Tag: SpookyReads

The Flash Drive

He stares at the door, sweat pouring from his brow, his bottom lip quivering nervously. He rubs his eyes with his free hand as Abby’s barking sends his ears into a spiral, while Gareth’s voice screams at him from the other end of the phone.

“Marty, for Christ’s sake? MARTY? Are you hearing me, man? I need to know you’re with me!”

Silence is the only answer he receives, until finally, just as he feels the presence of something behind him, he responds.

“I’m here,” Marty says softly.

Gareth lets out a long, exhausted breath. “FUCK, never do that again, I thought…”

“So did I,” Marty says as he falls back into his seat. Abby turns and looks at him, tilting her head to the side. “It’s okay, girl. On your BED!” he says.

Abby shifts her head to the other side, blinks several times, wags her tail, then slowly makes her way over to her bed. Marty leans over and gently pats her on the head before turning his attention back to the phone.

“How long’ve we got?”

“The first story was posted fifteen minutes ago, so we’ve got about fifty or so before it’ll make its move. How many times is this now?”

“I lost count after thirty-five. I just don’t know how we can make this work. Every time, it just keeps forcing us back here.”

“You said whoever controls the story controls the world, and you control the story, so you control how this all ends,” Gareth says.

“It’s not as easy as that, and you know it.”

“That’s not what you said. You said you knew a way out of this!”

“The drive is the key. I just need to use it the right way,” he says as he pulls a red flash drive from his pocket and begins to feel the all-too-familiar pull of the past.

---

Two Weeks Ago

“So, I know this is going to sound like a stupid question, but why do you want it?” Stuart asks, looking up from his computer.

“If I wanted you to know the reason, I would’ve already told you,” Marty smiles as he nervously chews on his fingernails.

“That’s why I said it was going to sound like a stupid question,” Stuart replies with a smile as he pulls a red flash drive from the computer and hands it to Marty. “For what it’s worth, I don’t care what you want it for. But a word of warning—make sure you’re online when you plug it in. Otherwise, it’ll just fry your computer and nothing else.”

“Make sure it’s online, right,” Marty looks down at the drive and grips it tightly in his hand before looking up at Stuart. “I need to ask one last favour. On Tuesday, when the story starts, I don’t want you to read it or share it, no matter what happens. No matter how many people tell you about it, or how many of your friends share it on your wall, I want you to leave it alone.”

“Sure, but can you at least tell me why?”

“When everything starts happening—and it will—watch this. It’ll tell you everything,” Marty says, handing Stuart a green flash drive.

Does It Matter

He places his hand on her leg, and she smiles. How long she had waited for this night. For years, Clint never paid any attention to her—not once showing any signs of interest. Then, two days ago, he sat down next to her at lunch and asked her out. She was shocked at first, wondering why someone like him would even pay any attention to her. But he did. For the next two nights that followed, they had intense hour-long phone conversations. They walked to and from school together, and he even introduced her to his mother. Now, tonight, they were sitting together in a theatre, watching a movie, sharing popcorn like a real boyfriend and girlfriend. The movie played out quickly, and soon they were out in the night air, where he noticed her shivering in the cold.

“You should’ve brought a thicker jumper,” he says as he quickly pulls off his coat and wraps it around her. She blushes.

“Now, won’t you be cold?”

“It doesn’t worry me,” he replies with that cute smile he always flashes around the school. They slowly make their way down the street, talking about what they would do if they had been the ones to find the old treasure map like the kids in the movie did. Eventually, they come to a great water fountain that stands in the town’s centre.

“Can I ask you something?” she asks.

He laughs. “Asking to ask a question is never comforting.”

“I have to ask, because I haven’t yet—I mean, wait, it all made sense before I said anything,” she says nervously. He grips her hand tightly.

“You want to know why I asked you out?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, we’ve never had a conversation, we’ve never hung out in the same crowds. The closest we’ve ever come to each other before two days ago was six years ago when you wanted to sit next to Debbie Heshnear on the bus, and you asked me to swap seats.”

“Debbie Heshnear, was that six years ago?”

“Don’t avoid the question. Why now? Don’t take it the wrong way—I’m not complaining. But why now?”

“Because it was supposed to be now, not twenty-five years down the track,” he replies.

“Sorry, what does twenty-five years have to do with it?”

“Everything.” He looks at her through shimmery eyes as the moon shines off the water in the fountain, bathing him in its reflection. “I’ve been thinking this over, wondering how I was going to tell you this, and I still don’t know how. But, I guess the easiest way is just to tell you and hope you don’t think I’m crazy,” he says as he motions for her to sit on a bench beside the fountain with him. She nervously sits down, and he squeezes her hand. “Twenty-five years from now, we’re going to bump into each other in a bookstore. We’re going to start chatting; the chat is going to lead to us having coffee together, reminiscing over school days, what we’ve been doing with our lives, and what we plan on doing. That coffee is going to turn into dinner, then dinner is going to turn into breakfast,” he says, taking a deep breath. “And that breakfast is going to turn into the best four years of our lives, and then…” he stops as tears run down his face. She places a hand on his arm and squeezes it.

“And then?” she asks, wide-eyed.

He looks up at her and slowly runs a hand across her cheek. “And then you’ll be diagnosed with stage four cervical cancer, and I’ll watch the woman I love more than anything else in the world slowly die before my eyes, powerless to do anything to save her. I’ll throw every cent I have at it. I’ll sell my Dad’s business. I’ll do anything I can. But nothing will stop it—no amount of surgery, no amount of money, not even the best doctors will save you. And I’ll watch it all, not being able to do a single thing to help. And then, you’ll die….” He wipes his tears from his face and takes a few moments to gather his thoughts. “After you died, I hit rock bottom. Nothing was worth anything without you. I was lost, beaten, and alone. Whatever time passed after your funeral was a blur. I was just so fucking done with everything, wishing every night that I could have you back in my arms, wishing I had just come up to you in school and asked you out. I wished for that every second of every day for weeks until I ended up in hospital. I wasn’t taking care of myself—I couldn’t—and almost died. But I didn’t care. In fact, I almost wanted it. And then one morning, I woke up in my bed at my parents’ house. At first, I thought it was a dream, but the longer it continued, the more I realised I was back, and I had a chance to save you, to build our lives together like we were supposed to.” He looks at her and can see the doubt in her eyes. “Ask me anything, ask me things I wouldn’t know, things I couldn’t know, and I’ll answer them.”

