SNM Horror Magazine

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Clutch My Heart Nevermore
Stephen W. Roberts

A wise man once said the only philosophical question worth answering is whether or not to kill one’s self. I guess that makes me a philosopher in my own right, though I dared not gloat just yet. Not until all is explained and all is set right. I know what I must do, I know how to do it and even have the means, yet still I ask myself the same question. Dare I? Though, of course I do, just not yet. The rope is neatly tied into a noose and hung from my study’s ceiling. It isn’t purely for aesthetic purposes either. Timing is everything…

My study is rather large and lined wall-to-wall with books and other items of amusement; the place that some call my home is rather large, though this is the harboring place I dwell. This is the proper room for creativity, philosophy and the all around musings that I’ve become known for. Here I can avoid seeing my wife and two children whom have become nothing short of burden in my old age.

I write literature, that’s what I do. I’ve been lucky enough to be published numerous times by the age of forty, plus to my credit I’ve developed quite the fan base that leaves me breathless for seclusion. Hence my utter distaste for loved ones, including my dependents.

I loved them all once, though I struggle to recall when. Even now as I sit in my padded wooden desk chair, wobbling slightly due to the loose wheel, I find it difficult to attach any words of sadness as I write my letter. With a metallic pen in hand, I tap it against the oak wood desk and sigh as I search for the proper words to use...

My wife will be arriving home from work soon which, to her surprise, she will find that I’ve already dealt with the children. They’ve been gathered, bathed and put to rest, as too shall she. For their illness never permitted them to sleep without proper medications, though, perhaps they got it from their mother for she’s known to keep unusual hours. I’d like to have assumed that she was high on life and motivated by something other than hatred for her home life.

Reminded daily was I of this; as if I did such on purpose to ruin her little plans for happiness; the perfect family and picket fence; the works. Our plans of happiness, which it seems I’ve genetically ruined. I’m told that the man carries the gene for autism and it’s all his fault; no, my fault that the children are created in such a way. Tainted.

I tried to love them for whom they were, but that bitch just couldn’t give up; she made sure that I was told constantly that I had ruined everything, as if our children were lesser for their disease. This wicked woman will use her Munchhausen's as an excuse for the last time; I’ve sat and I’ve seen for too long, now in due time she shall pay for her sins as I shall mine.

I can see it now; she’s probably pulling out of her office parking lot right now, making way over toward the main highway and onward home to the ones she loves. Not to mention the love of her life is yours truly.

The front porch light is on, though not another light but that of my study. I’m twisting in my seat in anticipation as I fantasize of what will unfold next as I proceed to mull over my letter addressed: To Whom It May Concern. She’ll be back within my arms again before long; back where she belongs, clutching my heart ever-so-tightly.

I was about half-way through my letter by the time I heard her car pulling up in the driveway. I was just finishing a sentence about my children’s well-being and laid my pen neatly next to my paper. Rising to my feet, I adjusted the wrinkles from my shirt and made my way into the hallway.    

Creeping past the bathroom, I leaned ever-so-slightly over the darkened banister to see the front door. I waited and waited and waited some more until I felt I might burn with anticipation and, just before I could no longer contain myself, I heard her house key scraping around the keyhole. I smiled and inhaled a deep breath. She was home. Now our romantic evening could go as planned.

With a swift slam of the front door, she gleefully announced, “I’m home,” though nobody cared to oblige her with a response.

Shoes off, keys in the candy bowl and, before I knew it, she was at the bottom of the long staircase. With a slight panic, I slipped backwards into the pitch black abyss that was our bathroom. My smile spanned from ear to ear as I watched and I waited. Her silhouette danced upon the wall as the light from my office finally met her face.

“Honey?” she beckoned, summoning me with that pet name as if I were her dog.

Her somewhat worrisome gaze fell upon my study as her right hand grasped upon the children’s bedroom door. When I didn’t respond, I suppose she chose to check on the children herself, for she began to open their bedroom door ever-so-gently. A slight quivering cringe met her shoulders as the door began to creak suddenly. She swiftly followed through and managed to enter their room without a peep out of the little ones.

My mind began to race with the many splendorous wonders of what would be going through my beautiful wife’s mind as she knelt down to kiss her dear angels goodnight. Their eyes shut tightly and hair still damp from the tub and skin pale, though perhaps still warm to the touch. It’s too much for one man to stand, though, for now I must.

“OOOOOHHHHH GOD, NOOO!”

Her unsavory shriek filled the halls of our home.

I patiently awaited her emergence from the children's bedroom before I did what I had to do. I wondered what she was thinking now as she stared upon her tiny offspring. Our tiny offspring, that is. I envisioned the complete shattering of her heart like throwing a glass snow globe to the floor. The beauty of what it once was colliding head-on with the chaos that remained... 

I can see her now. I wonder if she's looking for me to find out what has happened or maybe even to inform me. As if I would be unaware, as if I would allow some total stranger to bathe my precious little ones.

