, that’s all.”

“Well you should know better than that, young man, or there won’t be a next time,” Dad spit. His face was set. Puffed and angered.

“Now, Lloyd, there’s no need to get all out of sorts. It was a simple mistake. You can’t fault him for lack of judgment. He’s young—still learning.”

“Just think what could’ve happened!” he insists.

“But nothing did…here,” Mom said. She brought a hand to his face, trying to calm him down.

“Dad—I’m all right, really. Remember that time I put my hand through that door window—the facial cuts looked worse than they w—”

“These ain’t no facial cuts, dammit.”

“Okay, okay,” I say, “I’ll be more careful next time, all right?” I pick myself up and brush off the mud. After all, it’s still raining, though more of a drizzle now. Mom pulls Dad away. I see the fire in his eyes. Why all the fuss? All I did was trip. Over a

(familiar)

log

Sheesh.

 

We complete our walk and return to our camp. Water has already started to build up around it. It’s late now, so we hit the sack, but I don’t sleep well. I feel this constriction around my neck, but each time I reach to loosen it, there’s nothing there. I lay on my stomach to look out our tent, into the night, and wonder what’s out there. I listen to that pleasant pitter-patter of rain and watch the drops splash in the water about the tent. Don’t touch the sides of the tent, my Dad used to say, it’ll kill the waterproof. I don’t. It’s so quiet. So peaceful. The smell of wet things and rain. I feel at home. How strange, I’ve never been here before—or have I? Doesn’t really matter does it? I mean, vacation is vacation, whether or not you’ve been there before. I like it here. We’re by ourselves.

What more could you ask for?

 

I must have finally dozed off last night, because I’m the last to get up. The rain has let up some, and is now only a misty drizzle, but water is everywhere…like an enormous wading pool. I pushed myself up out of it and exit the tent.

“Good morning, hon!” Mom greets. She’s already getting a start on the day, clad in a swim suit on a reclining lawn chair. She’s holding a sun reflector under her chin. I notice how the water mists on the reflector under her neck and get that eerie feeling again.

“Good morning, Son,” Dad says. He’s cooking up fish and bacon, but it smells funny. The day feels thick and I feel sluggish. Just a little weak. I look down to my feet before I walk any farther and see that damned blanket again wrapped around my ankles. I caught it this time so I don’t fall. Dad ought to like that.

“What would you like to do today, honey?” Mom asks.

“Gee, I really haven’t given it much thought, Mom.”

“Well, you better start giving it some thought, mister, or your vacation’ll be over before you know it. Do you want that?” Dad asks.

Do you really want that?

Suddenly I’m no longer hungry. All I want is a Dr Pepper.

“There’s one in the cooler, dear,” Mom says. I get it. It’s in a bottle. An old, crusty one with dirt encrusted under the cap’s lip.

“I didn’t know they made these in bottles anymore,” I say.

Mom looks up at me, kind of queerly, and says, “oh, they don’t.” She says it just like I should have known better. Sitting down on a large log by the campfire, I

(logs)

watch Dad.

“Be careful not to fall over that thing,” he says severely, looking over a shoulder and shuttling the fire.

“Oh, Lloyd, take it easy on the boy,” Mom counters, and he mumbles something under his breath. Dad’s only toying with the fish now.

“Dad, uh, are you going to eat that?” I ask.

“No, at least I hadn’t planned on it.”

“What’s that with it? Bacon?”

“No.”

“What is it?”

“It’s…it’s seaweed, okay? Kelp.”

(seaweed)

“It adds…flavor…to the fish. It’s something I learned in the Navy.”

Oh, I nod. Some things are better left unasked.

 

After not eating breakfast, we go off for our hike into the rain-soaked woods. Mom and Dad, instead of being close to each other, this time are very much apart. Carrying on a discussion that they tried not to let me in on, but I still catch in pieces.

“…but it’s a vacation, dear,” she whisper’s. “Who cares?” Dad says, “it’s only going to end—then we’ll all have to go back home. Go back to the way things are.” “So?” Mom says, “what’s the difference? What’s done is done. We’ll have next year.” “Sure,” Dad says, but then I lose track of what they’re saying and remember another trip we’d taken. A canoe trip. Just Dad and us kids. Fish Creek I think? We’d canoed out to a small island and set up camp. All the essentials taken care of, we set out swimming around the island. Well, more like snorkeling. Dad was right there in the water with us. It was a dark, sandy shore. Smooth, silky, water.

(feels so familiar)

It felt great. We just drifted. Became one with the water.

(why do I feel so uncomfortable?)

Later in the day we hung out in the tent, and the sky began to howl rain down upon us in sheets. We were situated under trees, but the force of the rain was incredible. It shook our tent, sent little tributaries of water inside the fabric along the seams. Water rushed down on all sides of our little shelter and we got scared. Dad asked us if we wanted to stay. We chickened out. The rain let up and we broke camp and hightailed it back to the truck across rough open water before it again opened up on us.

Rain.

(rain rain go away come again another)

Party.

Water.

I shake with a sudden, tremendous awareness.

I remember my hitchhike now.

I remember two men—and a woman. A van. A ragged, rusty-looking thing that seemed to have weeds or

(kelp)

hanging from it. Had I known it was so ragged looking I wouldn’t have stuck out my thumb, but it was getting dark that day and I was almost home. Hell, I thought, one more try. They’d stopped, and the guy in the back slid open the side door. There was a strange look to his eyes. I felt

(like I do now)

uncomfortable. But I was already there, know what I mean? No turning back. Tough guy…can handle myself. That’s when I hear this female behind him telling him to either let me in or to close the fucking door. I get in. Mistake number one. I smell incense. I’ve always hated the smell of the stuff. She’s in the back, in a dark corner, and when she sees me, comes out. She liked me. Thought I was cute. As we drive, I tell them about this party I’d gone to. They tell me about another.

Where? I ask.

Dead Bog, they tell me.

Really? You from there?

From around there, they say. Wanna come?

I-I don’t know, I stammer. I really should just get home.

You nervous? the girl asks. She’s pretty fine looking under those haggard eyes and ratty hair and clothes. I notice what looks like an old, deteriorated cameo choker of some kind around her throat. Her breasts float out from under her blouse as she leans over to me. I swallow hard. I mean hard. No, I reply.

Well, good, we wouldn’t want that, now, would we? she says.

Just then the guy in the back with us whispers into her ear. She smiles, one of her hands caressing a nipple. I look away. I definitely feel like I got myself into something I shouldn’t have. Hey, I say, you can let me off anywhere you want, you know. I wouldn’t want to be a bother. It’s not much farther, and—

The girl comes over and puts an arm around me. Her body brushes up against mine. We have something we’d really like to show you, she says. At first I swear she’s cold, a friggin damp cold, but that quickly passed as I saw more dark nipple. Her breath smelled of something I couldn’t quite put a finger on, but was, it turned out, alarmingly arousing. Her eyes were dark slits of seduction.

No bother, Harry, they say, we’re your friends. Don’t you like us?

Ah, sure, I say. Sure.

We can be pretty friendly, she says.

Sure.

I want her. There’s something incredibly erotic about the way she moves. Breathes.

Now just relax, and we’ll all have a good time at this party of ours. I’m just going to change, she says. No prob’lem, I say, but before I realize it, she’s stripping down before me, keeping her eyes on me. She lifts a finger to her lips, lips I suddenly feel very much like eating…biting right out of her mouth. I watch as her lips part and she places the finger between them, hooking her lower teeth. I become her finger and feel her lips wrap around me. Watch and feel their moisture as she sucks, closes her eyes. I want her so much it hurts, but remember the guy who’s in back with us. I think back to my family and wonder how I got into this mess. I feel hopelessly distanced from my life. My mom and dad, brothers and sister. None of this feels right. None of it. But I’m aroused, painfully aroused, and need more. She’s naked, now, openly flirting with me. I know the guy’s watching, but I can’t help myself. Her body is smooth and available and I want her in the most evil of ways and I no longer care if he’s there. I need those lips. For real. Those breasts. I want whatever it is she has, and I’ll pay whatever price she demands.

She leans back, knees teasing back and forth, breasts falling comfortably to their places. She stares at me. Begins to run her finger about her body. Inside and outside of places. Her scent is heady. I think of Mom. Would she approve of what I’m about to do? Would Dad take me outside and slap me on the back and say, “Hey, way to go, stud!“?

You sure you don’t want some? the girl teases. She doesn’t have to read my mind. I no longer mind the incense. Before I know it, she’s brushing her finger under my lips. Around them. I shut my eyes, drugged by her touch.

Fuck, I’d kill for her.

Gently she presses her finger between my lips and wedges it in…again forming that hook. I’m so drunk with her I can’t see straight. I grab hold of her and try to force myself upon her, but she holds me back. Slowly, she says, but I don’t want slowly.

I seem to have lost consciousness as my heart pounds up into my throat. I feel like I’m suffocating and suddenly find the girl atop me, her hair flying wildly about her, almost floating. She moans; gyrates. Claws at me. Then she explodes…and I explode with her….

 

I am jolted back to my walk. Dad and Mom are sitting on a stump holding hands and looking at me. Really looking at me. I feel guilty, like they know my thoughts. Had I really done that? Had I really—and do they know?

They get up and walk away. I feel like shit.

God, it’s all coming back to me. Those people. That van. That party; a party I should never have gone to. I stand up shakily. I don’t feel right. I raise a hand to my face and wipe away the water that runs down it. I trace my face and neck and flinch. There’s a painful, ringed area around my throat. I can’t see it, of course, but I do feel it. That girl…raped me. Those people…I was seduced. They—

Aren’t human. Something about them was…is…will always be…wrong.

I looked around for my parents, but they already head back for camp; Dad with his head down, Mom casting me a backward glance. She pulls Dad into her and cradles his head against her.

What’s wrong? I wonder. What did I do?

I sit there for some time before heading back. The rain’s stronger and colder. Like little knives raining down from the sky. The water’s up to my knees now and I schlosh through it. My sneakers are swollen and heavy. Water is everywhere, rising higher. It’s like a shallow lake with bushes and trees sticking out from it. Me. But I need to remember more. That girl…whatever she was…is…continued to attack me—

Or had I attacked her?

Oh, how I was intoxicated with her! Her scent! I could smell her passion like a beast in heat. Even now, when I remember how her body moved, I feel an instant need to have her. Seek her out and take her as no man has ever taken anyone before. I want her—and the pain.

She taunts.

 

Finally we had gotten to Dead Bog Lake, and their party; down through a windy, shaded road. I felt strangely nostalgic as we passed my house, lights on in the kitchen. I saw a shadow at one of the windows and felt sad, like I’d never see them again…yet I had her.

That’s all I really needed.

We drove to the outskirts of town, well, actually a township—a hamlet—until just before the outlet. There’s a strong, fishy smell to the air. We pull into a driveway and there’s all sorts of vehicles, all kinds of people. And all the vehicles look as did the one I came in. Decayed and rusted. Covered in vegetation. As we stop, the others, The Three, as I came to call them, pile out of the van, and I’m left sitting in it alone, staring out into the mass of people, bonfire, and booze. The party feels odd. Smells corrupt. I try to get a good look at some of the people, but it’s difficult. It’s dark now, and the voices seem a jumble. Where is that girl—I don’t even know her name.

How had things gotten so out of control?

I stumble out of the van and lean against it for a moment. I could just keep walking…right on up that road…to home…with the golden kitchen lights and my parents waiting up for me. They think I’m still on the road.

Again the guilt.

Home was so close, yet this woman and her seduction much closer. I hear my name and spot her. She’s waving for me. This isn’t right, isn’t right at all. Things are feeling more and more absurd, more remote as moments pass. I feel a sudden urgency to run—to just get the hell out of there and as quickly as fucking possible. I feel a dark shape stalking me from the shadows. Huge, looming, and thirsty. Burrowing into my deepest, most recessed and cobwebbed of places, and find it difficult to breathe. Thunder cracks out along the darkened sky. Deep, drawn-out rumblings that seem to go on forever.

Mistake number two, I follow after this girl.

She is just as naked as when I last saw her. She moves her hips in wicked, sinful ways further igniting my lust. A man grabs her and they disappear from view. I rage! I must have her, my body screams, and I lunge after her. I will kill that man. I will rip apart his body!

But I’d lost them. My head spins.

I need her. I MUST HAVE HER!