“Does it matter?”

“What?”

“Does me asking you questions, does me interrogating you like a criminal, really matter? Honestly, I think you’re crazy, but then again so am I. So what if your story’s true, so what if it’s not—does it change anything now? Does it change this moment and the last few days? I mean, this could all be a dream, this could all be in your head, or you’re dead and this is whatever follows, or maybe you’ve just lost the plot. Who knows what the truth is—the only thing that matters is this: in the end, does any of it matter?” He grabs her quickly and kisses her passionately, taking her by surprise, but she does not fight it; she, in fact, encourages it.

They part and sit there with their foreheads pressed against each other, staring into each other’s eyes.

“I guess it doesn’t,” he says with a smile.

The House

“Don’t turn out the lights,” which was the only thing my grandmother told me when I first stayed at her house. Well, it wasn’t the only thing, but she made damn sure I listened to what she said. Don’t turn out the lights and everything will be fine. I was a kid at the time and didn’t understand what she meant, and honestly, I didn’t want to, and it just became a habit.

Why am I telling you this seemingly useless information? Because like everything we learn, information is never really useless; it’s just not useful at the time you learn it, as you’ll find out in this story I have to tell you.

It was a little over a year ago that my grandmother passed away. It was a heart attack, apparently, Dad, of course, said she died of old age, that her heart just couldn’t do the work it needed to do anymore and just gave out.

The house was left to Dad, but he didn’t want to have anything to do with the old place. So he left it as it was, locked up, vacant, untouched, unused. He ignored it even existed, and whenever I mentioned it, he would get a strange look on his face, then change the subject. Six weeks ago, Mum and Dad were involved in a fatal car accident; somehow, they veered off the road and ran into a telegraph pole. The detective who worked the case said it was one of the strangest crash sites he’d ever worked. From what they could piece together, it looked like Dad, who was driving at the time, didn’t even apply pressure to the brakes; he just simply drove the car off the road and into the pole.

After the funeral was over, I started sorting out their affairs, and that’s when I came across the deed to my grandmother’s house. At first, I wanted to put it up for auction, just get rid of it, but my wife, Clare, fell in love with the old place as soon as she saw a photo of it, and I, to be honest, did as well. It had been well over eighteen years since I’d laid eyes on it, maybe more, not since I moved away chasing dreams of success in the big city, where I met, fell in love with, and eventually married Clare. We’d been married for almost six years, and thought it was about time we slowed down and considered starting a family before we were too old. Our careers were solid, I was established as a writer and didn’t need to be in the city anymore, while Clare desperately wanted to be a mum. So we decided, after a few days of reflection and discussion, we would move into the house and see where it would take us.

The next day we subleased our townhouse, packed up, and just like that, made the move. It was odd, to be perfectly honest. Normally, both of us are pretty big fence sitters. But with this, we jumped and never gave it a second thought. I thought it was a good idea anyway; I’d hit a wall writing my latest novel and needed inspiration. The idea of going home again filled me with hope that somehow I might bridge that gap between who I was, when I was writing best-seller material, to who I am now, the guy writing trash that I can’t even bring myself to read.

I was six books into a series that followed a young girl called Jennifer and the strange things that happen to her and her friends. It’d weighed a lot on my shoulders for a while now; I didn’t find them overly interesting, in fact, they were boring. To tell you the truth, I’d stopped having fun, I’d stopped loving it. But my publisher was hell-bent on adding another sequel to the mix. She saw money, the chance at a movie series, stuff like that, stuff that didn’t interest me at all. What I wanted to do was write the sequel to my first book, The Widow. It was the story of a demonic beast that slithered its way through mankind in the form of a woman who’d just appear in people’s lives as if she’d always been there. Really fucking screwed up stuff. The whole story, from start to finish, was a complete mindfuck, and I had fucking enjoyed writing it. So the idea of her was always in the back of my mind.

Anyway, enough of the useless information. When we first set foot in the house, I felt it—something strange, yet familiar. Something or someone I’d known, or had known me, was watching us, following us, but whoever it was, whatever it was, I was the only one who felt it. Clare, she was blinded by the possibilities and said it was more likely my nerves about the book.

All my grandmother’s furniture was still there. My parents didn’t know what to do with any of it, so rather than deal with it, they just left it all there, which was great for us, because we didn’t need to do anything but pull back the sheets and do some dusting.

The first night we were so buggered from the trip, we grabbed some takeaway and parked ourselves on the living room floor, soaking everything up, more wine than atmosphere though. It was like stepping back in time. I’ve got to be honest, I felt like a kid again, but it wasn’t until after one and a half bottles of red that I remembered the rule. Clare thought it was a joke at first, but as the wine dwindled down, we became more and more obsessed with the story about not turning out the lights. She became more and more agitated, to the point where she refused to turn off the living room light when we finally decided it was time to get some sleep. It was about four in the morning when she woke and rushed off to the toilet. I rolled over, my back ached from sleeping on the floor, and I waited for her to come back.

After about fifteen minutes passed, I started to get a little worried and called for her, but there was no answer. I can tell you, plenty of thoughts ran through my mind, but nothing could get me ready for what I found as I rushed to the toilet.

Clare was asleep—passed out, more like it—still sitting propped up on the toilet, her mouth open, and a ball of paper in her hand ready to wipe. I roused her, guided her back to our makeshift bed, and soon she was snoring away.

That’s when it happened. I don’t know why. I mean, I was so well trained, but I guess it was partly the wine and not having been here for years that contributed to it. But I turned off the light and froze in place.

There were hundreds of them, peering out from the darkness at me. I stood there, too afraid to move—petrified would be the word I’d use—while Clare snored loudly. The only sound in the room, besides my heart beating like a heavy metal drummer banging on my chest, was that of her snoring.