I sprang into action as she swiftly rushed passed me, seemingly looking right into my eyes, yet only seeing darkness. Perhaps that’s all that was left. Without the slightest second thought, I wrapped my right arm around her neck then thrust my left inner elbow around my right wrist to apply pressure, achieving that ‘L’ shape that you see in the cinema.

She started to make a rather unappealing crackling sound from within her throat, though that only prompted me to squeeze tighter. I felt her pulse racing against my arm and if she had an Adam’s apple then I was fairly sure that I was crushing it. She clutched onto my arms with her hands, clawing and smacking frantically for air. Admittedly, I enjoyed it, though at the same time my right arm was now bleeding from her somewhat futile attempts to thwart my plans. Her whole body writhed with a twisted sense of urgency, though nothing prepared me for her right ankle as it rose up behind her and into my kneecap.

She thrust her foot backwards with all her might, forcing me to release my grip and to fall to the floor. She finally locked eyes with mine, realizing for the first time that it was I, her husband, who leapt from the darkness and nearly stole her life along with our children’s. Honestly, I’d never seen so much anger in her, though I also have never been so turned on by her. Somehow the chase had unexpectedly become...exciting, but maybe it’s only right for it to feel good when a man finally achieves the justice he deserved.

She burst downstairs like a gun firing from within its chamber; skipping every other step and crying uncontrollably. I followed in tow, realizing all would be lost if she were to get away from me tonight. As she reached the bottom step, I lunged myself from a few steps higher, landing on her back and taking her face-first into a wall. We scrambled for a moment, though I managed to straddle her waist and pin her arms tightly against the hard wood floors.

“No. Stop this. What the Hell is wrong with you?” Screaming as she began to wiggle from under my weight. “Get off of me. I said stop. No. Get away from me!”

“Easy now, c’mon, I said calmly. Stop your squirming and make this easier on yourself.”

She spat in my face in response.

I neither faltered nor responded.

She continued screaming incoherently and struggling more as I grabbed her hair and forced her to her feet. I used to love this woman with all of my heart, though she clutched it so tightly that the ability to love her was squeezed from it like a freshly squeezed orange into her glass of pestilence and she slurped it dry with her sinful lips of deceit.

I bashed her head into the wall repeatedly 'til she slumped into a steaming heap of humanity at its best. Blood splattered on the walls and began to pool on the floor beneath her.

Upon my shoulders I carried her nearly-lifeless body all the way back up the stairs with her kicking the bathroom door open and me dropping her in the tub. I plugged the bathtub and begin to run her a bath, careful to get the temperature to a comfortable warm. As the water swiftly filled to the right level I gazed upon my wife, both with pity and guilt, though no more with love.

The water drew perfectly so I turned off the faucet, laid down a towel and began to unbutton her top. She began to stir again as I did so, but I wasn't clear if she was aware of what was taking place, but onward I pressed. Seeing her lying there half-naked reminded me of how beautiful my wife was, though I was also reminded of how long it’s been since last I touched her in the heat of passion.

“Where are the kids?” slurring as she spoke. “Are they okay?” she asked half-unconscious, half-dazed; completely confused.

“Yes. I took care of them, my dear.”

“Okay,” she replied as if under hypnosis.

She stared idly as I began to take her pants off.

“What are you doing?”

“Undressing you. You’re filthy and need a bath.”

“Okay.”

“You remember this being done to you by someone else, yes?”

She smiled at me as I worked her pants off; she even lifted up a little bit as to help me slide them off of her butt, though she banged her head again while lifting. She'd lost a lot of blood by now and I had to get her into this bath so I could say my piece.

She was completely naked now. I lifted her up into my arms and turned her toward the tub. placing her down on her knees and leaning her chest against the cold porcelain tub. I ran my fingers through her wet hair gently, causing her to smile as she looked down upon her bath.

“Wait. Why are you doing this?” she asked, suddenly sobering as I pushed her face toward the water. “What is this? Why are you doing this to me? ”

I dared not respond, for I dared not attempt to humanize this act, nor did I have the slightest idea of how to answer her questions. She pushed away from the tub as hard as she could, though all of her strength had left her by now. I stood her up, straddled her upon my back and clutched her head tightly as I forced her downward. Her arms flailed and legs kicked out from under her as I felt her back rise against my thighs. I shoved down with all my might and watched as the water turned red and the bubbles became less frequent, like I was counting down to completion of a thoroughly cooked bag of popcorn.

All of the fight left her body with the light in her eyes gone. I’d done what I aimed to do. My wife was dead. I lifted her from the water and threw her over my shoulders once more. Down the hallway and into our master bedroom I took her and laid her down at the foot of the bed. Rummaging through her dresser drawers I looked, seeking her favorite nightgown. I found it at the bottom of the folded laundry drawer. I quickly thrust it over her head and pulled it down her torso. Underwear to match and she was complete.