I stumble about. Cannot see clearly. A red haze blinds me and grips my senses. All I can picture is her body, wrapped around that man.

Hear.

Her crazed desire.

I lash out, wanting to give her nothing but pure pain.

Little deaths, I laugh, I’ll give her many.

I push through the crowd, bellowing my passion and anger. I hit shapes that were supposed to be people, but feel funny and soft. Bloated. I didn’t care. I’m insane for her. My name is sung above the rising storm, above the din and clatter of the party, and I follow it down to the lake shore. To where I spot her, indeed wrapped around that man, their bodies rocking in the sand. Her screams are the only sounds I hear. My head splits with jealous furor! I shake with anticipation of tasting blood. His blood. I will slowly rend that man’s flesh from his bones.

When a sudden thought strikes me cold: what would my parents think?

God—what do I care?

But as I continue forward, I begin to slow. My head hangs heavy for my conscience is strong.

What have I become? What in God’s name have I become?

I look up and find her alone. Gyrating like Mata Hari. Teasing. Again. I try to look away, but cannot. I try to walk back to the road, the one behind me and a million miles away. But I…can’t….

Sorry, Mom.

Dad.

 

I shake the memory from my mind. I’m back at camp with my mother and father, aghast of my recollections. I can barely believe them. The water is chest level, now, and Mom and Dad are sitting by the station wagon staring at me. I go to them. Maybe I don’t need to know everything. Maybe I can still enjoy what’s left of our vacation. I mean, how often do we get together? What’s done is done, right?

“Mom; Dad,” I begin, but they just stare at me. I don’t finish what’s on my mind. Something is lost between us. They look worn out and wasted. The water continues to rise; the downpour steady and forceful.

“It’s a good day, isn’t it?” Mom finally says to Dad. Her words are flat. Two-dimensional. Dad merely nods. “Remember more,” he says to me. “Go on.” Then he hands me a plate of whole, raw fish on a bed of kelp.

I scrunch my brow together. “Why?”

“Because you’re going to anyway.”

“What’s happening?”

“Everything. Let’s go inside, dear,” Dad says to Mom, and they disappear beneath the water and enter the tent. I’m left alone.

I remember it all, all right, and I’m angry. They tricked me, just like everyone else at that party. Like they tricked—

 

I want to go home, I tell that devil-woman back at the party.

You’re not going anywhere, she hisses back.

You can’t keep me here, I say, and begin to leave—but she grabs me. I’m spun around, and no longer is she the seductress I knew, but a bloated, distended horror. I can’t even tell if it was a male or female corpse I stared into the empty eye sockets of.

We’re not done with you yet, he/she/it seethes.

I see things crawl beneath her skin. I scream. The others are upon me. I reach up to push them off, but my hands sink into bloated and stinking flesh. I am forced to the wet, muddy ground. Hands are all over me, tearing off my clothes…she—it—straddles atop me. I want to die. Please, God, just die.

What’s the matter, she gurgles, you no longer want to kill for me?

I freeze. She brings her lips down to mine—I cannot take this! Kill me! KILL me! What are you?

They laugh. We cannot tell you, they say, laughing, but we’d really like to show you—

Out from behind my vision, a large water-soaked log is dragged. A noose is fastened around my neck and attached to the log.

We can’t wait to have you in our little family—

 

I no longer want to think. I sit at the camp, the water now over my head. I’m still holding the plate of fish Dad gave me. I no longer fear the water, for now I know it’s coming back to claim me. Mom and Dad are out of the tent, plowing through the water like nothing’s going on.

“Hello, dear,” Mom says. “Would you like some dessert? Fish?”

I jump to my feet and toss away the plate in anger. My mother looks to me, saddened.

“Well, I guess that’s it, then,” she says, and she sighs and goes back to my father, who seems to be crying, but I can’t tell because of all the water. We’re a part of it now.

I feel heavy.

I try to go after my parents as they return to the van, but find I can’t. There’s a log tied to my neck. It’s heavy and I have many rope burns. I try to loosen it, but it’s impossible. All I can do is watch as my parents pack up and leave.

Didn’t we arrive in a station wagon?

I sit back down, log lashed to my throat, and watch them disappear into the murky, underwater distance. Then I see others. Three others. I grow cold. Shiver. I know them. As they get closer, they beckon. They are The Three. Reclaiming me. I get up to follow them and find I am not at the campground, but Dead Bog Lake. To where I’ve always been. It was a dream. All of it. A vacation from the bottom of its dark and cursed waters. I awaken to my place among the fish and the seaweed. Where my feet are eternally tangled.

(no blanket)

Where the log keeps me.

(no more tripping and falling)

Where my old, dirt-filled Dr Pepper bottle lies directly before my own dead and glassy eyes.

(no more coolers)

And now I know things. About this lake. About my new family and my new life. The girl and the guy in the back of the van drowned in 1807. A canoeing accident. The driver of the van drowned in 1973. Drunk, he’d driven off an embankment into the lake. And the old man at the KOA? He’d killed someone back in ’51. Robbed a man for thirty bucks, only to be tracked down and killed by the kin, then thrown into the dark, slippery waters. The party was bait, as were The Three. As I will be so used. Bait for the lake to reel in more. Set its hooks. A lake with a dark, unspeakable hunger.

And once the taste of meat is acquired, it’s a hard thing to shake.

 

Short Story Links

Links to all my posted short stories are here.

 

Bloodtales and Flies

by

We Got Us A Bleeder! (Image by By Crystal [Crystl] from Bloomington, USA [Flickr] CC BY 2.0, http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0, via Wikimedia Commons)
We Got Us A Bleeder! (Image by By Crystal [Crystl] from Bloomington, USA [Flickr] CC BY 2.0, http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0, via Wikimedia Commons)
This hideous and disturbing little tale from the mind of a twenty-six-year-old will surely disgust.

So, why post it?

Because it definitely shows the weird lengths to which my stories ideas ran their gamut. It is a decent story, as the horror genre goes.

And it’s just plain weird—

I mean, why and how would something like this happen?

And that final scene?

A roommate named “Rino“?

There’s probably a reason why this one was never published, but I just couldn’t put it away once I read it. I had to clean it up. Work on it a little. It, too, was one of my earliest works. No “metaphysics” here—just straight “horror,” all the way!

And at the end of it is what is today termed “flash” fiction. It’s called “Flies.” It’s not much, but it was attached, so I included it. I experimented in writing as short of a story as possible before it became in vogue to do so; or at least that I was aware of. “Flies” was inspired by my dad. One summer when I was a kid, my dad, a Forest Ranger, had been putting up his “Forest Ranger” sign in front of the house. We were all in the kitchen…and in bursts my dad, rushing toward the sink. He gulped down several chugs of water. You’ll understand after you read it.

So, sit back and hold on…and have that barf bag ready….

These stories have never been published.

 

Bloodtales

© F. P. Dorchak, 1987

“Fuck.” Jerry’s hand went up to his neck, a meniscus of blood forming at the wound. “Shit,” he hissed, putting the electric razor down and reaching into the cabinet for the straight-edge. “I thought electric razors weren’t supposed to draw blood.”

“That depends,” said his roommate. passing by the bathroom where Jerry was shaving.

“Depends on what?” Jerry asked, fumbling with a piece of toilet paper on the cut while trying to remove the straight-edge from with the cabinet.

“That depends on how big your zits are, whether or not you have ingrowns, and how soft your baby-skin is. In your case—”

“Don’t even say it.” Jerry used the razor blade to clean up what the electric razor didn’t get. “Fuck—” Jerry said, throwing the razor blade back into the cabinet, his blood now on both instruments.

“Oh what’s the matter, roomy? Pubie’s get caught?”

“Oh fuck you, too. Damn, I just can’t win this morning. First I cut myself shaving with an electric razor, then again with a blade!” He got out the Stypstik, cursing again when the blood mixed with its astringent.

“Will you get out of there before you kill yourself already!” Rino shouted, his face buried in a bowl of corn flakes. Jerry emerged, half a roll of toilet paper wrapped around his neck. Rino burst out laughing, sending a flurry of milk and cereal across the room, and up his nose.

“Get out! You look like ‘It came from the Mummy’s Toilet’ or something.” Rino wiped breakfast from his face with an arm and swept corn flakes off the table and onto the floor, as he looked at his ailing roommate. “God you look ridiculous.”

 

Jerry was ten minutes late for classes. He hated walking in late, everyone’s attention focused in on you. If you had your fly open, they’d see it. If you had some snot hanging from your nose they’d see it. If anything stood out, it automatically became glaring even if it was nothing more than a tiny zit. You were in the spot-light and that’s all that mattered.

So in Jerry walked, tail between his legs.

A Band-Aid announced its presence from the side of his neck by imaginary three-D arrows floating around, pointing to it.

Jerry sat at his seat, his face turning pretty colors.

“Pssst, Jerry, who gave you the hickey, man?” a classmate whispered. Jerry ignored him.

“C’mon Jerry, who did it?” the voice snickered to classmates.

Jerry turned around to the guy, hissing a little louder than he would have liked too.

“No one gave me a damned hickey—”

“Is there something a matter back there?” Mr. Armstead paused in his lecture and looked to Jerry’s direction. Everyone went quiet, except for some snickers and smiles.

“No, nothing a matter,” Jerry said.

“Good then I suggest we continue. And please try not to be late anymore Mr. Hollier. Oh, and Mr. Hollier?”

Jerry looked up.

“Yes?”

“Please do have that hickey looked at, will you?”

The class lost it.

 

After lunch in the university cafeteria, Jerry picked up his books, am made for his next class. As he walked through the entrance, a long-haired brunette wearing a tight skirt wiggled past. He followed her with his eyes…as someone entering behind her and ran into him, knocking him into the door jamb. He slammed his hand between his body and the entryway. It stung.

It bled.

“Thanks pal,” Jerry muttered, sucking at the red as he tried to again find the hot chick.

 

Jerry plopped down in the chair, switched the TV on. “Wonder what’s good on tonight,” he muttered to himself, going through the newspaper’s television guide. His roommate slammed the door Shakespearianly as he made his entrance.

“And have we done our homework before the telly?” Rino asked, standing before the box. He hit the power, turning the TV off.

“Get away you dork,” Jerry said, getting up. He shoved Rino away and turning the TV back on.

“Ok, but don’t blame me if your mind turns to mush and you don’t make it out of here with a solid education.” Looking to the ceiling Rino cried, “His destiny is out of my hands Lord, I tried my best. All I ask is that ye be gentle on him—”

A magazine flew through the air and hit Rino in the face. Rino caught it as it dropped into his hands.

Jerry ran through the stations, finding nothing of interest. It was about one in the morning and he felt like watching something. Grabbing the TV listing once more, he thought he might find something in there he might have skipped all the other twenty times he scanned it. Human optimism.

Yes…he found something…and it was just beginning: “The City that Dripped Blood.” He’d never heard it, but was in the mood for a grade-‘B’ flick. Stretching, his shaving wound from early in the day reminded him it was still there.

“Shit,” he said, reaching for it, “don’t tell me you haven’t healed yet!” Jerry felt around the wound, looked to his hand.

There was fresh blood on it.

“Fuck.”

He got up, headed to the bathroom, but stopped when the program started. Hans Geblutblase starred. It was definitely a foreign job. Settling down, he took another sip from his Coke.

Blood trickled down his neck.

 

At the gym the next day, Jerry was working triceps extensions on a pull-down machine, driving out the last few reps, when the bar slipped from his grip, smacking into his nose. Stinging, he staggered back, several people coming to his aid.

“I’m alright—I’m alright,” Jerry said, waving them off.

“You sure, man?” somebody asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine, really—it’s just a little nose-bleed.” The person on duty at the desk examined him.

“Yeah, he’s ok. How’s your head?”

“Fine.”

“Ok, we all love squeezing out those last few, just try to be a little more careful next time,” the Desk Guy said.

“Don’t worry,” Jerry said, the crowd disbursing. Jerry wiped some of the red away, looked at the bar. He felt more than a little embarrassed and slightly enraged. Deep inside he felt an ire raising. Feeling hot, blood still trickling down his face, he grabbed the swinging bar, yanked the pin out from the weight stack and rammed it down a few more extra pounds, increasing the weight. Growling, he forced out another set, pissed at the interruption of his set. The person who had just inspected him turned upon hearing the noise, and shook his head.

Jerry glanced at himself in the mirror.

He looked mean.