They didn’t move, not once; they just floated, attached to nothing, watching me, maybe waiting for me to do something, I guess. So, I did the only thing I could do, the only bloody obvious thing to do: I turned the lights back on. Needless to say, I didn’t sleep any more that night, and when Clare finally woke up, we headed back home once I told her what I saw.

What happened to the house? Well, I still own it, and it still sits there, waiting, for the lights to be turned off…

Jeopardise

She sits there studying the floorboards, paying close attention to each plank of wood as it runs into the next, noting how the grains blend from one to the other. She begins to wonder how long it took the man who laid the planks down, how hard he tried to hide the changes in each plank, and whether that was his specialty. She’s pulled from the world inside her head as the door opens and a man walks into the room. He clears his throat as she gently turns her gaze towards him.

“Thank you for waiting, Mrs Walters. I’m sorry it took a little longer than I said,” he says, placing a folder on the desk and shuffling into the seat behind it. His face is grey, dull, his cheeks withdrawn, and his sandy brown hair is thinning. She begins to wonder how long his doctor has given him, or if indeed he’s even made that terrifying move yet. He coughs violently, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, and wipes the mucus and saliva from his mouth and nose. “Sorry, I just can’t seem to shake this damn cold.”

“That’s okay, and for the last time, Rodney, it’s Gloria. We’ve known each other long enough for the titles to fall away. Now, what did you want to see me about in such a hurry?”

He opens the folder on the desk, pulls out a piece of paper, and slides it across the desk towards her. “Do you know this man?”

“Samuel Dekker? I didn’t know him that well. He used to date my mum, but it’s been years since I’ve seen him. He left town after they split,” she says as she picks up the paper and studies the words written on it. She looks back at Rodney, her face slowly turning pale, the blood draining from it as her eyes widen. “Is this for real?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“How in the hell can he contest the will? He left a long time ago. Mum never talked about him much after that; he was history. What grounds does he even have?”

“At the time of your mother’s death, he was still legally married to her.”

“What? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I wish I weren’t, but it’s true, and now he’s contesting the will, claiming he has an updated version—one that leaves everything to him.”

“Bullshit!”

“I’m sorry to say it’s true. He’ll be here in two days. I’ve arranged a sitting for Thursday. I suggest if you don’t have one, you get yourself a lawyer. Things could get messy.”

“Is this your way of saying you’re not going to represent me?”

“I can’t, Mrs… Gloria. As executor of the will—both wills, surprisingly—I am unable to help you with your case,” he says, sliding a card across the table. “His name is Thomas Grenada, a brilliant lawyer. Expensive, but his specialty is probate cases, and his success rate is almost one hundred percent. I suggest you contact him as soon as possible.”

She grabs the card from the desk and launches herself to her feet. “Fuck you!” she says as she storms out of the office, out through the main doors, and into the street. Quickly, she pulls a mobile phone from her bag and dials a number. A few seconds later, a man answers the phone on the other end.

“What did the old sleazebag want?” he says, his voice hoarse, dry.

“Do you remember Dekker?”

“Dekker? You mean the piece of shit who tried to touch you up when you were a kid?”

“Yeah, that’s him. According to Rodney, the old bitch was still married to that piece of shit, and the fucktard is going to jeopardise everything we’ve done up to now. He’s after it all.”

“I knew it was too easy. What’s the game plan?”

“We don’t have any other options. You need to get rid of the old son of a bitch before he gets into town; otherwise, killing the witch was a waste of fucking time.”

Graceful

“Now, can you tell the detective what you told me, ma’am?” the officer says to the woman. She looks nervously at the detective and clears her throat.

“It was about fifteen minutes before I heard her scream. I saw this guy, and he was, he was dancing on her balcony, all graceful and shit.”

“Dancing?” the detective asks, his eyebrows raising.

“Yeah, like he was on one of those TV shows. You know, the dancing ones, with all those washed-up, wannabe celebrities who need to be relevant again, so they go on that show and hope everyone will remember who they were, hoping it will get them back in the limelight,” she says excitedly, her eyes gleaming with enchantment.

“Okay, sorry, you’ve completely lost me. What the fuck do you mean?” the detective says.

“It’s okay, sir, I know what she’s talking about. Ballroom dancing, is that right?” the officer says as he tucks his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers proudly.

“Yeah, like I said, graceful and shit,” she says, throwing her arms in the air.

“Okay, now I understand what you’re saying. Dancing like Fred Astaire danced?”

“Yeah, like that old dead geezer,” she says with a nervous smile.

“Do you think if I had a profiler sit with you, you’d be able to help get a composite sketch of the dancer made so that we could shop it around the area?”

“No way. The dude was dancing up a storm, and I was way too busy watching his feet to notice what he looked like. Shit, I don’t think I even looked at his face once. You see, I love those dancing shows, can never get enough of them. But I can tell you he was old, like in his fifties, maybe older. That, I’m sure of,” she says with a beaming smile.

“Okay, thanks for your assistance with this case, Miss Denning. If we need any more information, someone will be in contact with you in the next few days,” the detective says before heading back over to the crime scene, the officer following closely behind.

“So, you think it’s the same guy?” the officer asks.

“Everything else fits, except the dancing and the vic isn’t missing their kidney, but I’d say that’s because he was interrupted.”

“Maybe the dancing has always been a part of his routine. It’s just we’ve never had an eyewitness before either, so, you know, maybe he’s always done it, celebrating the kill or something.”

“Maybe. Anyway, we’ll know more once forensics gets here. Maybe he left a clue. The crime scene isn’t as clean as the rest. This could be the one. This could be the slip-up we’ve been waiting for,” he stops and falls deep into thought before turning to the officer and grasping him by the shoulder. “We should also cross-reference all the victims and see if any of them had some connection to ballroom dancing. Actually, make it any dancing, just to be safe,” he says as he strides away, leaving the officer fumbling with his notepad, jotting down the detective’s instructions.

Miss Denning closes the door to her apartment behind her and smiles wickedly. “They won’t bother us now. I’ve made sure of it. You’re safe with me,” she says seductively.

“Samantha, I don’t know how to show you my appreciation. If they’d found me there tonight, I would’ve certainly been blamed for her murder. What did you tell them?”