I dragged her over to her side of the bed, pulled the covers and tucked her in gently. Staring down at her for a moment I began to feel sick, though the feeling soon faded with a sudden rush of anger. She caused all of this, her and cheating ways. Day and night it tortured me to know how many times it happened -- and with multiple partners, not caring once about me, on and on until I did what I had to. As far as the kids, they would never have adjusted to it. We were after all, a family. I knew there was no turning back. With this thought I stomped out of the room, shutting the door on my former life of humility and disdain.

I was always told that every man has his price and every man has his drink of choice, though scotch is strictly for alcoholics and they’re always on the losing end when a price is paid.

I lit up a cigar and poured a glass of scotch, thoroughly enjoying the scents that filled my study. With each vice in their own respected hands I walked from behind my desk and gazed upon my extensive, mini-library book collection, admiring the works, as well as those I loved long before I wrote my first. Words and sentences are all that ever made sense to me; witty prose and rousing plots based in far away places -- those will always be my sanctuary. The cursor on my computer has been my only hope and with it I fulfilled everything I aimed to do, though tonight is the first night I did so with my own life.

The sweet tastes of booze and nicotine help to calm my nerves a bit; finalizing my final night with the last two things that I long to do before the end. I can feel it now; all my senses are raging at once, tingling with anticipation for my own goodbye. I wish I could say I will live happily ever after, but there is no happily ever after for me. Not a moment past my true achievement of happiness, though all shall see the truth in the end.

I chugged the rest of my drink and extinguished my cigar into my glass, looking over my favorite room once more as if to say goodbye to my possessions. My eyes traced the walls until I came full circle to the center of the room, seeing my one-way ticket to eternal damnation. Calmly, I placed a small wooden footstool beneath the noose and climbed upon it without even a flicker of hesitation; the whole idea felt so casual due to my fantasizing and the night that befell this house.

Now it all comes down to this exact moment where you will see firsthand a man and his distress and witness live exactly what will happen henceforth. “Words have no power to impress me without the exquisite beauty of their horror” Poe once decreed.

I’m slipping my neck into the hole and it’s a perfect fit, which actually causes me to chuckle slightly, for I hadn’t even thought to measure it exactly. The rope feels abrasive against my neck, slightly painful even. Perhaps this feeling of being clutched by the throat is similar to that of what my wife felt tonight...

Though still, I’ll take this discomfort to that of what she’s done to me since the day we married. This is her fault; every single action that has taken place this evening shall now fall upon her conscience in the next life; not mine. I was fair to her; loving. But that was then and this is now means nothing to me. It’s as meaningless as all of these books that surround me. In a way, they are equal in their sorrowful attempt to capture another's love, for now they are as empty and unfulfilled as I am now.

Back down the hallway and into the safety of my study I went. I returned to finish my letter and did so in peace. Almost done already, I sit back down and begin to write. I write of the world and its faults, I write of love and hate, but mostly I write about freedom and choice.

I speak of a man in the third person who couldn’t live with his life anymore; therefore he took it upon himself to cleanse the household. I sign my name neatly then begin to fold my letter, neatly placing it within a white envelope addressed: To Whom It May Concern...

With a deep sigh of relief, I placed the sealed letter in the center of my desk, taking in the moment and all that it had to offer. There was a time that I loved her, though I can’t seem to recall when. I did know that I fell madly in love with her at first sight, from which she clutched my empty lost heart with a seemingly unbreakable grasp. For tonight I have broken free from her evil piercing talons and saved my soul. I can feel the chill of death nipping at my neck, beckoning me onward to the afterlife, if any. To any place of peace and tranquility, far away from this bleak existence we call life, where she shall clutch my broken heart nevermore.

I think of only her face as I kick out the stool out from under me, causing it to crash again a bookshelf out of my reach. The rope pulls hard against my Adam’s apple, crushing the life out of me as I imagined doing to my once loving wife. Tears are filling my eyes as the struggle for life continues; now unable to breathe, though failing to gasp life in even the slightest…

To Whom It May Concern:

The world is fading now; all that once was means nothing at all, nor does tomorrow promise even the slightest new offering. Perhaps the sun shall rise, but not for me. Not again shall I gaze upon the simplest of beauties, nor more shall I feel the wind upon my face. The room as a whole is fading; the bright light from my desk lamp is now but a dim, hollow glow, yet I can’t help but smile. I imagine my children, so soft and sweet, all clean and lovingly tucked into bed. And my wife rests upon our marital bed as she has done every night with me just hanging around…as always; nevermore.