 

The past few days had taken a toll on Jerry’s body, but the odd thing about it was that he didn’t seem to care. He’d collected various and sundry cuts, scrapes, and bruises…and in some cases had not bothered to even cover up some of the bleeders. His roommate was growing somewhat suspicious of his newly aberrant proclivities.

“Um, Jer,” Rino said, approaching Jerry as he was cutting up some cheese for a sandwich.

“Yeah?” Jerry said, intent upon his undertaking with the knife.

“You feeling ok? I mean, lately you’ve been acting a little queer.”

Rino eyed how he handled the serrated blade. From a distance.

“I feel just fine, dude, why?”

“I don’t know. Just trying to keep an eye on my roomy, is all. I’m a little concerned.”

“Well, I am touched Rino—really I am. But Ize just fine!”

Jerry rammed the knife into the cutting board.

Rino jumped.

“Relax!” Jerry said.

Rino shook his head as he backed out, leaving for class.

Jerry returned to the knife and yanked it from the board. He brought it up to the light and admired the glean. Bringing it back down, he fingered the edge of the blade, taunting it’s serrations and blade tip.

The blade then (seemingly) leapt for the soft pink flesh of his hand.

Jerry separated the two in reflex, still holding onto the blade.

That hurt.

But…it also felt…good….

Surprised at how it felt, he put the blade down and took a step back.

He looked to the knife.

That was his blood on the end of that blade.

His sandwich sat nearby. Crumbs were all over the counter. The hacked block of hard cheddar lying uncovered and inculpable.

Slowly, he reapproached the blade.

As if in slow motion, he reached down…his fingers folding around the brown handle. He twisted the blade as he picked it up. His cut finger twinged, but didn’t bother him the way he thought it should. Incredulous, he brought the two together once again.

They greeted like years-apart old friends.

Gossiped a mile a minute.

‘Hey’d you hear about the new Ekco line?‘ the Blade asked.

‘No, haven’t,‘ Finger replied, ‘Is it any better?‘

‘Sure is!‘ enthusiastically replied Knife.

‘I can hardly wait!‘ panted the finger, all excited and hot, ‘I want you so bad….’

 

Jerry didn’t know what was becoming of him.

He’d been looking for cuts and scrapes.

Was actually enjoying them.

Like the time he sliced up his finger while making that sandwich. And he didn’t go to the clinic, but just put a Band-Aid on it…only gruffly tear it off periodically throughout the day to see that it was still bleeding. There were times it had actually stopped, and he’d take a pin to it…or scraped off the scab. It felt so good!

Like having sex.

Now there was something he hadn’t had in a while. God, when was the last time? Hmm.

He’d have some new tricks to show the next lucky lady, that’s for sure.

 

When Jerry went out for his run, he hoped he’d take a decent fall or something. In fact, he knew a certain hill that could really tear off some skin.

And it was hot outside.

The hotter the better—make the blood flow even better!

Damn, what was happening to him? He was actually looking for ways to draw blood.

As he ran, he mulled it over…was this what masochists feel?

Who cares! To each their own!

He was coming up to the hill in question, his heart pounding, the anticipation almost too much to bear. He took off his shirt and threw it aside. Sweat pouring off his body, he slowed a bit. He reached down to the road’s shoulder and scooped up some gravel, then rubbed it on his body. A driver passed by and gave him a curious look.

Jerry picked up his pace, a bulge forming in his shorts. He was coming upon the exact spot he’d been thinking of all day—and he saw there was a broken bottle there!

This is going to be great….

 

Rino walked toward the apartment building.

It had been a long day, it was late, and he was so damned apprehensive at coming home anymore. He didn’t know what the hell was the matter with Jerry, but the boy was sick, all joking around aside. He’d tried to keep things light, but things were now getting disturbing.

Really? Collecting blood drippings in a glass in the fridge?

Drinking it?

All he knew was that he used to be a great guy, and now he was turning into some sort of pervert with a blood fetish.

Shit, what was going to be the big surprise now?

Approaching the building, he noticed a light was on, though dim.

And the door was unlocked.

Rino entered cautiously…something wasn’t right…and there was an odd smell that stung his nostrils. His skin crawled with uncomfortable electricity.

He closed the door behind him.

“Jerry?”, he called out in a hushed manner, actually hoping he didn’t answer….

Only a candle was lit in Jerry’s bedroom. Rino cautiously made his way toward the room. His hairs pricked up.

He didn’t like this. Butterflies formed in the pit of his stomach.

There were dark stains on the floor between both their bedrooms.

And somebody was in Jerry’s bed.

“Jerry?” Rino called out in the same hushed voice.

Still no answer.

He went to the light switch on the wall, flipping it on—and gagged.

Repeatedly.

Laying in the bed, and totally drenched in crimson lay the body of a woman.

From the clothes lying on the floor, it didn’t look like she was a lady of distinction, but one of the streets. Those were his only clues, because the body was so mutilated he couldn’t make out anything more.

The walls.

The ceiling.

He grabbed the door frame, barely able to stay upright as he continued to gag.

“Rino? Rino, is that you?” came the voice from his bedroom.

“Oh god,” was all Rino could say.

“I’m in your room! Come on over, Rino, I’ve got something I really want to show you!”

The enthusiasm of Jerry’s voice sent further ripples of nausea through him.

“Did you do that? Did you kill that woman?”

Rino stumbled towards his bedroom.

“Yeah! Isn’t it something? I tell you Rino, when you get the scent of it in your veins, you’ll love it! Hurry up, I want to show you! Really, you’ll never get enough of it! C’mon roomy!”

Rino entered his bedroom, no lights on, but he could see his roommate’s shadow low and across the room, in a corner.

“Oh roomy, you’re going to love this!”

Rino could barely hold himself upright. The smell of blood was incredibly strong.

“Go on, Rino, turn on the light…turn it on—I dare ya’!” Jerry was laughing to himself, but there was a distantly gurgling sound to his voice, like something was filling his lungs. “C’mon! Hurry!” Impatience…more gurgling….

Steadying himself, Rino flipped on the light switch. Eyes adjusting to the light, Rino finally lost it and heaved up the tuna salad from earlier across the room.

And collapsed.

In the blood spattered corner, gurgling merrily to itself, was a puddle of flayed flesh and bone that was once human. There was little to distinguish its human form anymore. Little meat was left on the body, it covered from head to toe with dark, supernaturally flowing blood and gore that danced about his body, making little swirling movements over his once solid frame, much like the movements of the gases on the surface of the sun, what-was-left-of-Jerry had recollected from a class long ago.

Slapping it’s arms up and down like a child playing in bath water, the thing-that-was-Jerry gurgled and laughed hideously…

“You’re going to love it, you’re simply going to love it...”

 

Flies

© F. P. Dorchak, 1987

“Goddamn flies!” Terry said, coughing and wiping their little black corpses from his legs and arms. He’d just finished a few circuits around the park on his bike, and there were gnats galore. They were everywhere. You were hard-pressed to even yawn without inhaling the little buggers. He knew, because he’d tried.

 

Short Story Links

Links to all my posted short stories are here.

 

Allergies

by

Gesundheit. (Image by James Gathany, CDC Public Health Image library ID 11162 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons).
Gesundheit. (Image by James Gathany, CDC Public Health Image library ID 11162 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons).

This is a dark little ditty inspired by my sudden discovery one day that I’d apparently developed an allergy. I’d never had any allergies before.

In the mid-to-late 80s and the early 90s, while living in Colorado Springs, I’d driven up to Denver on a weekly basis to attend a writer’s critique group. I no longer attend the critique group, but am still part of the writer’s organization, Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers. At one member’s home, where we met, was a cat. It was literally something like 20 years old. That’s another story. Anyway, I used to  let it sit on my lap while there, with nary “a problem.”

Then—like a light switch—one day I noticed all this sniffling and watery eyes.  I’d thought I was coming down with a cold, but as I drove home…the farther and farther I got away from the house…all symptoms disappeared.

Long story short, I realized that the cat was doing it to me…or more to the point…I’d developed a fricking feline allergy, where before there had been none! Just like that.

How do these things happen?!

You might well ask that of this story. It ain’t pretty…though it has…well, “heart” (again—not in the way you’re expecting)….

This story had been returned by Thin Ice, because it was too much like a previous story they’d published. It’s not that they didn’t like it…they’d just already published something similar.

So…this story has never seen the light of day—or a handkerchief.

Allergies

© F. P. Dorchak, 1993

            “Gesundheit.”

“Thank you.”

“So how long have you had this…allergy?” Dana asked, bound to a chair by thick cords of rope that angrily bit into his skin. It was a dark, dank enclosure, and there was an oil lamp on the table in front of him as the only source of illumination. The crypt stank of expected graveyard mustiness and its darkness bore down about his shoulders like several tons of dead weight. Dripping echoed everywhere.

Dana knew there had to be bodies hidden behind those shadows. Lots of dead bodies.

Knew it.

“Since, well, since I was a kid, really,” his captor replied.

“And how do you know it’s not all just in your mind, you know, like psychosomatic or something—”

“Because. Just because.”

The shadowy figure again sneezed.

From their earlier introductions Dana had found his captor’s name to be Reed. Nothing else, just Reed. He’d been polite enough when they had first met, just inside the mausoleum’s heavy, wooden door…and just before Reed had whipped out that club and politely cranked him over the head with it.

“Oh, come on, that’s no answer! You mean you’re going to kill me—just because?”

Reed looked away before answering.

“No. Because I’ve done…things…you know?”

Exasperated, Dana tried to twist away.

And all this because of some stupid-ass frat prank.

It was just supposed to have been a gag. A harmless prank. He was supposed to go into this “haunted” graveyard (of which the haunter now stood across from him), knock over a few gravestones, then paint his name and date on the inside wall of the entrance-way to this crypt.

Curiously he recalled how he had not seen any other names (or dates) on those walls…

And that’s where his troubles had only begun.

Reed.

A psychotic of some sort who thought he had the ultimate allergy….

“Okay, okay, so you have this fucking allergy—”

“—I don’t know when it all began, really,” Reed said, oblivious to Dana. “It was almost like it happened overnight. Just like that. At one moment I didn’t have it, then the next, boom, it was there. The allergy. I had become allergic to everyone. People. Life. Animals. Anything that lived, breathed, or grew.”

Dana rolled his eyes. Continued with his struggle to free himself. This guy was definitely out there, all right, and this clearly wasn’t his first kidnapping. He was too calm, almost rehearsed, and he had him tied tight. Good and tight.

“Then…I don’t know…I began doing things—”

“What things, already!”

Reed shot a quick look over to Dana, then got up. Lost in thought, he wandered over to one of the darkened recesses and remained there in silence.

Dana heard him inhale. He must have been here a long time, he thought.

Sure, there’d been stories of folks disappearing around this cemetery over the years, but he’d never quite believed them.

Until now, that is.

Maybe there was more to this guy than he’d really cared to believe.

Reed sneezed.

“I began killing…cats…mostly. Some dogs, too, though only the smaller ones at first. The larger dogs scared me—then—but no longer. Nothing scares me anymore.”

Reed turned to face Dana, but Dana couldn’t see his features. He had the curious feeling that he was smiling back at him.

Then Reed suddenly shot out of the darkness and flew across the room directly into Dana’s face.

Dana tensed, and for the first time since his abduction actually became scared. Up to now he thought this might still have all been part of his initiation…more of that frat-joke-thing…but not now, as he looked back into Reed’s crazed eyes and realized that this guy just might be the stuff of those stories—and more. What he saw, was no fear. No joke. What he saw

Was death.

“C’mon, man, let me go, enough’s enough. Look, I got inside, okay? Can’t we just settle it at that?”

Reed whipped about dizzyingly fast and gripped Dana’s face in one of his bony, but incredibly strong, hands. Dana felt the grit that came with that hand and embedded itself into his face.

He was certain that grit didn’t come from topside.

And Reed’s breath smelled most foul as their faces came nose to nose. Words hit Dana like a sucker punch.

“Look, here—you don’t know just how fucked you really are. Because you came here, I have to kill you. Have to! I have no other choice!”

Reed relaxed his grip and dropped his hand. Continued pacing the room.

“I have no anger towards you,” Reed said, “I have no emotion one way or the other, really. Hell,” Reed said, sneezing and wiping away trails of snot from his face, “I don’t feel a damned thing for or against any one person that walks across the face of this earth! Nothing.”