She blushes bright red and struts towards him. “I told them I saw some old dude dancing on her balcony a few minutes before I heard her scream. They ate it up like it was apple pie.”

He smiles. “Dancing? Really? And they bought it. Amazing,” he says as he walks over to the window and peers out across the courtyard at the flashing lights and laughs. “Truly, I don’t know how to thank you. It will be, of course, such a shame.”

“Sorry? A shame? A shame for what, honey? Because what we’re about to do ain’t got nothing to do with shame,” she says huskily.

“Of course it does. It’s what makes the world go round,” he says as he backhands her to the floor. Her eyes widen with horror as his handsome smile is replaced by a twisted, evil snarl. He dives on her, wrapping his hands around her throat.

“You don’t fit my profile, but I have to eat, and sometimes the closest meal is the best meal of all!” he says as he tightens his grip, while her cold, dead eyes stare emptily back at him.

Hippy Shake

“I’m telling you, it’s not normal,” Tony says to Jerry, his supposed best friend—though that was up until five minutes ago.

“You’re being crazy. Honestly, man, it’s nothing. You’re overreacting for sure. It’s NOT that bad.”

“You just said it was nothing a minute ago, and now you’re saying it’s not that bad. So, obviously, it’s SOMETHING! Maybe I should get it looked at?”

“By who, a doctor? I wouldn’t go to a doctor about that. They’d probably call in the government, and then they’d do all sorts of tests on you and shit. You’ll be like a pincushion for the rest of your life. Is that what you want?”

“What the fuck are you talking about? I thought you said it was nothing! Why the fuck would they want to do fucking tests on me if it’s nothing?”

“Okay, maybe it’s something…”

“W-W-What the fuck?”

“Look, it’s pretty obvious. I mean, you can hear it from across the room.”

“What? Seriously?”

“Honestly.”

“That’s why I’m fucking asking!”

“Okay, now don’t start stressing any more than you already are, but I could hear it before you even came into the room. I was sitting here eating my burger, and then I heard this music. I’m thinking, where the fuck is that music coming from? Then you came around the corner, and I was like, oh wow, is that coming from Tony? I thought, fuck man, you’ve got your iPod playing way too loud. And then you sat down, and well, here we are talking about this crazy arse soundtrack that’s following you around. Like your own… fuck man, it’s like you’ve got your own personal theme music! That’s awesome when you think about it,” Jerry says, smiling at Tony, who gives him a cold look back.

“It’s not cool, Jerry. It’s driving me insane!”

“Okay, just calm down then. When you get excited, the music picks up the pace, more of a beat, man. Honestly, man, it’s cool. It really is. Who doesn’t want that?” Tony just gives him a sterner look. “Seriously though, man, when the fuck did it start happening?”

“Two days ago, like I fucking told you when I first sat down! Were you even listening? We were sitting around, having a few cans at Darby’s, and his sister rocked up with some guy she met at some crazy party up in the hills—you know, some hippy commune, acid party. Anyway, this guy was like a soft dude, you know, he was like, ‘Hi, man, your aura is like so ultra-positive and deep. You should come up to the commune, you’d really dig it, man.’ You know, way over the top, like almost fake. After a while, and a few more cans, we all ended up getting stoned together, and somehow the hippy was like my best friend. We talked about cool shit we’d love to have, you know, stoner dreams, shit like that, and I said, I’d love my own soundtrack to follow me around every day. And he said he could make that happen. I said some more bullshit, most of it I can’t remember, and he held out his hand, told me to shake it, and he’d make my wish a reality, which brings me back here, back to my original question. Have you FUCKING seen Darby’s sister?”

Car of the Dead

“What makes you think I know what you’re doing here? If I goddamn well knew, I wouldn’t ask the fucking question, would I?”

“Bullshit, old man, you came out with your gun blazing, so you’re expecting something, you stupid old jerk!”

“RAINER!” she says, slapping him on the arm. Then she looks over to the old man, who is staring down the barrels of the shotgun pointed their way, and smiles. “Mister Wilson, we’re sorry, I’m sorry. Honestly, we just wanted to find somewhere private, you know, to fool around. We didn’t mean anything by it, really, we didn’t. Even if Evan is a jerk sometimes, he’s harmless.”

“Yeah, well, you kids should go find somewhere else to do your experimentation. I don’t put signs up for fun. My property is my property, and ain’t none of you kids allowed on my land unless I say so, and I say no! So get!”

“Of course, thank you, we’re so sorry,” she says as she grabs Rainer by the arm and drags him towards the gate.

“Yeah, thanks, you old freak!” Rainer says.

“What did you say, boy?”

“I said, YOU OLD FREAK!”

“RAINER!”

“Leave it alone, Sal. I ain’t letting this old freak act like he’s king shit, not when my dad owns this town, I ain’t going to….” His words are cut short by a blast from the shotgun, and he feels his bladder explode, followed quickly by the warmth of urine running down his leg. Sally jumps, letting out a squeal, while Mister Wilson holds the smoking shotgun, his face twisted with anger.

“The next one will be in your head, boy, if you keep it up. Your dad doesn’t own shit here. This here is my land, and ain’t ever gonna be anything but my land. Now get before the next shot ends up in your thick skull!” he says as he slides another two cartridges into the gun’s chambers.

Rainer sucks in a deep breath before making a mad dash towards Wilson, crashing into him as he locks the barrel into place. They crash to the ground, wrestling for control, but it only takes a few short moments for the much younger Rainer to free the shotgun from Wilson’s grip, then scramble to his feet, and thrust the gun’s barrels into Wilson’s face.

“Where is it?”

“FUCK YOU!”

Rainer smashes him across the face with a solid left punch. “If I have to ask again, old man, your face’ll be history!”

“The shed, it’s in the fucking shed!”

“The keys?” he says, holding out his hand. “Come on, old man, everyone knows you never go anywhere without the fucking keys,” he says, shaking his open hand in Wilson’s face.

“You don’t know what you’re doing, it….” Rainer drives another solid punch into his face.

“Can it, old man, just give me the KEYS!”

Slowly, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a red key, nervously holding it towards Rainer. “Don’t say I didn’t try to warn you, that car, it’ll be the death of you!”