*

Stephen Roberts makes a compelling return with his second published story here at SNM Mag following The Voice Within. He is evolving, although he’s been around the block in the past 2 years, appearing in several publications like Word Weavers, Darkened Horizons, Microhorror, The Monsters Next Door, Black Hound, The Edward Ballister Project and in Serial Killer Magazine. Stephen was the first ever Muse Writing short story contest winner, just to name but a few accolades from his short career that will surely surmount to much more. Stephen prides himself on his work, as well as the writers and editors whom he has had the pleasure of working with thus far. He proudly adds Steven Marshall and the SNM family to his list of thrills and chills. He is 22 years old and hails from Baltimore, Maryland. Readers may contact him through his Myspace pages or here.

www.myspace.com/darkestb4dawn800

                                   Stephen Roberts

Jingle Jangle

Bruce Memblatt

Jingle-jangle, jingle-jangle, has anyone got some jingle-jangle? A penny, a dime, a quarter? I could be your daughter. Jingle-jangle, help me out, someone please, with some jingle-jangle? Don’t just let me dangle. I know your name….”

Her hair grew frizzy and wild and her sad eyes wanted what you had; a hypocrisy just like everything else from her extroverted demeanor to her calm, quiet desperation. All she portrayed was sorrow. You could still feel the vibrancy lingering within her, a fire that long diminished and grown into neurosis; a scratching, clawing, half-crazed madness. She appeared to be much older than her age, living on the streets in the city slums, scraping garbage cans just for crumbs. Sardine-like in subway cars, back and forth, had taken its toll on her youth. Her belly was bloated yet empty, tight and grumbling to be fed. As she swerved back and forth on the aging subway car’s pole, it screeched along the rail as it rushed; its electric white lights flashing on and off as it made its way down the dark tunnel that ran underneath Eighth Avenue.

A young, blond bearded man carrying a guitar case threw a quarter in the paper cup she held out in her shaky hand. She barely thanked him and merely cast a crazy glance his way. She meandered through the door to the next car where she’d sing her mantra again. In her mind it was completely different. In her mind she heard the elegant jingles of soft cocktail music in the background as she gracefully made her way past the bar; her dress tight and black and her neck decorated by several strands of sparkly things.

It had been a long day. It was nigh midnight and she had only collected a handful of shiny jingle-jangles in her tattered paper cup. She madly chewed on half of a stale roll she found kissing the hard dirty floor at the Fiftieth Street station hours ago. She snatched it up before the growing scourge of greedy black rats, scurrying through New York’s subway systems, got it first. She quickly placed the dirty roll in the pocket of her oversized black sweatshirt, hoarding it for a nighttime treat.

A tall man wearing a black fedora spotted her. He had cropped dark brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses that hung off his nose. There was a quiet stillness to his presence that could be as calming as it was unnerving. He was seated on the first set of seats near the door where she’d entered. He instantly thought he recognized the beggar, but he couldn’t be quite certain. He contemplated it in his mind several times. There was something about her eyes, beyond the deep glassy glare, that was vaguely familiar to him.

“Jingle-jangle, dingle-dangle, can anyone help a woman out. Jingle-jangle, please give me some jingle-jangle, don’t you let me dangle….’

He reached into his pocket. He was about to pull out a dollar bill when it all came flooding back to him -- not that he’d ever forgot the woman or that strange night. It forced him to subdue unpleasant memories, but it wasn’t just the unpleasantness that truly bothered him, it was something else…

He'd always prided himself on murders that were quick, quiet and clean. Perhaps it was her cackle that unhinged him and made him want to run her down with his car over and over. He couldn’t stand her hideous cackle; her tomboyish laughter. He wanted to murder her, but cleanly, not like the red, spurting sloppy mess he left behind this evening. He didn’t even stay to dispose of the body by his routine practice. He just took off in his blood-soaked car; wheels screeching on the wet rails in the pouring rain.

He had murdered many, but this woman was more difficult to kill.  Looking at the beggar, she appeared to be an older version of his prior victim; the resemblance was uncanny. But he was certain she would have been unrecognizable in the mangled condition where he’d left her body. No one could have possibly identified her. It didn’t matter now. The fact was the woman was never heard from again. He pulled out the crisp bill from his pocket and placed it in the eager hand of the beggar. When she saw it was a bill, not merely jingle-jangle, her eyes lit up like wildfire. She was ready to dash off when she felt him grasping her hand. He always knew the murder of this sad woman’s daughter was a messy one.

“Where’s your daughter? He asked.

“I have a daughter?” the beggar asked in all sincerity. “Where is she?  I’d like to know where my daughter is.” Then she cackled and quickly danced down to the end of the subway car like a drunken Raggedy Ann doll. His stare was making her tense. She wondered why this bizarre man was asking her about a daughter she never had. She had no memory of a daughter or any child at all. She believed the man to be insane. She was intent on keeping her distance from him, dollar bills or not. She wasn’t going to become one of those broken dolls that were found murdered on the track; nameless, homeless, dead souls. She was determined to stay alive, despite a life of hardship. She darted off into the next car.