Coming to a halt, Reed composed himself and retreated back into the darkened confines just outside the oil lamp’s boundaries.

Dana heard the squeak of a chair as he visualized Reed sitting down in it and tried to spit out the grit that had gotten caught in the corners of his mouth. He tried to take his mind off of wherever that dirt might have come from, but found it hard to do so. He already felt like he was in his own grave and that didn’t sit well with him at all.

“Yeah, back then I had fear all right, all sorts of fear,” came the disembodied voice from the darkness. “So I used to grab the little dogs, the little cats. I used to grab ’em—” Reed’s hands projected out from the darkness and Dana could see how knotted up they were…fists clenched so tight they shook violently with tension.

“Grabbed ’em. Use to grab ’em I did. That annoying little bitch of a dog from next door was the first to go. A fucking Chihuahua. Yap-yap-yap all day long…all night long. Yap-yap-fucking-yap.

“So I took care of the little fucker. Took care of my mother’s cat. Those damned little noisy birdies, too. I took care of them all, I did, and I found out I liked it. Oh, it wasn’t that I hated all I killed—except for that little Chihuahua bitch—no, just that I liked what it was I was doing.

“Robbing each thing of its life.

“The feeling of undeniable power involved. My undeniable power.

“But you have to understand me…it wasn’t me, not really. It wasn’t until later that I realized something was different about me when I killed. Within me. It was like it wasn’t really me doing all this stuff, this killing, you know. Not the me-me, the right-here-and-now me that you see—no, it was like there was another aspect of me that was doing it. A ghost-me from some other dimension that took over. Like the I-me I knew was just sitting there, along for the ride, so to speak. Helpless. A captive passenger, if you will.

“Shit, sure, you say, everybody kills cats. Bugs. But I was different, I tell you.”

Reed again came forward from the darkness and was ready to say something, when he unexpectedly broke out into a severe bout of sneezing and wheezing.

Dana again took some of it in the face, but Reed kept his distance and sneezed violently several times more, his entire body shaking and convulsing.

Reed retreated back into the shadows. As Dana looked at the stuff that clung to his clothes, he noticed how it seemed to have a peculiar iridescence to it.

“Damn. Excuse me. Sometimes this stuff hits me really hard. Let me get some of that off you.” Reed rushed over, and rather hurriedly, swiped away most of the phlegm that had covered Dana.

Dana stared back, speechless.

For all the sneezing and wheezing that had been going on, Dana could tell that there actually was something different about him. He could feel it now. It was like there was a cold, dead pocket of air surrounding him. A stillness that reached out and numbed. Horse latitudes, he remembered, curiously. Utter lifelessness. But it was even more than that. It was almost as if he had actually seen another ghost-self of Reed shift aside from his body during the sneezing bout. Like there had been a vague outline that shadowed his every movement that was more than Reed—

Death.

Dana listened, his heart pounding incessantly above the hollow and steady drip-drip of the cavernous reaches of the mausoleum. When Reed next spoke, he could feel the waver of his voice…his entire body…and it unnerved him.

Something about himself was different…definitely not entirely right. He wasn’t sure what it was, but he felt it went beyond fear.

“S-so…what are you going to do with me?”

Reed shook his head. “I told you, already. I think I’ve made myself quite clear on the matter. To you all this is a joke. Fun. A gag, you called it. Well look around you, Dana-boy, I am not joking. Look.”

Reed shot out of the darkness and snatched up the oil lamp before Dana could register what was happening. He held it out high above him and shone it around into the darkness, almost maniacally. Exposing all the dark corners and crevasses Dana had not been able to see into.

Dana gasped.

What was once intangible was now the tangible and stared back at him. He now saw what else he was sharing the room with.

Corpses. Bones. Bodies. Body parts. Man and animal.

He was everywhere surrounded by the unearthed and the decayed…and all of them were tossed about in crazy, contorted positions. They all looked as if they’d been toyed with.

Used.

“Come ooon, man, y-you can’t be serious. You gotta let me go—I won’t tell anyone! Just untie me—I-I-I’ll walk right out of here! P-please, guy, you gotta let me go!”

Reed replaced the lantern on the table and wheezed again as he pulled out the piece of cloth from his pockets. Lowering himself to Dana’s ears, he whispered, “I don’t have to do nothin’.”

Reed backed away and spoke in a more regular tone.

“You forget. I feel nothing toward you, remember? But…I can’t let you go, either. I can feel this other me…he’s around…somewhere…probably already taken over. You’re an allergy to us. Something we don’t need. Something that could bring back other allergens, and we can’t have that.

“You see, when I kill, I don’t need to use weapons. I just hold them. Be near them. You don’t even realize it, but you’ve been dying since I brought you in here. There’s no turning back now. Were you to leave this very minute, you’d still die. It’s…irreversible.”

“W-what?”

“There’s no way I know to reverse it. It’s like a plague. Look at your body. Feel it. You know what I’m saying to be true, even if not now. But very soon. You see, I have no choice. I let you go, you go to others, they try to find out what’s happening to you. If I keep you here, you die anyway. Either way, it’s not pretty. The only thing I can do is kill you. It’s not a sweet death, my curse, but my murder is. It’s the only thing I can do to keep you out of both our miseries.”

“You’re crazy! Let me outta here! Fuckin’ asshole, you’re a crazy-fuckin’-son-of-a-bitch-lunatic-crazy man! There’s no such thing! No such thing!”

Reed turned away. Pulled his chair out into the light, and sat in it. He watched Dana.

Sat and did nothing.

But sneeze.

Do you believe me now? asked the darkness.

I don’t know what to believe. I feel…different.

Of course you do.

How do you know this?

I know.

The darkness surrounded Dana like a suffocating kiss. He didn’t really want to leave it. It felt right to remain where he was. To yield. To give in. To—

The darkness changed. Grew tighter; more oppressive. Then Dana saw it. An even darker spot within the darkness that came toward him. It split open. Dana knew what it was.

A mouth.

Jaws, to be precise.

The mouth had now opened far too wide for him to see the edges any longer, and it quickly came down upon him.

Dana screamed.

Screamed voiceless into the pitch and realized a part of him was already gone.

He didn’t know which part, only that a very real section of what he was, was now gone.

And the pain was incredible.

Unfathomable…like every nerve fiber within him was on fire—lit up. And it didn’t go away with the demise of the nerve endings, but started over.

Regenerated.

Redistributed.

And the jaws came down again. And again…and with each new time brought yet another searing bolt of agony that fired through him, as still yet another part of him was ripped away.

Chunks were torn from him.

Not just flesh.

Jagged, diseased jaws scooped out his insides and took out the essentials of what it was he was.

Ate his identity.

His life’s core.

Do you believe me now?

Dana stirred.

Lifted his head.

Dizzy…he was disoriented. Felt desiccated…nothing but a husk of his former self.

And his body responded differently….

“W-what?”

“I asked you if you believed me now. That you’re dying.”

Dana twisted his head up towards the voice. Felt extremely stiff, unable to control his limbs. He didn’t know how long he had been out, just that he had been trying to do something really, really weird…like feel his skin…get inside his nerves. He was indeed weaker…felt it…there was no longer any doubt about that.

He was a wilting flower hidden away in a dank cave miles below the earth’s surface.

Reed got up and brought something over to him.

A mirror.

Even in the dim illumination, Dana could quite clearly see that the wrinkled and withered face that stared back at him was his own.

“I-I refuse…”

“It’s okay. It’s okay to refuse. Everyone does. That’s why I have to kill. Put them out of their misery. Mine. Rid myself of their allergens. I guess it’s the last human decency about me, even though I try not to care too much about it. It’s just like another thing I have to do. I don’t pretend to understand it, I just do it. Like watching the deaths as the other-me does them. And some of the dead I keep, just for a little while, you know, and some—well…some…they come back to me.”

Dana looked up. “Come…come back?”

“I really am sorry. Really. You’re not a bad sort. Just in the wrong place at, well, well we all have to go sometime. ‘Cept me. I’m the exception to the rule, I think. I don’t know how it’ll happen to me, if it ever does. But it’s your time.”

“No—no, please, I beg of you, let me go—I’ll do anything!”

Reed shook his head, opened his arms in a gesture of mercy and understanding, and came in to him.

“There’s nothing I can do, friend, really. Nothing…I can do—except this.”

Reed sneezed twice, again splattering Dana’s face and upper chest…then he put his arms around him—

And hugged him fiercely.

“Good bye,” Reed whispered quietly, seductively.

Dana wept into Reed’s shoulders.

Reed withdrew the knife, a long-bladed object, from one of the folds of his garment, and plunged it unhesitatingly through Dana’s back and into his heart.

Dana jerked once, his mouth a perfect “O,” eyes huge as silver dollars.

Reed forced it in deeper and felt the blood spurt out and curl around his hand. It burned his skin.

Dana jerked again. Coughed.

Reed heard the strained and surprised wheeze of air that now whistled through a section of Dana’s punctured lung.

Felt the blood that erupted from Dana’s mouth and soaked through to his own shoulder.

When Reed withdrew the blade he heard Dana sputter several times more as his head cradled up against his ear. Then he got up and backed away from him, placing the knife down carefully on the table. He retrieved his shadowy chair and sat patiently opposite the quickly expiring Dana.

Felt the allergy as it began to drain away like an unclogged drain pipe.

When he was sure that the last of his allergy was finally gone, he got up and left Dana’s body. Left for an adjacent chamber. It would be light soon, and he needed rest. Besides, he didn’t like light.

Had an allergy to it.

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Blondie's

by

Road To Nowhere. (Image by Kate Jewell [CC BY-SA 2.0 {http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0}], via Wikimedia Commons)
Road To Nowhere. (Image by Kate Jewell [CC BY-SA 2.0 {http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0}], via Wikimedia Commons)
This story originated from a situation when my then-girlfriend and I had to take shelter from a heinous and torrential downpour back in the summer of 1984.

Brenda and I had been driving back in separate cars to North Dakota in the middle of the night after having visited her parents in Iowa. It was probably the worst rain storm I had ever been in, and we simply could not see the road. She was ahead of me and had pulled off on some back road. We found shelter at a really cool deserted gas station with a covering and waited out the storm.

And there was this old-time black-and-white photo I remembered looking at long after all this…and in it was a woman looking to the photographer. Her look…her emotional intensity…was startling…riveting…fascinated me.

From out of these two experiences came this story.

This story was originally published in Black Sheep #40, the February-March 2002 issue.

 

Blondie’s

© F. P. Dorchak, 1995

 

Rain crashed down in severe, impenetrable sheets as if the anger of the gods were being visited upon me. It was deafening, thunderous. I punched through it, tears blinding me. A midsummer night’s dream, I mused. Some dream, indeed. It’d been some time since I’d last been through Iowa, a lifetime ago, for all practical purposes, but all I know is that whatever I did, whomever I was with, it all paled in comparison to her. I’ve never met anyone like her—before or since—and though we barely talked, had never really even held each other, I never stopped thinking about her.

This, of course, didn’t sit well with my girlfriend at the time, but, as I said, that was a long time ago….

Maybe the gods aren’t angry…just sad. Like me.

I remember that midsummer’s trip as if it were yesterday. I was with Grace. We’d been making a marathon drive back from her parents’ home and it had been raining hard then, too. We’d taken two cars, because I’d met her directly from a business trip and we were driving back to North Dakota. It was somewhere between midnight and three in the morning when the rain slammed down so hard we could barely see, and since Grace was in the lead I followed her as she pulled off onto some obscure back road that wasn’t on any map. We pulled off and found shelter beneath an overhang to an ancient gas station. We sat there for some time—I had gotten out of my car and gone to hers. It could have been a beautiful setting…could have been quite romantic…if it hadn’t been for our fight just before leaving her folks. We’d been dating for about two years then and Grace had brought up the idea of marriage, but not just marriage—marriage and children.

Why do people always feel the need to bring more souls into the world?

I may be a bit unconventional—or unreasonable—but I feel that there are quite enough bodies already populating the planet, thank you. Anyway, don’t get me wrong, I loved her…then. I wasn’t so averse to taking her as my wife as I was against having kids. I was young, still a bit wild, and had no intention of being tied down to a family let alone children. Anyway, we’d left her folks under somewhat strained circumstances. She’d even snapped at me that maybe it was a sign we drove in separate vehicles. Things weren’t going well and let’s just say they didn’t get any better.