Rainer stares at Wilson for a few seconds before grabbing the key from him. “You’re one crazy old dude!” he says as he grabs Sally by the arm and drags her towards the shed.

“Rainer, maybe you should…”

“He’s just a crazy old man, it’s just a fucking car,” he says as he pulls open the door to the shed. The sun shines brightly off the hood of the black 1971 XY GT Falcon. For a moment, Sally could’ve sworn she heard it growl, and all too late she realises it wasn’t the car; it was Wilson’s dogs.it wasn’t the car; it was Wilson’s dogs.

Apple

“Are we going to do this?” he says nervously, looking towards her. She smiles, and he feels his heartbeat rapidly increase.

“Are you scared?”

“He said not to. Out of everything, all of it, he only ever said not to touch that. So, to answer your question, yeah, maybe I am.”

“Pathetic. How did I get paired with such a spineless weasel like you?”

“I don’t understand what you mean. I have a spine, and you told me you loved me. Was that a lie?”

“It wasn’t a question that needed any answers, and don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it. We both knew it was going to happen, even if I didn’t tell you what you wanted to hear. So, why don’t you get off your high horse and just fucking get up there and get it!”

A tear runs down his cheek, quickly followed by more. She rolls her eyes and places her hands on her hips, powerfully.

“Enough with the waterworks, honey. We both don’t want it to get nasty again, do we? Just get it down, and I’ll do that thing you like.”

“Everything’s not about that, so don’t try and patronise me. It doesn’t suit you!” he says, stamping his foot into the ground.

“And being a drama queen suits you? Just get it before I lose my shit,” she says, taking a step forward. He shuffles backward, placing his hands over his head in protection.

“Okay, OKAY! I’ll get it, just don’t hit me again!” he yells, scurrying over to the tree. He quickly climbs up its elongated branches and comes to rest against the trunk several feet from the ground. With one hand, he grips the tree, reaching out towards the apple with the other. His fingers lightly touch it with their tips before it swings away.

“Put your back into it! You almost had it!” she yells.

He looks down at her, frustration written all over his face. “Shut up! I’m trying to reach the goddamn thing, but it’s just out of reach!” He makes another failed attempt, but this time, he loses his grip and tumbles forward. Frantically, he flaps his arms as if hoping somehow he would magically fly, but instead, he hits the ground with a thud.

“How useless are you?” she says, looking down at him. But her frown of disappointment is soon replaced by a smile as he awkwardly raises a shaking hand, holding out the apple for her. She grabs it and dances around his broken, bloody body, laughing and giggling with joy. She looks over at him with a huge smile on her face and blows him a kiss.

“Guess who’s getting lucky tonight?” she says, taking a bite of the apple, and…

“Can I interrupt for a moment?” a voice asks.

“Well, it’s not really how things work. Normally, I just finish the story, and people like it, maybe make a comment, tell me how it changed their life, how great a writer I am, you know, the usual. Normally, a story doesn’t interfere with the process and certainly doesn’t ask if it can interrupt.”

“I know, but we are closing in on Halloween, and you do have this Roundhead story thing running over the next few days, which is about a story coming to life and questioning things about itself. So, in a way, this is not a new idea to you, is it?”

“Well, if you put it like that, it’s sort of like that, but not really. Anyway, I’d like to finish the story, so, what do you want?”

“I just want to know, are they going to have sex?”

“Sorry? What sort of question is that?”

“I think it’s a valid question. I mean, it’s so obvious this is Adam and Eve. I’m sure we all get that, and you’re doing your usual spin on things to play with the whole, ‘this is what happened, but this is my story of it all.’ So, I’m expecting, as I’m sure everyone else is, that they’re going to have sex. So, are they?”

“You know what? You can finish yourself off. It seems to be your style.”

“Did you just call me a wanker?”

Jupiter

I stand here like a total moron, staring bewilderedly into her big green eyes, trying to make words come out, but I can’t—I don’t know how to. I worked myself up so much for this that now, I don’t know what to say or do.

Well, that’s a lie. I knew what I was going to say, what I was going to do—well, sort of, anyway. But when she uttered those words, telling me what I knew she would, everything fell apart.

I guess you need to know what the hell is going on to understand. So, I suppose the best place to start is at the beginning—not right at the start, of course, but close enough. I’ll just concentrate on today; I think that’s the best place to begin.

I knew when the phone rang that I shouldn’t have answered it, especially when I saw her name come up on the screen. Eight years and not a single call, text, or letter—not once—and now suddenly a call out of the blue was unnerving.

Anyway, she said she was in town and wanted to catch up over coffee, as we needed to talk. Eight years, and now she needed to talk? I mean, I said yes—of course, I did. She was the one that got away, the one I let slip right through my fingers. You see, she wanted to explore the world, and I was happy doing the same thing every day. I still am, in fact. I just don’t have that bug. So, one day she just up and left. No Dear John letter, no explanation; she just booked a ticket out of here and was gone from my life.

It took me years to get over it, and I mean years. I still remember playing with the idea of chasing her around the world when she first took off, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it, and I had no idea where she’d gone. Honestly, I still have that hole in my stomach, and now that I was walking down the street to sit and have coffee with her, it was just getting worse. What was I going to say? What was she going to say? Should I have just said no? I wasn’t in the right frame of mind for this—not today, not any day. It was then that I started to think maybe she had finally done all she wanted to in the world outside our small town and now wanted to come back home, to me. That made me even more nervous. I mean, I hadn’t changed at all in the last eight years, and she’s been out there experiencing the world. God, she even had a weird sort of accent. Then my stomach churned, and I almost turned around when the coffee shop came into view. But I swallowed whatever was stuck in my throat, walked through the door, and there she was, as beautiful as she had ever been. Our eyes met, and she smiled. I smiled back and walked over. We hugged for what seemed like forever. It was amazing, and that’s when all the emotions came bubbling up. All those years of repressing how I felt burned a hole in my stomach, and I almost cried.

“Y-Y-Y-You look great,” I said nervously.

“So do you,” she said. It was then that I noticed someone else at the table, and my heart skipped a beat.

“Jerry, I’d like you to meet your daughter, Annie,” she said, and my mouth dropped open as I stared into her big green eyes and stood there like a moron.