His eyes were fixated on the beggar as she made her way into the next car. He thought about what he wanted to do. He wanted to kill her; he wanted both daughter and mother dead. A matching set of trophies decorating a wall; the completion of this pair would be his finest kill.  Why would she have fled so quickly into the next car if she hadn’t put two and two together? It didn’t matter how fast she ran or where, he would catch her and kill her and silence that wretched cackle.

As she made her way through the car chanting her mantra: “Jingle- Jangle, don’t let me dangle” The beggar tried to tell an older man who was seated near the middle of the car that she was being chased by a lunatic. The man glanced at her then ran his eyes quickly over the car. He could see some people seated, others were standing; not a sign of anything out of the ordinary except for the woman standing in front of him like a frothing troll. He shrouded his face with the newspaper and grumbled, “no one’s chasing you. No one at all.”

“But there is, sir, a man with evil eyes. He gave me a dollar bill, see?” She took the bill out her cup and held it up to his face.

“Go away, crazy thing,” he grumbled. 

“Not even a quarter, sir?” she asked as a final reprieve.

 The old man didn’t look up from his paper again.

She skidded down to the next door just as the train was pulling into the Fourteenth street station and she dashed out onto the platform. She wanted to run across the platform and hop on another train, one going uptown, but as she left the car she saw she was not alone…

Her thoughts drifted to a figurine she had as a child, a bright green glass elephant with long, shiny white tusks. She thought of how her mother used to handle the figurine and move it along her bed like it was rambling though the jungle while she made believe that she had peanuts in the palm of her hand. Her mind was desperately in search of a safe place to hide from the stark, angry dose of reality glaring into her eyes. All that came to mind was if she had that shiny glass figurine in her hand now, she would smash it into his menacing face.

She stood almost frozen not knowing what to do, then she cried out: “What do you want from me, what do you want? I’m no one, just a poor woman; I couldn’t possibly be of any use to you. Please go away.”

He smiled and said to her, “there’s nothing to fear my dear, I just thought I recognized you. Come with me for a little walk -- let’s talk.”

Airing caution and fearing he might be dangerous, she walked behind him down the length of the Fourteenth street subway station from the “L” to the “A” line in awkward silence. She heard him speak of a woman he kept calling her daughter. She listened to him but the words didn’t make sense. The beggar digested his conversation in bits and pieces and flurries of hurried speech, like some cartoon where the bunny’s lips are moving but the words coming out are sped up and off-synch. She was too tense to concentrate. She just glared at the wild movement of his lips and prayed for a way out of this situation.

Then, by chance, just a few steps away, a thin young street musician with frizzy black hair was playing Mozart’s fifth violin concerto; his bow sliding up and down with fury and wonder. The beggar grabbed the instrument out of his hand and the bow fell to the ground. The young musician, startled, looked up at her. He bent down to reach it. As he bent she grabbed the violin and raised it in the air, thrashing it down on the tall man’s back. The man fell to the ground with a dim hollow sound. Then the beggar ran as fast as her legs would carry her down the dirty metal stairs that led to the subway platform. If only a train had been waiting in the station she could have leapt onto it, but there was no train at the station. The tall man angrily came barreling down the same flight of stairs. She stood at the bottom of the steps and shrieked. “Get away from me! Dear God, leave a poor woman alone!”

Not a soul heard her save for a few hobos and drunks and a spirited rat that was scurrying across the tracks. She thought all was lost; then it happened: lights and sound like magic. A train was speeding down the tracks! She thought if she could just get inside it, even if the tall man managed to get on the car, there might be some people aboard.  He wouldn’t harm her if there were witnesses, she prayed.

The tall man, barely out of breath, chased her into the car. The beggar was wild eyed and terrified now but, fortunately for her, there was a smattering of passengers in the car. A group of raucous young men huddled in the seats at the far end of the car noticed her first. She caught her breath and she cried out to them, “Help a girl out, a man is trying to kill me!” The young men quickly stood up. One had long, curly blonde hair and an oversized Yankee baseball cap on his head. He approached the tall man first. The tall man was standing still grasping the standing pole. “Oh, pay her no mind, she’s in my care. As you can see by her crass demeanor and appearance, she desperately needs help. I’m taking her to a place she where she can get some rest and some clean clothes.” The young man shouted, “isn’t it a bit late? Where are you taking her to now?”

“Don’t worry.” The tall man calmly smiled. “The hospitals are open all night.” The young man looked at the girl’s terrified face and felt helpless. His friend, another young man, tugged on his sleeve and   stated, “It’s none of our business, man. She’ll be okay.” Then the two young men returned to their seats, but the girl refused to relent. “Oh please, please don’t listen to him!”  The tall man grabbed her by her left arm and forcefully walked her over to some vacant seats in the back of the car as the train sputtered and grinded it’s way uptown.