So, I’m in her car, the downpour still mercilessly pounding the countryside, and we just sat there. The sound of the rain was curiously soothing for all its furor, even hypnotic. The night hung thickly over us like a heavy blanket—and the fact that it was three in the morning was even better. Have you ever been awake at that hour? I mean, really awake and experienced the fact that others—most really—were still tucked away snugly in their beds, dreaming? It’s quite cozy, like living film noir. At any rate, Grace broke the silence first. She wanted to know what I wanted out of life. I told her I didn’t know that I was just busy living it. Well, didn’t I want to live it with someone? Of course I did, I told her, it’s much more fulfilling and enjoyable when you can share things with one you love. Don’t you love me? she asked, of course I do, then why won’t you marry me—it’s not about marrying you, Grace, it’s about the kids part, the kids’ part? what does that have to do with anything—everything, dammit, I can’t explain it, but it’s scary and there’s too many people in the world and why are you trying to pressure me I thought we’d been through all this already….

It wasn’t long after that that Grace burst out of the car and into the downpour. I went after her, of course, to find her standing and sobbing out in the middle of the muddy road we’d just come on down. I tried to hold her, but she wouldn’t have it. I felt my life ripped apart—after all, I loved her—I didn’t want her to go, but something wasn’t allowing me to accept her proposal. Then I looked to her and saw she was staring at the building we’d parked alongside. It was kind of funny, because I, too, got caught up in whatever was going on at that moment. We were parked between some of those old-time gas pumps and the building. Slowly, Grace began to walk away from me. Again I followed. Totally ignoring our vehicles we went to the building. Above the awning, or roof, we’d parked under, was a sign we could barely make out through the downpour: “Blondie’s” it said. Instantly intrigued, we forgot about our problems. Grace got to the door first. She reached out for the screen-door handle and pulled, then worked the inner doorknob, which opened into a darkened interior. A dry, darkened interior. We both just walked on in….

 

It was the strangest experience I’ve ever had. There was an immediate calmness that befell us—and a deep, emotionally powerful…something. I don’t know what it was, I just know that I immediately felt like crying. I looked to Grace, but she was already looking at me. I couldn’t tell if those were tears in her eyes or remnants of the storm.

We just stood there, looking at each other.

This time it was my turn to make the first move. I flipped on a light switch. Partial lights flickered on. I broke away from Grace and began to take in the place. It was an old-time gas station-restaurant, like in those old forties movies I love so much. Even had that musty, nostalgic, smell and creaking floorboards. I immediately fell in love with the place. But where was everyone? Sleeping? Then why was the door left unlocked? I mean, back-country Iowa or not, most businesses I knew didn’t leave doors unlocked overnight.

“I’m gonna look for a bathroom,” Grace mumbled and went off in search of one.

I walked about the room, listening to the rain not only pounding the building, but my soul…and found myself falling deeper and unaccountably deeper in love with the place. It really was quite quaint and I immediately wished we’d found this under different circumstances. Grace was in the rest room for some time, so I sat down at a table in one corner of the room where I felt particularly drawn to. There were old, polished-but-quite-worn-out wooden tables, two of them…a Wurlitzer…display cabinets that were now empty, but could have at one time or another been home to candy, pies—whatever—but, what really piqued my interest was an old calendar tacked up on the adjacent wall. It was dated 1944—I remember that—and there was this picture of a woman on it, but over her picture was tacked an old black-and-white photograph. “Vargas Girl” had been scratched out beneath the calendar’s picture, and beneath that was scrawled “Blondie.” I smiled. Someone else was in love…at one point, anyway. Someone had stood where I now sat and had put up their wife’s or girlfriend’s picture over this Vargas Girl. I reached up and removed the black and white and looked at it. Though a bit faded, I was instantly shocked by the emotional intensity of this woman. She was quite attractive, and was staring out across the boundaries of time…at me…pleading. She wanted something, but what? The longer I stared, the more I wanted to kiss her, to hold her. She seemed lonely…desperate. I placed the photograph on the table before me and folded my hands beneath my chin. I couldn’t pull my eyes away from her and just…stared. Into her eyes. Large and dark. I wanted to feel what she was feeling at the time of this picture, feel her thoughts, her lips, her—

“What are you looking at?”

Grace had returned and to my utter amazement I had all but forgotten about her. Embarrassed, I pushed away the picture.

“Who’s this?” Grace asked, picking it up. “She’s pretty.” She put the photograph back on the table. “Did you find anyone?”

“No. It seems a bit weird, but I think whoever owns this joint forgot to lock up. Lucky us.”

“Yeah,” was all she said, turning away.

Grace walked off toward the checkout counter, but I remained seated. I couldn’t take my eyes away from the beautiful face in this picture.

What had this woman’s life turned out like?

Had she fought with her boyfriend? Her husband? Have children? I was caressing the edges of the picture when Grace called out to me.

“Nolan, could you come over here, please?”

Reluctantly, I got up and did as requested. “What?”

“What should we do? It’s still pouring outside, I’m cold, I’m hungry. No one’s around—”

“—well, that’s not exactly so,” came a voice from behind us. Both of us turned to find a woman standing in a bathrobe, arms crossed, at the entrance Grace had used for the rest room. “You’re welcome to wait out the storm, here, if you’d like.”

Grace and I looked to each other for a long moment. “Y-your door was open, and—” I began, when the woman again interrupted.

“Some of us tend to get complacent out here, especially us few remaining optimists. The offer still stands. I’ve got coffee brewing in the back.”

Just then we smelled the rich, elevating aroma.

“I hope we didn’t wake you,” Grace added.

“Oh, no, it wasn’t your fault. I haven’t slept…well …in a long time…and when you used the bathroom the pipes…they have a life of their own, if you know what I mean. Why don’t you both have a seat—or stand, as you prefer, I know you’ve probably been on the road all night.”

The woman disappeared into the rear.

“Guess she lives here,” I said, as I directed Grace back to the table.

“There’s something weird about her,” Grace said, sitting.

“I know, I felt it, too.” Once again I reached for the photograph.

“She’s very pretty, isn’t she, the woman in the picture?”

Startled, I hesitated in my answer. I felt embarrassed, like I’d been caught in an affair. “Y-yes, she is. I keep wondering what her life must have been like—”

“Hard.”

Two cups of coffee were place before us.

“She was my grandmother,” our mysterious woman said, continuing, “She and her husband started this place.”

“Is that who tacked this up there?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, looking to the calendar, “it’s remained up there all these years—until you took it down.”

“Oh—I’m-I’m so sorry—” I said.

“That’s okay,” she said, smiling warmly, which actually kind of unnerved me, “you didn’t know. Sometimes change is good, you know? Do you mind if I sit with you?”

“No, go right ahead, I mean, we barged in on you,” Grace said.

I looked to our coffee and found they each already contained the cream and sugar we both took in them.

“Thank you for the coffee,” I said.

The woman smiled.

 

It almost seemed like another me, then. Another life. As I now try to navigate through this downpour I recalled all the other times I’d been through here between Cedar Rapids and Grand Forks. I’ve been through countless rain storms, always searching for that one, unmapped road, and never have I found it. But I feel closer each time I come out in search of it…feel irresistibly drawn to it, like metal to a magnet. I’ve tried to explain this feeling over the years, but eventually just gave up. I tried to explain all my failed relationships and lonely nights…my failed employments…but in the end gave up, merely trying to cope. A pipe dream. That’s all it was. A futile attempt to keep my life going in spite of all the failures I’d created: never staying at one job long enough to get on a first name basis; never staying in relationships long enough to consider marriage—and always wondering how Grace’s life turned out. Always wondering if maybe, maybe I should have taken her offer….

 

But that magical night remained with me forever.

As that woman sat at the table with us, I felt something about her reach out to me—like her grandmother’s photograph. Once or twice under the table, I felt her leg brush against mine. I said nothing, thinking it just one of those unseen beneath-the-table moments, but I felt her touch on several occasions, and soon became extremely uncomfortable—not because of the contact, but because I wanted the contact—and found myself irresistibly attracted to her. This went beyond any purely physical attraction, because—and don’t get me wrong, she was beautiful—but it went deeper. Like we knew each other on some level I couldn’t explain—and didn’t necessarily want to. I was enjoying this mysterious bond, but was also hoping Grace wasn’t picking up on it. But within a short while, I found myself doing the unconscionable: I found myself trying to touch this woman as I sat before my girlfriend. I’d place a foot just so, a leg or hand in a certain position.

I couldn’t believe what I was doing!

And all along this woman showed no hint of our hidden interplay, carrying on a perfectly normal conversation with my girlfriend and me. Then it happened. After all the coffee this woman had been serving us, Grace got up to again use the rest room. As soon as Grace had disappeared into the dark, the woman turned to me. She never said a word, but my excitement grew. I shook with anticipation…and, yes, embarrassment.

She smiled. Gently took my hand.

Oh, her warm, soft skin…the feeling as we finally held hands out in the open was indescribable!

Gently and lovingly, she caressed my skin. I felt as if I’d known her forever. I pictured us making love—not a mere fling, but feral, passionate love.

I took in everything about her…her expressive yet not overly full lips…the wisps of loose hair about her quietly beautiful face…the depth and loving of her intense scrutiny. The softness of her touch…and of how profoundly her touch moved me.

I don’t know how long we carried on like this, but gradually my uncomfortableness gave way to pure, uninhibited adoration. She lifted my hand to her beautiful lips and kissed and nipped at my fingertips; turned my hand over and kissed my wrist.

I nearly died!

I squeezed her hand…took it within both of mine and kissed hers…realizing that at any moment Grace would return. I tingled with bizarre excitement and reached for her face—what was I doing? We came in closer. I could feel her warm, moist breath upon my skin. She parted her lips to meet mine…her eyes hypnotic and yearning. I closed my eyes…

And our lips touched.

It was electric, like a spiritually arching jolt. We both locked in this unbelievably metaphysical kiss that lasted an eternity—when she broke away. I heard Grace’s approach and hurriedly wiped my mouth, but the woman didn’t. Again, she smiled.

“Miss—oh, I guess we never got your name—the light burned out in the bathroom—”

“I’m sorry—I’ll fix it immediately—”

“Oh, don’t bother now, it’s no big deal, it was only the dark, you know. I don’t think I’ll have to use it again, anyway. We should probably get going,” Grace said, as she turned to look out the windows.

I suddenly realized that the rain had let up enough that it no longer battered the building like boulders. I looked to the woman beside me, who was already looking at me with searching, painful eyes…eyes that literally scared me, because I felt I’d seen them before. Her face had somehow changed as well…into a deeply terrifying way I couldn’t explain. It was like she was beginning to emaciate…but it was an emaciation I found I was very much attracted to—

“Nolan—what are you doing?” came Grace’s sudden, fierce outcry.

Immediately terrified, I looked to her.

“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

To my utter astonishment, I looked to the tabletop—and found myself clutching this mysterious woman’s hands.

My blood chilled and I shot to my feet, quickly yanking back my hands.

Grace stared at the both of us. She said not one word, but inside I knew every thought that raced through her mind: is this what he’d been doing while I was away—how could this be?, we’d never even met her before…maybe marriage wasn’t such a good idea….

Still without a word, Grace turned. The look of hurt that had been on her face tore my soul from my breast. As I reached out for her, Grace never turned around, but thrust an upraised hand before me like a pissed-off traffic cop. I was stopped by the force of her silent command and stared back. Grace quietly opened the door and went out into the night. I again made a move toward her when the woman grabbed me.

“Please…,” she begged.

Images flew through my mind…us living happily together…us again making love—but they were more than mere images…they were as if I had actually lived them for one long, luxurious, moment.

I took the woman’s hand into my own and gave her my own pleading look. I didn’t want to leave her and I couldn’t explain it.

What the hell was going on here? How could I do such a thing in front of my girlfriend—a woman I could have married? How could I feel such emotion for a woman I’d never before met?

Grace started her car. Gunned the engine.

“I…have to go—I don’t know you. Don’t you see? I don’t know you, yet want to stay with you. Can you understand me? I can’t. I have to go…with her.”

I broke free, and rushed from the building, out into the storm.

Once outside, Grace had already left…her taillights disappearing into the darkness and rain. Quickly, I got into my car, brought it to life, and left the pumps. As I spun out into the rain and mud, I looked into my rearview and froze. The building that we had taken refuge in had melted from sight. I’m not saying that the rain had again become so thick that only yards from it it had been made to appear that way—no, what I’m saying is that as I looked into my rearview I actually saw it melt into nothingness as the rain pelted it.