Her

The rancid smell of death tears at his eyes, and he tightly clutches the handkerchief, pressing it firmly against his nose and mouth.

A radio crackles to life with a screech. “Bannister, answer me, god damn it!”

He raises the mouthpiece to his dry, pale lips. “I found her.”

“You what?”

“I said I FUCKING found her,” he replies, bolting out and emptying the contents of his stomach onto the floor.

“Is she…?”

“Y-Yeah, she’s dead. It looks like she’s been like this for weeks, probably the whole time we’ve been looking for her. The son of a bitch played us.”

“Give me your location and I’ll g—” The radio goes dead. He stares at it for a few moments, waiting for her to continue, but nothing happens.

“Sharon, everything okay?” he says into his mouthpiece. He waits for a reply, but only silence follows. “Sharon? What the fuck’s happening?”

“Hello, Charles,” a male voice says over the radio.

“X-X-Xander…”

“I’m touched you remember my voice. It has been a while, my old friend.”

“You’re the one behind all this?”

“You seem surprised. Surely, all the little clues I left for you were descriptive enough for you to know it was me. Or did I expect too much from an old dog like you?”

“I-I-I, I had an idea it was you, but I was hoping I was wrong. I was hoping you died in that shit-hole in Yugoslavia. You better not have hurt her!”

“Or what? You’ll make me pay?” Xander says, letting out a sarcastic laugh. “Don’t worry, she’s alive—for now—but I don’t know how much longer that will last.”

“What do you want, you piece of shit?”

“I want what everyone wants. I want to be loved, accepted, enjoyed. I want what you took from me all those years ago.”

“Debbie’s dead, Xander. She crossed the line, just like you did. It should’ve been you who ended up with a bullet in your head instead of her, I’ll give you that. But what you two did… there’s no going back from that!”

“Fuck you, Charles. We were doing God’s work, making this world better for everyone. Until you stuck your fucking nose in it.”

“You were killing innocent children, Xander. KIDS! You weren’t doing God’s work; you were losing your shit, and someone had to stop you. And that someone was me.”

“We were doing what God wanted, couldn’t you see that? The population was growing too fast. Someone needed to make the decisions for the betterment of all, and that someone was me and her, the new Adam and Eve, resetting the population so that it could begin again.”

“You’re fucking crazy. I should’ve made sure you were dead; I should’ve put a bullet in your head myself. But this time, I won’t make the same mistake. I’m going to find you, and I’m going to do what I should’ve done all those years ago,” he says, as he feels something cold press against the back of his head.

“You’re a sinner. The Lord has told me you must be cleansed from this world,” Xander says, pushing the barrel of the gun into Charles’ head.

“You’re fucking CRAZY! Can’t you see that? Can’t you see what you’re doing is wrong?”

Xander leans in and whispers in Charles’ ear, “I am he who was chosen. I am the master of ceremony. I am the cleaner of souls. I am—” A single gunshot interrupts his speech, and he lets out a gasp of air, his eyes staring forward into nothingness. Charles thrusts him away and turns around, locking eyes with him for the last few seconds of his life. Charles’ blood soaks into his shirt, escaping from the hole he shot into himself to get to Xander.

“You were never chosen,” Charles says, looking down upon the dying Xander, and unloads the rest of the clip into his head.

The Things You’ll Do For Love

Melinda sits on the side of her bed as tears run uncontrollably down her face, the day finally taking its toll on her. Jeremy makes his way into the room carrying a glass of water and quickly sits down beside her, placing a hand on her leg and gently handing her the glass. She looks at him through eyes brimming with tears, forcing a smile as she takes a big mouthful from the glass, then hands it back to him, wiping her mouth as he places the glass on the table beside the bed.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she says as she grips his hand tightly.

“You never have to worry about that. I’m here for you whenever, however, you need me,” he says, cupping her hand in his.

She smiles as she traces a hand across his jaw. “God, these last few weeks have been the worst of my life, and the only good thing that’s happened is you,” she says as she looks into his big, green eyes. “It’s like you came into my life just when I needed you the most.”

“I guess it’s the world telling us something. I mean, I’ve never believed in fate, or destiny, or any of that shit before, but when we ran into each other that night, something greater was at play, something out of our control, something wonderful,” he replies with a smile.

“You think so? You think we met each other for a reason?”

“I know so. Somehow, we both were meant to be there. Somehow, we were supposed to meet so that we could forge through this, together,” he says as he rubs her leg. She looks down at his hand and cuddles up to him as the tears flow again.

“Really? I feel so terrible that you’re caught up in this mess with me. With all the crazy things that have happened… God, you don’t even really know me, but you’ve still stuck by my side.”

“Don’t be sorry. I want to be here; it’s my choice. So don’t be sorry.”

She smiles at him and stares down at her lap. “The doctor said Mum died instantly. She didn’t feel any pain; she didn’t even know what was happening. B-B-But, but it doesn’t help. Fuck, I was only…” She loses control, and nothing but cries of pain come forth as Jeremy hugs her tightly.

“It’s okay. Let it out, just let it out,” he says, kissing her forehead.

Several moments pass before Melinda finally regains control and pulls herself free from Jeremy’s clutches, faking a smile as she tries to compose herself. Nervously, she picks up her phone and checks through her messages, then lets out a stuttered breath of anxiety before throwing it back down onto the bed.

“God, I just wish Susan would answer her fucking phone, or at least reply to my messages, so I know she’s okay, and she’s on her way. No one’s heard from her for three days. It’s just not like her. Fuck, none of this is like anything I’ve ever experienced before. I just don’t know what to do.”

“She’ll show up, I’m sure of it,” Jeremy says as he places a hand on her chin and turns her face to his. “But I’m here for you, baby, and I’m not going anywhere.” He kisses her on the lips, and they press their foreheads together. “I think I’m falling in love with you,” he whispers, taking a deep breath.

Tears run down her face, and she pushes him away and sits for a few moments before she turns back to him and reaches out slowly, nervously, placing her hands on either side of his face, then kisses him back. “I think I’m falling for you too. It’s the worst time, I know, but I am,” she says as they kiss passionately, falling backward onto the bed together, in each other’s arms.