She felt the hopelessness of defeat. She was certain all was lost. She thought of the day her mother took her to her first dance, how lovely and carefree she had been back then; now look what became of her. If her mother could see the fate that was in store for her daughter, she would die all over again. The thrill of the capture made the tall man’s body dance with chills and ecstasy. He tightly grasped her hand and calmly hissed. “You can’t run away. There’s no place for you to hide. So listen to me very carefully.” He grabbed her trembling hand even tighter and said, “I killed your daughter and now I’m going to kill you. First I’m going to tell you where I met your daughter and how she died...”

“But I don’t…”

“Quiet!” the tall man snapped and continued talking. “I met your daughter at a party on the upper West Side, on Sixty-Sixth Street if I remember correctly. She was so beautiful and she carried herself so gracefully it filled me with shivers. If I could kill beauty like that then it would surely be my finest hour. I remember how she was dressed. She wore a black cocktail dress and, around her neck, the same sparkly jewelry that you are wearing dangled like pure enchantment around her neck. She exuded elegance. How awesome it would be to kill something so elegant…I was going to slowly pull and tighten the gems that hung from her neck until she had no more breath left in her shivering body. That’s how I intended for it to go. I would drive her into the woods to some remote location. We would have sex in the car and all she would be wearing nothing but that fine jewelry. It would be my cleanest murder! But when I engaged, I couldn’t stay aroused and...and I had no idea what was wrong. Perhaps it was a result of worrying that something might go wrong that defeated my arousal. Killers must always remain calm, no matter what. Whatever it was, your daughter Diane laughed at me with this hideous cackle, a grotesque laugh, much like yours. I couldn’t stand it! But the thing that made my blood boil the most was the horrid dichotomy, how could that screeching white trash cackle come out of something so utterly beautiful? I had to vanquish it immediately!

I pulled her out of the car. I remember it was raining hard. I threw her down on the field and I ran my car over her, then I backed up and ran over her again -- several times. It was a bloody gushing mess as I sped off. Now, as if by destiny, here we are, mother of elegant whore and you’re next! And what a monumental and ironic coincidence this is, shattering in its brilliance. We’re pulling into the Sixty-Sixth Street station and that’s where we’re going to get off…and that’s where I am going to kill you.

The tall man grasped her frail hand tightly and walked her to the end of the platform of the Sixty-Sixth Street station. There wasn’t the least sign of struggle from the frightened girl. She remained silent. When they reached the end of the platform the man had planned on taking a scarf he had hidden in the pocket of his jacket out and slowly strangling the life out of the beggar woman, when suddenly she spoke in familiar tones.

“You fucking idiot. You fucking fool! You didn’t kill anyone that night. Least of all, my daughter. That wasn’t my daughter you attacked, it was me! I’m Diane you fool. And it was 4 years ago to this day. You know how I know? Because I’ve been following you all night, making myself the vulnerable target, exactly how you found me the first time. I heard killers always return to their murder scene. But that night I lived after you left me shattered and battered in that stairwell, thinking I was dead. I was simply playing possum. Talk about shattering ironies!

"You thought that you ran over a woman with your car but what you crushed was an old crate of paint cans left lying on that muddy field. The cans crushed quickly under the weight of your car. It was red paint for the barn you dragged me to mixing in the pouring rain and mud. The mixture probably felt slippery and greasy under your big wheels as you sped backwards and forward until you finally raced off."

Your panicked mind created that gushing mess, but it was just your mind spinning tall tales. I’m guessing you didn't even look back to notice me lying off to the side. The very next morning I woke and saw red paint splattered everywhere before I had to walk back from that Godforsaken abandoned barn you left me. How many other girls have you abducted and killed there?

You made me terrified enough to make me hide from the world, but I lived. And as I lay there half-dead, my suffering gave me a hardened shell. Sure I might have aged considerably from the trauma, but whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger! So by wearing my Mother’s dress I made you believe exactly what you fell for. A familiar face to fit the profile of being vulnerable; everyone reminds you of someone, right? The world has taken its toll on me, and I look older than I should, and I’m hungrier than I should be too, but I lived for this very moment to be the one to lure you to me...”

The tall man now felt a bright, freezing chill flash through his body. “Think you’re a killer now? All you are is just a scared little girl.”

Distant bright lights gleamed off the tracks; a distant thunder rolling. A train was making its way into the Sixty-Sixth Street Station. The man knew his strength was far superior and he still had a firm grasp on his weak and frail and prey.

“I’m going to put an end to this right here and now! Comere!”

As he dragged her by her left arm to the point of her feet sliding along the platform, she arched her body back and buckled her knees. She reached with her right arm behind her right calf and pulled out a long black stiletto blade she stashed in anticipation of this very moment. She slashed it through the air across his jugular and saw a trail of red curl in the air, spattering her like chickenpox. She felt his grasp weaken considerably; his eyes became frozen oval screams. A gurgling, wheezing-for-air like a croaking bullfrog sound beckoned from him as his body slowly timbered and became plastered upon the oncoming train. The screeching metal wheels grinding along the tracks pierced over any sounds, screaming or otherwise. In her grasp was the tall man’s arm severed in red and painting abstract graffiti on the concrete platform.