Good bye.

 

And so I’ve thought about it all these years and still come up with the same questions. Had she been a ghost? Had it all been a hallucination? Had we ever met before?

No, I’d never seen that woman before in all of my life.

Every map, every person I’d ever talked to had no recollection of that road, or building. Of that woman. No folklore, no legends, no nothing.

So what’d happened?

Something had to have occurred, because Grace had seen her, too, had seen us holding hands, for chrissakes. Grace’d never stopped after she’d gotten into the car that night, except for gas, and when she had, I stopped, but she turned and gave me that same murderous glare and silent command. It was over. I didn’t even try. We both knew this was the end. No longer had it been about kids, if it ever really had been. I let her go and watched as her taillights again left me for the darkness.

Forever.

Ever since I’ve failed at everything. I got fired from every job, never had second dates, and after a while, not even firsts. Got evicted from apartments—lost my mortgage—you name it. I finally admitted to myself what I needed to do. I had nothing holding me back anymore, so where was the harm? I’d gotten into my car, filled it up, and headed into rainy oblivion.

And here I am.

I’ve gotten pretty good, over the years, of driving in the nearly undriveable. Learned the Iowa back roads pretty well. But I’m tired. I need to find what was, all those years ago. If I can’t, well, I don’t know what I’ll do.

So the rain pounds down upon my windshield, cursing me for all I’ve done, and not done. Bursts of thunder and lightning jar my senses. I take one more turn up ahead, and slide down a small hill into a dip. The rain seems angrier here, and I have to slow down still more. I look to the speedometer and see that my speed barely registers.

Why am I even driving?

Because I need her.

I’m exhausted. I peer ahead, looking for a place to pull over and uncover the sleeping pills…so many, many, of them…beneath my crumpled jacket on the front seat. I briefly look at them.

Enough of everything….

When I spot something up ahead.

I get closer and try to make it out—and what do I see?

An ancient gas station.

A roof covering gas pumps.

I break, and my car slides into a muddy and crooked stop before the pumps. I get out, deafened by the roar of the rain, wincing from the force of the storm, and stand there…looking to the building.

I can’t believe what I’m seeing!

And there’s a light on.

Legs weak and shaky I approach the screen door. It’s solid, all right. Grasping the doorknob, I open it. I enter the room and see a shadowy figure slumped over at one of the tables in that far corner. Her head hangs low.

I am without words as I approach, for I know it’s her.

Sure, I’ve aged some, as I know she has, but what’s right is right. I get to the table and see an old black-and-white photograph still lying on the table where I’d last left it. I look to the woman who still sat in the same chair I’d left her in. I place a hand to her shoulder—cold at first—but soon feel warmth. She lifts her head…and I come around and sit beside her.

“I’ve waited for you for so long,” she whispers, in a wavering, tortured voice. Tears drain down her cheeks.

Heart in my throat, I look into her eyes and see the same woman I’d seen all those years ago. Exactly the same. I’m not sure how I know this, or how much I believe it, but it makes sense. She isn’t a ghost, at least not in the conventional sense—no…she’s a wish….

“I’m Blondie,” she whispers, “I’m the woman—”

“I know. The photograph.”

She smiled.

“It’s hard to explain,” she says, “but I’ve always loved you…just as you’ve always loved me. We’re two people of the same hunger. Both of us wanted something neither had, but reached across time to find. There are other…lives…we all live, some in dreams, some not. When you looked into that photograph, you created all of this—”

“But how could I? We got here before I found the picture—”

“Desire has a way of warping time. I can’t explain it myself, only know my want…as do you. However it happened we know the reality of the outcome. Can we live in more than one reality? I don’t know. I only know that I didn’t want to live in the one I had been in up until that picture. I had to leave. The moment you read my need…desired me…you took me out of that life and brought me into this one. That’s all I know, all I care about. I’m no longer where I was.”

“And me?”

Again, that warm smile.

“Your choice. You still have that choice—”

“No…I don’t. There is no choice—can’t you see? I’ve always been with you since that moment—everything else I’ve ever done, or tried to do, has left me; never had I anything since I left you.”

She smiled and we both knew.

Why try to know and explain everything? Why not just live in the moment and leave the explanations to Who or Whatever runs this crazy ride.

I reached out to Blondie and took her hand and immediately felt a lifetime younger—older?—who cared. We were together and I would never, ever again abandon her. We had both found what we so desperately sought—and it was just that—we both needed to need it…desperately.

 

The rain continued to pound, relentlessly, but it wasn’t angry, not in the least. And as our building and pumps melted away…as did my car and the remains of my previous life…I realized that there had never been any anger in the rain—only tears of joy.

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A Conversation With Hell

by

Don't Answer It. (Image by Holger.Ellgaard [CC BY-SA 3.0, http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0], via Wikimedia Commons).
Don’t Answer It. (Image by Holger.Ellgaard [CC BY-SA 3.0, http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0%5D, via Wikimedia Commons).
This story appears to be the first (or among the first) story I’d written as an adult and began recording, as I got full time into writing as a business. As an ongoing intent. From my earliest records, it appears I’d written this in May or June of 1987. I was 26 years old. It is my first writing entry into my writing log, which I’ve kept ever since. On May 6, 1987, I sent a letter to the Library of Congress for copyright forms. On June 1, 1987, I’d sent this story out to Writer’s Gazette, TheMind’s Eye, 2AM Magazine, Pleiades Magazine, and SCIFANT (I don’t know if this is the “SCIFANT” from all those years ago, but there’s the link).

My very first entry into my writing log, however, is the following:

Contacted Dr. Clifford Bennett about publishing “Hope,” “Conversation,” “Love”. He died May 4, 1987 (82 years old).

You can see there were other stories I was working on.

Dr. Bennett was in the publishing/writing world, and I no longer remember how I discovered him (maybe it was a referral from some critique group I was in at the time). For some reason, I also remember Dr. Bennett performing hypnosis, and we’d worked a couple times with some hypnosis sessions. Anyway, I’d met with him a couple times, then I remember he was “hard to get hold of,” and soon afterward I’d learned that he’d died. His obituary is posted after this story. Dr. Bennett was my first contact with “the publishing industry” and the first “professional” to help me with my writing. I wish I remembered more about him.

Anyway, this story harkens back to my straight horror writing days. It’s not one of my best, but it’s short and sweet. It needed some clean-up.

Inspiration? Aside from today’s telemarketers, we’ve all gotten wrong numbers. In today’s world there’s the “butt dialing” phenomenon. But back when I wrote this, in 1987, we just had plain old wrong numbers.

This story had been published in SCIFANT #8, May 5, 1988.

 

A Conversation With Hell

© F. P. Dorchak, 1987

Ring!

Ring!

“Hello? Hello!”

It was the same thing. The same thing for the past month. Will Garret had made a brief jaunt back to his house to pick up some papers he had forgotten. No sooner had he stepped into the hallway, when the phone rang.

A crackling sound over the phone with no answer.

Who was it? Was there a problem with the phone?

He’d already had it checked.

A bad line?

Nope, had that checked too.

A prankster?

Definite possibility.

Whatever it was, it had gotten annoying a long time ago. These calls came at all hours of the day, none of them consistent in time. Some would come at two in the afternoon, while others would come at three in the morning.

He hung up; no use prolonging the agony.

Will stepped back from the phone and watched it. Then to his surprise (and then again, maybe not), it rang again. He let it ring a few more times, he couldn’t not answer it.

He just had to know who wa—

“Hello?”

“Hello,” came the smooth as silk reply. It was a masculine voice.

“Who is this?” Will asked, more than a little irritated.

“Uh…Fred Tarpenton…of Tarpenton Buick,” came the reply.

“Oh—I’m sorry. I’m a little on edge…I’ve been getting these crank calls, and—”

“Not to worry, apology accepted.”

A promotional call from a car dealer. Not interested, but figured he might as well listen for a while, considering the way he’d answered the phone.

After hanging up the phone, he went back to work. A corporate executive is a busy guy.

At his office, Will slaved over extensive paperwork on the merging of a new client. His huge oak desk was filled with reams of paper, a coffee cup was buried underneath the piles, somewhere. His phone rang and he absentmindedly fumbled for it.

“Yes,” he said, his reply neutral, distracted.

Over the receiver came that familiar crackling sound.

He shot up from his desk, hurtling the phone across his office. He moved behind his chair and gripped it in tightly.

It had been bad enough that he had been getting these calls for the past three and a half weeks…but they’d been confined to his home. This is the first time he had ever gotten one at work.

“Miriam!”

He was already on his way into reception, where his administrator worked. “Miriam, did you just forward me a call?”

“No, Mr. Garret, why?”

Will forced himself to calm down, no use letting his charges think he’s losing his grip on reality.

“Oh, nothing…nothing.” He turned and returned to his office. He told Miriam to hold all calls.

Back in his office he sat back down. This was getting out of hand. He looked to the mess over by the wall. Guess hadn’t really needed to have Miriam hold his calls. Have to get a new phone now.

It was nearing nine o’clock as he entered his driveway. It had been a tough but profitable day. He exited his car and entered the house. He’d just opened the front door, when the phone rang. Will slowly closed the door behind him and cautiously approached the ringing instrument.

It continued to ring as he put his briefcase down. Reached for the receiver.

“Hello?”

Crackle.

“Who is this?”

Crackle.

“What do you want from me? Money? I’ll give you anything you want, just—”

Crackle.

Crackle.

“Fuck.” Will slammed the receiver down and reached for the wall jack, unplugged the phone and the other two he owned. If nothing else, he was determined to get some sleep tonight.

The next day was bright and sunny and Garret awoke in an excellent mood. There had been no phone calls to wake him. He ate a well prepared breakfast, read the paper and began to leave for work.

He felt as though he could take on the world!

Standing in the doorway, he thought it better to reconnect at least one phone, and backtracked in, reconnecting the living room extension. As soon as the contacts connected, the instrument rang.

“Answer this, buddy!” he said, and flipped off the phone.

The phone continued ringing.

It was a busy day, as usual. Business calls, meetings, paperwork and more paperwork. It was 4:05 p.m. and he thought it best to leave a little early today. He began clearing off his desk—

Ring!

Ring! Ring!

“Oh come on, Miriam, where the hell are you?”

After several rings, he grabbed the phone.

“Yes?”

Crackle.

FOOOOOOOSH!

A bright yellow-orange bolt of flame shot out of the receiver, searing straight through Garret’s skull. Not stopping there the flame wrapped itself several times around his head, burning flesh dripping like wax from his charring skull.

Will did get a chance to utter a shriek, but that was about all.

He dropped the receiver as he tried to stand up, his hands going up to his incinerated head. Tiny flames sputtered around what had been his nose and left ear.

Miriam burst in just in time to see him sink back down into the plush executive’s chair. The dying flames and smoke continued to issue from the blackened remains of what had been his head. The carnage was total.

Miriam stood, frozen, at the entrance unable to move.

Garret’s body from the neck down was untouched. It twitched a few times then lay still, arms hanging to their sides, his head cocked to one side and smoldering. A few feet from Will’s body on the floor lay the still flaming receiver. Several defiant flames still licked at the handset. Had Miriam her sanity, she would have heard the faint echoes of a demonic chuckle.

Out in reception, a phone rang….

 

Dr. Clifford Bennett Obituary, 1987
Dr. Clifford Bennett Obituary, 1987

 

Short Story Links

Links to all my posted short stories are here.

 

The Chain Letter

by

Pass it Foreword! It Work! (Image by F. P. Dorchak, © 2015)
Pass it Foreword! It Work! (Image by F. P. Dorchak, © 2015)

Back before e-mail and the Internet, there were these things called “chain letters.” Actual letters that randomly circulated to the “unlucky” for immediate global dissemination and unheralded good luck upon the recipient. I received the exact chain letter in this story, and—except for the rest of this story—did exactly what Tyler Stevens did in the beginning of the story: dissected it for shits-and-grins. I had time on my hands back then.

Had these things started out as gags or bullying tactics?

Who knows.

I don’t believe in them. Chucked it or shredded it all those many years ago.

But then again…I am still waiting for my publishing career to take off….

I’m also changing up my short story links to my Short Story page. It’s much easier to manage all the links than putting them all down at the bottom of each post, which I have to constantly update and approve—individually—each time I post a story.

This story has never been published. Or copied. Or propagated. Or….