Jeremy throws his keys on the counter and collapses onto his couch, looking across at her and smiles.

“She said it! She said the words. Fuck, this is insane. Where’s this going to go from here?” She doesn’t answer his question; she just stares at him, her eyes filled with hate, sharp as knives. And he smiles. “Don’t be jealous, it’s just the way life is,” he says as he gets to his feet and walks over to her, running a hand through her hair as she attempts to pull away. But he grabs a handful of hair, pulling her back towards him. “It’ll be over soon,” he says with a grin.

Tears stream down her face as she sees him raise the blade towards her. She jerks around furiously, but she knows there is no hope; the bindings are too tight, and her moving around only makes them rip into her naked flesh more than they already are. “By the way, I know there is never a good way to tell someone this, but I killed your mother this morning,” he says as he slices her throat open and laughs. “The things you’ll do for love,” he says as he steps back and watches the life drain from Susan’s body.

The Roundhead Is Coming

He takes a step back, looks over the images before him, and smiles nervously. His creations speak to him with piercing clarity, pulsating through his veins like the very blood that carries oxygen around his withering body. He runs a hand through his hair and pulls, letting out a short, sharp grunt of frustration. After one hundred days, today, for the first time since he started this journey, he feels lost.

A sudden knock at the door startles him, and he grits his teeth, grinding them as if he were cutting a saw through wood. A sharp pain shoots up the side of his face and into his temple; his right eye twitches rapidly as he feels his jaw lock. Then he turns quickly around and storms towards the door as the knocking continues. Pulling it open, he is greeted by an empty hallway. For a few seconds, he stands there, confused, lost, until finally he steps out from his apartment but spies nothing out of the ordinary—just an empty, vacant hallway. Slowly, he steps back in and closes the door behind him, shaking his head in confusion as he makes his way back towards his workspace before the knocking begins again.

“FOR FUCK’S SAKE!” he screams as he charges at the door and pulls it open once more, revealing the same empty hallway. “You’re not FUCKING funny!” he yells as he slams the door. This time, he does not walk away but stands there, peering through the spy hole, waiting. Sweat pours quickly from his forehead as he presses his face against the door. A spark of white explodes in the hallway, and the banging begins again. His eyes widen as he sucks in a breath, watching the glowing white bubble hover in front of the door. It buzzes around like a bee searching a garden bed for the best succulent flower to pollinate. His bottom lip trembles as he pulls himself away from the door and rips it open. He stands there as the white bubble hovers in front of him and then shoots into his apartment. He spins around and watches as it buzzes around his working desk, then turns back towards him and takes the shape of a young girl. She stands there, staring at him, and the room ignites as an explosion rips through his work, sending him crashing to the floor.

He quickly opens his eyes and slowly lifts himself onto his elbows, looking towards his workspace. The smoking remains of his desk rise in wisps into the air, and he feels a burning red-hot rage in his belly. Quickly, he scrambles to his feet, screaming at the top of his lungs. His heart beats furiously in his chest as he staggers over to the remains of the desk, tears running down his face.

“Today, you begin a new challenge,” a voice says from behind him. He spins around to face the ghostly girl’s image.

“W-W-What the fuck are you?”

“I am its herald, its omen. I am the word before it comes. You have been chosen. You are its seer, and you will foretell its coming. You will make its name known, you will hear its words, and you will spread them. You will prepare the world.”

“W-W-What? I’m not doing anything for anyone, especially not someone who….” His words freeze in his throat as he feels the room drop in temperature. The lights flicker, the TV switches on and off, as the little girl smiles.

“It’s coming…” she says softly, as he feels the floor beneath him tremble.

Bitch Please

“That’s it, that’s my catchphrase,” he says as he looks down upon her naked, sweaty body, gripping her breasts, squeezing them, kneading them, as he continues to thrust into her.

“Bitch please is not a catch-catchphrase… Oh god, OH GOD! I’m cumming, harder, FUCK ME HARDER!” she yells.

He thrusts back and forth, quicker, harder. As she screams in ecstasy, he feels a gush of warm fluid wash over his groin, and he too lets loose, burying himself deep inside her as he reaches orgasm, then collapses, sweat pouring off them both. For a few moments, they lie there, both trying to catch their breath, existing in the tiny world—the bubble—they just created.

She pushes him off her and grabs a cigarette from a packet on the bedside table, quickly lighting it up, then takes a long, deep drag.

“Bitch please is so not your catchphrase, Sammy,” she says as she hands him the cigarette.

“What? Why not?” he asks, taking a drag of the cigarette, then hands it back.

“It’s just not you. If you had a catchphrase, it would be more like, ‘Hello, McFly, is anyone home?’” she says with a giggle.

“What, are you comparing me to Biff?”

“If the shoe fits.”

“Like fuck it does. Bitch please is so me,” Sammy says as he sits up and looks at the clock. “Was that really only five minutes?”

“Best five minutes of my day,” she says as she wraps her arms around him, kissing him on the stomach.

“Bitch please, you don’t need to make me feel good about it,” Sammy says with a smile.

“You’re really going to go with ‘bitch please’?” she says with a wry smile.

“It’s so me,” he says as he looks down at her. “Anyway, I’ve got to get my shit together. The day is young, and your husband is going to be back soon, and I don’t want to be here when he gets home.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s five times my size and wouldn’t even break a sweat kicking my arse, that’s why,” he says as he grabs his pants off the floor and quickly slips into them.

“I think he’d like you,” she says. He stops and turns to her.

“What are you trying to say?”

“What?”

“Are you hinting at something, like your old man’s a swinger?”

“Honey, you’d be surprised at what my husband is. I’m just saying he’d enjoy you as much as I do.”

“And what’s that meant to mean?”

“Nothing, stop reading into what I’m saying. I’m just teasing,” she says with a laugh. He relaxes and gets back to dressing himself.

“Well, stop it! You scared the shit out of me,” he says as he throws on his t-shirt.

“Why?”

“Well, for starters, a guy like that would be hung like a horse, and I don’t want it anywhere near me, let alone in me.”