She let go and let God.

“This is the last sound you’re going to hear…” and she began to cackle and cackle and cackle madly as the train pulled past the station in all its shiny metal embodiment, grinding along the tracks and pulping his body apart into a bloody, messy glory, running scarlet on the floor.

“Jingle-jangle, jingle-jangle, anyone got some jingle-jangle, a penny, a dime, a quarter? I could be your daughter…”

*

Bruce Memblatt makes his rogue debut appearance here at SNM Mag, but pulls off a great serial killer turned victim story. He has studied Business Administration at Pace University. His interests are varied. Bruce believes  it's his love for the theartre, and all things theatrical  that drew him into writing. He is 54 years old and has just begun his journey as a writer. He has one additional credit; a story entitled "First Dream," which will be published in Blood Moon Rising Horror Mag's 2010 Halloween issue. Writers can email or comment on the SNM guestbook.  

                         bmemblatt@aol.com

 Bruce Memblatt

How Could You?

Anthony Castro

Ronnie and Bob were sitting in the back patio of their favorite bar.  They were both young, handsome and moving up in their careers. Ronnie was tall and thin, with jet-black hair that hung over his forehead, green eyes and a devil-may-care grin. He liked to dress in black because he knew it gave him the perfect “bad boy” look that so many women fall for.

Bob was shorter and stout; more powerfully built. He was a bodybuilder and he’d sculpted his body relentlessly over the years. He was blond and fair-skinned with a boyish grin he’d used on every cocktail waitress in town.

They clinked their beers together and smiled. Ronnie leaned back and put his hands behind his head. “Well, that was a hell of a week, wasn’t it?”

Bob laughed and answered “Dude, you are awesome!  How did you manage to juggle those two Bettys from accounting, man?”

“Fuck, it wasn’t easy, man! I tell ya, when I leaned out my window and saw them coming down the street to my apartment I thought I was dead. You know, d-e-a-d! I can’t believe they were so dumb they couldn’t figure out they were dating the same guy!” said Ronnie.

“Ron, my man, you are the absolute all-time best at this game! I can’t believe you pulled off the double stunt on those two, working in your company and both in the same department! Dude, you are the king!”

“Why thank you, thank you, loyal fans,” said Ronnie with a self-satisfied grin, “now let’s get the book out and see what our scores are!”

Bob reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small black book.  He opened it up, ran his finger down a column of figures and announced “Well, we might have been a leetle premature in crowning you man…I’m still in first place, baby.”

Ronnie yanked the book from Bob’s hands. “Let me see that!  No way, man, no wa…you bastard! You nailed the old man’s daughter?  Dude, I’m impressed. You’re gonna get fired, but I’m still impressed! When did you do her?”

Bob laughed “Last week, man!  What, you thought you were the only one working it?”

They clinked their beers again. “To the greatest game of all, man, the greatest game of all!” Ronnie said.

Bob smiled. “You bet your ass, man!”

The young Romeos downed their beers and ordered another round from the cute young waitress. Bob smiled as she walked away. The sway of those hips was almost hypnotic. He made a mental note to try and tap that one next.

And as Bob put the black book in his back pocket, Ronnie spotted her at the far end of the bar. She was blond, tall and luscious. She was wearing black jeans that hugged the curve of her hips like a second skin.  Ronnie’s eyes moved up to take in the rest of her. She was wearing a tight white T-shirt that strained to cover her large breasts and she kept revealing the creamy expanse of her taut belly whenever she moved.

Ronnie was practically licking his lips when he nudged Bob and said “Your six o’clock, man…smokin’ red hot!”

Bob pretended to drop his pencil and looked over as he bent down to pick it up. When he got up, he looked at Ronnie and said “No way, man.  Don’t you recognize her?”

Ronnie shook his head and kept staring at her. Bob continued, saying “That’s Claudia from marketing, man! You know, the one they call Crazy Claudia?”

Ronnie shrugged his shoulders and kept staring at her. Bob leaned over the table.“Hello, Ronnie…hello, Ronnie, Earth calling!  Did you hear me, man?  That’s the crazy chick that got Johnnie-Boy fired, remember?”

Ronnie blinked twice and looked straight at Bob. “Huh, so that’s her” he whispered

“Yeah, I remember…but Johnnie-Boy was also a dumbshit! He broke the first rule of the player’s game…he got involved, ya know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I know what you mean” replied Bob, “but she made his life Hell, remember?  The company had to get rid of him before she slapped a sexual harassment suit on them. Last I heard, Johnnie-Boy had to leave town and nobody knows where he is now.”

“So your point is…what? Too tough a nut to crack?  That’s a challenge, man. How about we sweeten the pot? Double or nothing, 500 points for her, what do you say?” Ronnie smiled wolfishly at Bob and laid down a bet.