 

The Chain Letter

© F. P. Dorchak, 1994

 

“This paper has been sent to you for good luck. The original copy is in New England: It has been around the world nine times. The luck has now been sent to you, providing you act on it. You will receive good luck within four days of recieving this letter provided you sent it back out. THIS IS NO JOKE. You will receive it in the mail.

“Send copies to people you know. Don’t send money, as Fatehas no price. Do not keep this letter. It must leave your hands within 96 hours. An R.A.F. officer received $70,000.00. Jim Teller recieved $40,000.00 and lost it because he broke the chain. While in the Phillipines, George Weh lost his wife six days after recieving the letter. He failed to circulate the letter, however, before her death she won $50,000.00 in a lottery. The money was transferred to him four days after he decided to mail out this letter.

“Send 20 copies of htis letter and see what happens in four days. The chain comes from Venezuela and was written by Samir de Tressoint, a missionary from South America. Since the copy must have a tour of hte world, you must maske 20 copies and send them out or suffer possibly dire consequences. This is true, even if you are not superstitious.

“Beware: Cervantes Diego received the chain in 1943. He asked his secretary to make 20 copies and send them out. A few days later he won a lottery of two million dollars. Arian Dardamaix, an office employee, received the letter and forgot it had to leave his hands within 96 hours. He lost his job. Later, after finding the letter again, he mailed out 20 copies. A few days later he got a better job. Darian Fairfax received the letter and not believing threw it away. Nine days later he died. Be fair warned!

“Don’t ignore this!

“IT WORK!”

 

“What the hell is this?” Tyler Stevens asked himself, turning over the letter. The quality of the lettering was poor, no doubt because of repeated copying, and there were stains on its tri-folded and crinkled paper.

“Shit, this guy can’t even spell ‘receive.’ And what’s with this have-good-luck-or-die business?”

Tyler had just returned home from a game of tennis with his girlfriend, Dyanne Foster, and he was tired, sweaty, and hungry. He was in no mood for stupid human tricks. On his way to the hot, comforting, spray of a shower, he cast aside the letter.

The chain letter quietly smoldered under the table.

 

Tyler sat in front of his television, spaced out to some documentary that droned on about middle America and the construction industry. Getting up, he went over to where he last remembered tossing the letter, found it, and picked it up. It seemed somewhat more wrinkled than he recalled.

Fucking chain letters.

He wondered how much time he had before death or dismemberment.

Four days. 96 hours.

He took the letter back with him to the couch and Reread it. Several things immediately stood out.

First, beyond the obvious imperfections in English and punctuation (and he was no expert), why would somebody who claimed to be a missionary send out a threatening letter? Good luck!—but disregard this and you die! Just what kind of missionary would this person be? And wouldn’t de Tressoint himself (or whoever possessed the original letter) himself die? The letter did say not to retain it, so who could be in possession of an original?

And next, how does this person know that the letter made one let alone nine trips around the world? If its sole purpose was to make that trip—which it had apparently already had—then why was it necessary to continue?

And just what did the original look like? Assuming that the letter actually brought about money and employment, it had to exist prior to the deeds themselves. So, this being the case, the incidents cited had to be added after the fact—which meant that the letter had to have been tampered with.

Provided, of course, all of this was for real. Which it wasn’t.

So who did the tampering?

And who the hell were Jim Elliot, George Weh, Arian Dardamaix, and Darren Fairfax, anyway? Made-up names, no doubt. And how do we know that their specific “luck” was directly attributable to this particular piece of paper and not something else? How do we also know that some prim and proper English Royal Air Force Officer would even remotely admit to such a humiliating act as this? Officers, let alone British officers were bastions of strength and logic—not prone to silly superstitions and patronizing threats.

Tyler set the letter aside and went into the kitchen. He grabbed a wine cooler from the refrigerator, returned to the couch, and continued to pick apart the letter.

It was really no big deal that a husband inherited money from a deceased wife. Sure, it was a bummer his wife kicked after winning all that money, but wasn’t something like that a legal given? And how do we know that the woman who kicked wasn’t already well on her way to begin with?

Same with the others who’d died.

And the man who asked his secretary to make copies for him—how many businessmen (like those British officers) do you know who’d admit to being superstitious even if they were? Citing names didn’t lend any more credibility to a piece of fraud then the paper it was written on.

But back to the “original.”

What might it look like?

Tyler fumbled through a coffee-table drawer and came up with a number-three pencil. He hated being threatened, which was exactly what this letter was doing. He began lining out everything that couldn’t possibly have been in an original, and corrected any misspellings. The end result turned out something like this:

 

“This paper has been sent to you for good luck! The original copy is in New England. The luck has now been sent to you, providing you act on it. You will receive good luck within four days of receiving this letter provided you send it back out. THIS IS NO JOKE. You will receive it in the mail.

“Send copies to people you know. Don’t send money, as Fate has no price. Do not keep this letter. It must leave your hands within 96 hours.

“Send out 20 copies of this letter and see what happens in four days. The chain comes from Venezuela. Since the copy must have a tour of the world, you must make 20 copies and send them out. This is true, even if you are not superstitious. Be fair warned!

“Don’t ignore this!

“IT WORKS!“

 

Aside from the suffering “…possibly dire consequences,” and “Be fair warned,” which didn’t fit the overall tone of the letter, there was no mention of death or destruction—just that it had to leave the hands of the recipient and make a tour of the world if good luck was to be had.

Now that sounded more like something a missionary might send.

Next question: who would add to the letter (okay, so this one wasn’t all that difficult—any Tom, Dick, or Harriet who felt so inclined over the years)? But who could possibly even know what had happened to these people, and (more importantly) what had happened as a direct result of this letter?

Not possible. It was all fiction.

Tyler looked for the envelope, a torn and crumpled ball in the brown Albertson’s shopping bag he used as a trash receptacle. Who would have sent this to him? Of course there was no return address…and his address (which was a qualified correct with its missing apartment number and typoed street address) wasn’t even centered on the envelope. Instead, it sat skewed high and to the envelope’s left of center. His last name was typed first. The zip code was correct only after a wrong digit had been over-typed. This couldn’t have been anyone who knew him. On a hunch he went to the phone book. Sure enough, the address used was the one listed in the white pages, which had no mention of his apartment number, or zip code.

Clearly a class act.

There was just no way that certain things could possibly have been known in this letter. It was either that the letter—the original—was real and subsequently altered, thereby making the one he had no longer valid, or that it was written up as-is and sent out—definitely a hoax. Or—

There were other means involved.

Supernatural means.

“Bullshit.”

Tyler again trashed it.

 

The remainder of the week continued uneventfully and Tyler all but forgot about his chain letter—except for the rare moment or two when he found himself inexplicably making twenty copies of a magazine article…or the phone bill. Or buying that box of Mead 100 (twenty-times-five), white, 4 1/8 by 9 1/2-inch envelopes.

After finishing a later than usual work-out session at the gym, Tyler came home and showered. Afterward he soon fell into a deep sleep and slept soundly until three in the morning, when an uneasiness invaded his dreams. It was as if he dreamed of nothing but blackness…a deep, evil blackness that never ended. He tossed about in bed, unable to awaken…unable to break the dream’s hold.

The dream-darkness expanded within him like icicles of terror were actually invading his body. He dreamed of a beautiful woman who came to him from afar…a woman who seductively pressed herself against him…taunted and seduced him. They entwined…consummated. The scent of their lovemaking cloying, rich. The woman lay beside him, face down. He couldn’t look to her without becoming again instantly, painfully aroused. Slowly, he reached out to her. She rolled over to his touch…

“Come fuck me again,” she hissed.

The woman’s once-beautiful face was now misshapen and hideous. Punctuated with open sores and something running just beneath the surface of her odious, discolored skin. Her eyes were black and pupil-less and ran freely with a discolored puss. She cackled at Tyler, and he vomited. A wicked tongue shot out of the hag’s black, distorted mouth-that-looked-more-like-a-gash and licked up the vomit. Tyler tried to run…to break the hag’s dominance, but the hag’s tongue split apart and wrapped around his face, his torso, and down around his

 

Tyler shot up in bed and screamed, frantically running his hands all over his body.

A river of sweat ran off him.

He fell over in bed—then uttered another shriek as he fell onto the side of the bed where the hag was and whipped his body over to the other side of the bed.

His screams slowly died in his throat as he buried his face into the bedsheets and clawed them from their tucks and folds….

Opening his eyes he stared into the red glow of his alarm clock.

Three-ten, no, -eleven.

Stop. Regroup.

Closed his eyes, still clawing at the bedsheets

The room smelled differently….

A nightmare.

Sweating, he slowed his breathing to a more normal rate and rolled back over. Cast a quick look to where the hag had ben—in his dream.

Empty. That side of the bed was empty…no vomit, no pus, no….

He reached down to himself. He uttered a sound of disgust. Wet dream, alright.

His stomach revolted.

He rolled over onto his side…and came face to face with the puss-leaking, diseased face from his nightmare. She lay in bed beside him, tongue flicking in and out of her knotted gash-of-a-mouth.

“Come fuck with me,” she croaked.

Her noxious and grating words blasted through Tyler like a pair of cranked, thousand-watt speakers.

Tyler squealed like a stuck pig and exploded out of bed, blankets and sheets still wrapped around him. He tripped over himself and the attached sheets and smashed over one of his dressers’ lamps as he vacated the room in one gigantic bound. In the darkness he ran into a wall and

come fuck with me I love a good fuck

laid himself out—

come fuck with me I love a good fuck

—but just as he was blacking out, Tyler saw the hag descend upon and straddle his….

come fuck with me I love a good fuck….

 

Tyler awoke groggily and leaned up against the bedroom doorjamb. Felt the painful bump and dried blood on his forehead. The bathroom lights were still on, but were now paled against the early morning sunlight. His mouth felt like an empty tree trunk with moss growing inside it and his neck was as stiff as a two-by-four. He slowly picked himself up and twisted the kinks out of his body. Looked to the blankets tangled in his legs.

How had he gotten here?

Tyler looked back to his bedroom. One of his lamps missing.

He shuffled out from the tangled sheets and returned to the bedroom. Found the lamp scattered about the carpet like a murder victim, its bulb smashed and lampshade torn.

His bed was deserted.

All his sheets were in a pile that lead into the hallway, where he had awoken. He threw himself down on the bed.

What the hell’d happened?

Clammy and shaking, Tyler didn’t feel at all well. Pushing himself up off the bed, his hand narrowly missed a dried, discolored stain on the sheets.

And there was just a hint of pungency to the air….

Nothing a good shower couldn’t fix.

 

After buying new, 60-watt light bulbs and a lampshade, Tyler hurriedly rushed home to clean up and meet Dyanne for their one p.m. tennis date. Showers were great, but when the hot water ran out it was time to get moving. It wasn’t that Tyler had a shower fetish, but there did seem to be nothing a warm shower couldn’t remedy and that’s what he loved about them.

Changing quickly, he made it out to the courts. Dyanne stood by the fence, waiting impatiently.

“What took you so long?” she asked, her words laced more than a little with annoyed attitude. Her racket swung casually from her two-fingered, I’m-not-at-all-happy-with-you-right-now grip. “These courts are severely booked—”

“I’m sorry, honey, but I had a rough night—”

“Oh?” she said, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow.

Oh, that accusatory eyebrow.

“No-no-no, that’s not what I meant—I mean, I did have a rough night—but not from—look, I had a nightmare and ended up sleeping on the hallway floor, okay? Had to replace a broken lamp.”

Dyanne’s I’m-pissed look took on a softer look. “Excuse me?”

“The funny thing is, I can’t remember a damned thing about it, just that it scared the crap out of me.”

Embarrassed, Dyanne lowered her voice and uncrossed her arms.

“I’m sorry. Are you all right?”

“Yeah. I just had to pick up some new light bulbs and a new shade. I broke a lamp.”

“God, what happened? Can’t you remember any of it?” She moved in closer, brushing away some of Tyler’s bangs.

“Nope. Just that something literally scared the piss out of me. But, it was just a dream—now, let’s play some tennis!”

 

Dyanne and Tyler were deep into their second match, the score 30-40. Dyanne served the ball. Fault. Her next serve made it, but drew Tyler to the far end of the court. He barely snagged the shot before his own return forced Dyanne up to the net. Her return forced Tyler back to the rear and caused him to miss. Deuce.