“Honey, you don’t know what you can do until you have to. Besides, he’s real gentle with it, hits all the right spots and so much more, you’ll see,” she says with a laugh. He turns to her again, this time with a puzzled look on his face.

“Are you fucking with me again?”

She laughs and collapses on the bed. “Maybe,” she says playfully. “And maybe not.”

“It’s not funny,” he says, then freezes in place as a door closes in one of the rooms beyond the bedroom. He throws her a panicked look, but she just smiles.

“What?”

“I-I-Is he fucking home?” he whispers.

She laughs again. “Oh honey, you need to relax. Just go with the flow, Dorian is not that scary.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he says as the bedroom door opens, and Dorian, standing almost seven feet tall with shoulders as wide as the door frame, walks in. He looks at her and then at Sammy, his face red, his eyes like knives digging into Sammy’s throat. Urine runs down his leg, forming an ever-growing puddle at his feet. “O-O-O-Oh fu-fu-f-f-fuck,” he whispers.

Dorian looks down at the puddle, then back over to his wife. His face relaxes, and he smiles, looking back to Sammy, letting out a loud, broad laugh. “I think you sprung a leak, kid,” he says. Sammy stands there, still frozen in fear.

“W-W-What the f-f-fuck is ha-ha-happening?” Sammy says as he looks at her and then back to Dorian.

“Why don’t you get on your knees, and I’ll show you,” Dorian says as he loosens his belt and drops his trousers, revealing his large, growing member. Sammy’s eyes widen as does Dorian’s hardening penis. He looks over at her with fear, his heart racing, panic surging through his body.

“Bitch please,” she says with a laugh, “You’ve got this.”

Saturation Baby

“I don’t know, it looks a little too overdone,” he says as he steps back and looks at the wall.

“You’re so wrong, dude. It looks awesome. When they get here tomorrow, they’re going to spin out. This has got to be our best one yet!” Jerome says as he slaps Mike on the back.

“You think they’ll appreciate the message, or do you think it’s going to be lost?”

Jerome laughs. “Man, the message is going to be so lost on them. They’ll just be pissed; that’s why we did it. But it’s going to be speaking to everyone else. The images, man—they define what it’s all about: the struggle to be at one with yourself, but at the same time, fighting to fit into a world that won’t accept you for how you are. Fucking shit, it’s perfect, dude.”

Mike smiles and throws the final can into the knapsack, hooking it over his shoulder. “You think so?”

“Fucking hell, I do. Now let’s get the fuck out of here before somebody sees us and decides to call the cops.”

“It’s quite a piece,” a voice says from behind them. They both quickly turn to face a man in his mid to late fifties, dressed all in black and wearing a shining white collar.

“Fuck,” Jerome hisses.

“Don’t be afraid, Jerome. I’m not here to punish you or Mike for this piece of artwork. I’m here to admire it,” the priest says.

“How the hell do you know our names?” Jerome asks nervously.

“A lucky guess?” the priest says with a smile. “Not buying it? Let’s just say I’m a fan of your work, especially yours, Michael. Do you mind if I call you that, or do you prefer Mike?”

“M-M-Michael’s fine,” he says, looking over to Jerome, who just shrugs his shoulders. They both look back at the man. “W-W-Who are you?”

“Who do I look like?”

“You look like a priest.”

“Well then, I’m a priest,” he says with a smile.

“You high on something?” Jerome asks. The priest looks at him and laughs.

“No, Jerome, I am not on anything, nor am I sick in the head. I am but a simple priest, admiring your wonderful depiction of the last days of Christ. Although I didn’t think Jesus and his disciples were that close—not all of them, anyway.”

“I-I-It’s a message, and messages need to be strong,” Jerome says. The priest looks at him calmly and smiles again.

“Not everything you do needs to be volatile, aggressive, or shocking. Some people, good people, who are not what you would call zealots, but those who truly believe in the words that are written, would see the true message if you lost, say, this part and that,” he says as he waves his hand. Pieces of the mural change. Jerome and Mike stagger back in shock and stare at the man in disbelief.

“W-W-What the fuck are you?”

“I thought we already worked that out. I am but a simple priest,” he says confidently.

“Bullshit. No simple priest can do that sort of shit,” Jerome says quickly.

“Okay, maybe I’m not just a simple priest. Maybe I’m someone who believes in the message you want the world to see, the message you want to make them understand, that the words they read are misunderstood. You humans have a way of twisting things your way and not in the way it was intended. That’s why I thought I would come down and help you get it right.”

“Come down?”

He smiles again, and then in a ball of white light, he is gone, shooting up into the clouds, leaving Jerome and Mike staring at each other with open mouths.

“That did not just happen,” Jerome says as they turn back to the mural, gobsmacked.

Ninety

He blinks, feeling the warmth of it run down his face. He spits a wad of saliva, blood, and broken teeth to the ground, then coughs violently before spitting again. “Damn,” he says with a chuckle. He looks up, squints, and places a hand high in the air, shielding his eyes from the light. “Do you want me to tell you… a story?” he says to the small group that stands over his broken and bloody frame.

“Your days of telling stories are done, Daniel. You need to come to terms with what’s about to happen. You need to realise that you can’t talk your FUCKING way out of this one!” one of the men says as he grips a bloody lead pipe in his hand and snarls.

Daniel laughs. “Judgement? Judgement is a funny thing, Simon, for those who cast stones should be wary of where they’ll land and what they could hit when their aim is off.”

“You piece of SHIT!” Simon yells as he smashes the pipe across Daniel’s face, sending him to the ground once more with a thud.

“Truth hurts, doesn’t it?” Daniel mutters as he lifts himself onto all fours. Simon bites down on his bottom lip. His face twists with anger as he drives a boot into Daniel’s side, sending him momentarily into the air before he crashes to the ground again.

“The time for penance is over. Your sins will go with you to your end, and this town will finally begin to HEAL!” Simon yells as he drives the pipe deep into Daniel’s skull. Silence follows as they all stand watching while Daniel’s blood pools in an ever-growing puddle beneath his now lifeless body. “Now, we can begin again. NOW, we can face tomorrow, without the past in the way,” he says as he turns to the others. The pipe drops from his hand, and his eyes grow wide as he stares into the cold, dead eyes of….