Dyanne retrieved the ball and again served, spiking this one just inside the white rectangle. It whizzed past Tyler, who missed the most perfect serve he’d ever see.

“Ha, lover, my game! Oww….”

Dyanne was so cute in her pink shorts as she pirouetted about the court.

“Nother game, hon-ey?”

“Sure, but this time I win!”

Tyler set up and served. Dyanne picked it up easily enough and her return sent Tyler scurrying back across court. She was giving him a good workout, but his quick backhand sliced it to a sharp left. Dyanne rushed to meet it…and missed it by a hair.

The next scene suddenly slowed down.

Like a person unsure of what it was he was witnessing, Tyler watched as Dyanne performed a neatly executed forward spin from the momentum of her missed swing…her racket slowing left her hands and flew into the chain-link fence. She spun around for a second turn, moving backwards and towards the chain-link fence that enclosed the courts…her hands going up before her face.

She smiled just as she clenched the galvanized, crisscrossed wires of the fence.

Something’s wrong here, Tyler sensed, terrible wrong….

He couldn’t have known that a section of the fence’s wire had raised itself into tiny little barbs just where Dyanne’s hands were now planting themselves…but that’s exactly what happened.

As Dyanne made contact, she screamed…

And life returned to normal play.

Tyler sprinted across the court to Dyanne, who was now cupping her hands into her chest. Tyler leapt over the net and quickly came to her, her a tight grimace of pain.

“What’s the matter—what’s the matter—are you all right? Dyanne?”

Tyler crouched down on the court. She was in a heap, leaning back against the fence. “Dyanne—let me see!”

Tyler pulled her hands away from her chest and saw the blood that remained on her shirt and exposed skin of her upper chest. Lots of it.

Taking her bloody hand into his, Tyler felt his stomach

(come fuck with me I love a good fuck)

knot.

Her hand was torn to pieces.

Most of the flesh on the underside of her palm and fingers had been brutally torn away.

“Oh my…God. We’ve got to get you to a doctor!”

The other players on the court had now all stopped their games and looked on. Some turned away in disgust.

“Someone, please,” Tyler pleaded, “call an ambulance—please!” One man broke free from his daze and ran off in search of the payphone.

Tyler looked up to the fence where Dyanne’s hand had landed only seconds before and found it stood as nonchalant as ever—and there were indeed raised barbs on it. There were also droplets of blood…and what looked exactly like bits of Dyanne’s skin clinging to those barbs.

Come fuck with me—I love a good fuck….

 

Tyler took Dyanne home to her apartment and stayed with her. She looked so vulnerable…so helpless…and reminded him of a puppy, named Sheena, he’d once had as a kid. Sheena had been running loose one day, as did most dogs out in the country, when she finally met the front-end bumper of a ’67 Ford truck. She’d managed to limp off to the roadside, but could go no further and collapsed in the tall grasses, her left rear leg broken. The driver, a farmer from down the road, felt terrible and took her to the local vet, footing her bill. Sheena was back on her feet in no time, her rear leg bandaged in white and her tail wagging, but whenever it rained the family had to wrap her leg in plastic bags until she healed. Needless to say, she never ran free again.

So there rested Dyanne, her right hand bandaged white and lying on her chest, which rose and fell to her (finally) relaxed breathing. They had watched television all night and it was quite clear that Dyanne had plans that evening that totally involved a quiet night’s rest. As she fell asleep on her couch, Tyler picked her up and carried her into her bedroom. He gently lay her down in bed, took off her bathrobe, and eased her beneath the crisp bedsheets. Once she was properly situated, Tyler also disrobed and slid in beside her. He loved the feel of her warm skin against his and wrapped his arms around her. He fell asleep thinking about how much he loved her and hoped she’d be okay.

 

The alarm clock had gone off several minutes before either had noticed it, but Dyanne was the first to stir. She slammed it off with her bandaged hand and winced from the impact. She turned to Tyler, who still lay with his arms around her. Very mindful of her injury, Dyanne repositioned herself and kissed Tyler on the forehead.

“Time to get up, sleepyhead.”

Tyler stirred, eyes still closed. Dyanne gave him another kiss, then nudged him slightly.

“C’mon, honey, time to get up. I’ve got to get to work.”

This time Tyler responded with a soft smile.

“Hi.”

“Hello, morning breath.” She smiled back. “What do you want to eat?”

Tyler said nothing, but instead rolled in closer to her.

“Fine, be that way, I’m taking a shower.”

Dyanne climbed out of bed and went into the bathroom, starting the shower.

“Don’t let that bandage get wet,” Tyler shouted from the other room. “Wrap it in a

(Sheena)

bag or something—”

“Don’t worry, I heard the doctor too!” Dyanne said. Poking her head back into the bedroom, she added, “But thanks for caring.”

“Any…time.”

Dyanne felt silly doing it, but she got out a used Oroweat bread bag from the kitchen and wrapped it around her bandage. Using a large rubber band saved from many paper deliveries she secured it and returned to the shower. She tested the water before entering by inserting her good hand. By this time Tyler was ready for movement and slowly crawled out of bed. He took in the sounds of running water and Dyanne’s periodic splashing sounds from the shower.

Smiled. Got out of bed.

“May I join you?” Tyler asked, entering the shower stall.

“Anytime, stranger.”

“May I soap that gorgeous body of yours?”

“It depends on what else you have in mind.”

“Watch the hand—”

“Riiight,” she said, and came in closer.

 

Come fuck with me, I love a good fuck.

 

As the next few days progressed, Tyler found himself accumulating scars and bruises of all kinds…just little ones here and there, and in themselves they wouldn’t have been any big deal—except that Tyler collected them for no apparent reason. He’d wake up with a new one (or two) each morning. Dyanne, of course, also detected them and Tyler explained them away as one of those periods in life when you seemed to be the world’s klutziest person and there was nothing you could do about it.

But everywhere he turned things went wrong.

Checks bounced…a twenty-hour bug found a home…and yesterday he scraped the side of a car as he parallel parked—and he prided himself on how good a parallel-parker he was.

Tyler and Dyanne went for a walk after a late lunch at la Petite Conchon. Early evening rapidly approached and traffic was a bit on the heavy side as people headed home for an early weekend.

“Thanks for lunch, hon,” Tyler said.

“It was the least I could do after all you seemed to be going through this week. I wanted to do something special. Maybe it’ll break the

(twenty copies)

(raised barbs)

“spell, or whatever.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll see. Let’s cross here,” Tyler said, checking traffic. “I’ve got to get going. There’s something I need to do.”

“Okay,” Dyanne said, smiling, “but first, this—” She pulled Tyler into her arms and planted him with a deep, lengthy kiss. “I love you!”

Tyler held her with a penetrating look.

“And I love you—more than anything else in the world—now, come on!”

Grabbing her good hand, Tyler led her out into the street, a section of the traffic now clear, but as Dyanne followed, her pocketbook bumped against her side and out fell her checkbook. Halfway across the road.

“Wait!”

“Wait what? We’re in the middle of traffic!” Tyler came to a halt three-quarters of the way across the street.

“I dropped something!” Dyanne broke his grip and went back for her checkbook.

Tyler searched the road for what Dyanne had dropped.

Everything slowed down….and came the whispers…

…come fuck with me, I love a good fuck…

…come fuck with me, I love a good fuck…

…comefuckwithmeIloveagoodfuckcomefuckwithmecomefuck—

Tyler turned to see a large, black car moving towards them. He opened his mouth to scream—but nothing came out.

Dyanne bent down to pick up the book

(come fuck with me I love a good fuck)

and looked up to him, a smile across her face as she triumphantly waved the errant checkbook at him.

Come fuck with me I love a good fuck!

He saw her look around for traffic.

comefuckwithmeagoodfuckIlove

Saw her spot the car.

a good fuck a really good fuck

Saw her arms go up.

I love it I love it

Her hips connected first.

The sound of her bones breaking against the metal reverberated hollowly in a universe gone lag.

A good fuck I love

Tyler saw her head and face unite with the windshield in a spurt of gore and glass…her teeth and gums gnashed horribly together.

One of Dyanne’s hands flopped off to one side of the car as she molded to the hood.

And that was not all Tyler had seen.

He saw the face of the driver…the face of the hag from his nightmare.

The lightbulb.

The stained bedsheets.

The nightmare.

Dyanne’s body rolled off the vehicle and landed with a thump. Bumped about once or twice more before coming to a rest.

For what seemed an eternity, her head lolled limply from side to side.

The car continued on in its course.

Tyler was unable to move. Forced to watch. He realized what kind of car had hit her.

A hearse.

 

Tyler was still shaking when he got home. He’d spent the rest of the day and half the night at the police station and related matters and could barely hold himself up. He was sick to his stomach.

But he had found the paper.

Did what had to be done.

Was spent…had no more will. Collapsed to the living-room floor, tears streaking his face. He lay still. Thought about George Weh’s wife and Darian Fairfax. About twenty-times-five and four-and-one-eighth-by-nine-and-one-half-inch envelopes.

Felt an unexpected urge for a shower.

(wash the sins)

Needed to.

Sobbing, he looked to the bathroom.

The light was on.

He didn’t remember turning it on…but that didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered. He’d lost Dyanne. Lost everything.

He dragged himself to his feet and made his way to the bathroom. Kicked off his shoes and removed his clothes.

Found the shower running.

Nice and

(it didn’t matter)

hot.

Steam filled the bathroom.

It just didn’t

(nothing did)

matter.

Naked and trembling, Tyler stepped into the shower and felt the warmth penetrate his skin. He collapsed into the bottom of the tub.

Whispers came from the spray.

(nothing mattered)

Did you have a good fuck?

“Fuck you!” Tyler yelled.

Did you have a good fuck? I did.

“Fuck you,” he sobbed and closed his eyes. The whispers chuckled.

The hag’s face formed in the mist above.

I had a great fuck, Tyler, now it’s your turn.

On ran the whispers. The face disappeared.

Tyler lay in the bottom of the tub, adrift in his misery. He ignored the fact that the shower had grown hotter (it didn’t matter); spikier (nothing mattered)….

It just didn’t matter one goddamned bit.

Tyler tried to right himself when he noticed that the water had become downright painful. Not hot painful, but spiked painful. He looked down to his body and saw the red.

Was it something in the water?

Felt disjointed. Resigned. He collapsed back inside the tub and let the warmth flow over him.

Through him.

Around him.

His last thoughts were of Dyanne.

Tiny daggers…no larger than short pins…screamed down from the thundering shower head and tore and ripped and penetrated into his body.

Ripped through his nerves and burst open his organs.

Razored blades that clattered down along the plastic surface towards the drain like iron filings to a magnet.

It wasn’t long before his heart had ruptured into an explosion of red that filled the tub and spattered the walls.

Tyler floated….

The water rained down upon him…washing away the filth….

The sins.

Tyler’s body lay empty.

It just didn’t matter anymore.

It never did.

 

At a rickety and battered table sat an ancient, diseased woman. Her hair was greasy and gray and her veins filled with bile and hate. Her life reeked of a different kind of cancer not of cigarettes or cells.

But she liked writing letters. Got real good at it, in fact.

Having no friends, she wrote them to no one in particular. She just wrote—not that many would willingly read what it was she had to say. She didn’t much like people, and that was okay, because people, it turned out, didn’t much care for her. She didn’t have a name, didn’t need one. People used names for identity. To be proud. She had no need of either.

She just wrote.

But this time she received a letter.

One that found its way to her doorstep.

She had no mailbox.

She found the letter while on the way to the woods with an eviscerated cat. She liked gutting cats, they were fun. Dogs were too big. She liked cats.

Collecting the letter in her rickety hands, which had no return address, she sat down at her table and inspected it.

Who would write her?

How did it get here? No matter, maybe she could return the favor.

She opened the splotched and unevenly sealed envelope and removed the contents. Unfolded the paper. She read the few, hastily scrawled words beneath the poorly typewritten paragraphs first. It was then that her yellowed orbs screamed wide. She heaved the letter away, which smoldered and disintegrated before it hit the floor.

Tried to outdistance what was to come.

The old lady tumbled furniture as she fled.

Heard noises in pursuit.

Ran into the living room. A wide, spacious living room. She used to be rich once. Had a big house.

The whispers grew, filled the building.

Words that became audible and loud.

You know what they whispered.

 

Pass it on. IT WORKS!

 

Short Story Links

Links to all my posted short stories are here.