“It’s your funeral, man…but you’re on!  How about a time limit of, say, two weeks?”

Ronnie slammed his beer down and said “Done and done, man. Two weeks it is…now stand back, kid, and watch the master at work!”

They toasted to their new bet and went their separate ways. They didn’t see each other until the two weeks later. It was early on a Thursday evening and they were having what they called their standard player’s club meeting.

Bob had been working hard all week on the cute waitress, but hadn’t made any progress. Ronnie, on the other hand, had a big grin on his face; a victorious smile indeed.

Ronnie was already sitting at the back of the bar. The weather was getting chilly so management closed off the back patio. Bob spotted Ronnie from the front door and started to make his way through the commuter crowd. By the time he’d sifted through the crowd Ronnie already had a martini waiting for him.

Bob sat and lifted a quizzical eyebrow at the martini in front of him.  He looked at Ronnie and greeted him with: “Victory ‘tini already, huh?”

Ronnie just smiled at Bob and replied “Oh, yeah…major victory, man, major victory. And I have proof!”

“Okay, man…lay it on me, inquiring minds want to know!”

Ronnie sipped on his martini and answered, “well, it took me about ten days, two dates, one expensive French dinner and a LOT of flowers and red wine…even with all that, I had to pull out the big promise to seal the deal!”

Bob was open-mouthed. “Man, you actually had to tell her you loved her?  That’s a pretty desperate move for you, man…I’m surprised your brain didn’t explode when you said it!”

Ronnie sipped his martini again and put the glass down. “Hey, you know me…no sacrifice is great enough for victory!

“You know it,” agreed Bob.

Besides, man, they’re just words. So what if I told her I loved her and wanted to be with her?  Stupid bitch should know by now that promises are meant to be broken.”

Bob whistled in a low tone and said, “Whoa, that’s pretty harsh man. What happened, was she tougher than you thought?”

“Well…yeah, I guess she was. Clingy, needy, demanding…God, it’s no wonder she’s still single. But I gotta tell ya, the payoff was sure sweet!”

“About time you got to taste the good stuff.” “Spill it, dude!  How was she and don’t skimp on the details!”

“Feast on this…” Ronnie took out his iPod. He quickly queued up a video, plugged in his earbuds and handed the player to Bob.

The video showed a couple in bed. The woman was on top, her body undulating over his as she gasped. Suddenly the woman sat up while still straddling the man. She tossed her long hair back as she moaned and ground her hips into his.

“Oh, God” he heard her say “Ron, oh, you’re so good…I love you…oh, oh, God…yeah, like that…” She continued in that vein for a few more seconds until the camera closed in on her face. Bob could clearly see it was Crazy Claudia from marketing with Ronnie in his apartment. He watched the whole exchange; his smile slowly growing ever wider until the video ended with her screaming out her orgasm.

“Sounds like a good time! What did you use, the night-vision camera you got last month?”

“Yeah, works pretty well, doesn’t it? I had the remote taped to the side of the mattress so I could focus in as needed, know what I mean?” Ronnie said, laughing. He continued “It’s just too bad that I have to dump her now…she’s pretty good in the sack.”

Bob held up his hands: “Wait a minute!  If you haven’t dumped her, then you haven’t won yet! That’s the standard player’s club bet – trap ‘em, skin ‘em, and dump the carcass. No points for you until you fulfill ALL the requirements, buddy boy!”

“Goddamn ball breaker” mumbled Ronnie with a smirk on his face.  “Fine” he continued, “I’ll text her from here. Acceptable?”

“Go for it” replied Bob, “but I have to see you send it…”

“I’m surrounded by doubters” said Ronnie in mock-distress as he typed in a text message to Claudia.  He showed the screen on his blackberry to Bob: “Satisfied?”

“Man, you are COLD! You’re still the master, man…”I don’t love you and I don’t want to see you again, Ron” Bob read aloud. “Quick and direct!  I guess you win this one after all!”

“Respeck my authoritah!  Now bring the book out and tell me whose the number one King-Playah!”

Bob reached into his jacket and pulled out the little black book. He started to add up the figures and said “Well, with that 500 points, double-or-nothing grand-slam you just hit…you’re back on top, man!”

“Damn straight -- and don’t forget it!”  He looked at the big Guinness Ale clock on the wall. “Shit, I gotta go…I’m already working the next one and I’m gonna be late for a date if I don’t hurry. Listen, don’t forget about the party tomorrow at my place. I’ll introduce you to the next notch…oh, and see if you can bring that cute waitress along, I think I can give her something that will help you tap that!”

“The Mighty B don’t need no freakin’ chemical help…you best watch yourself ‘cause you’re not going to be number one for long!”

*

Bob drove his vintage ’68 Mustang California convertible; U-2 blasting from the speakers, as he pulled up in front of the old apartment building. Sandy, the cute waitress from the bar, was waiting for him to pick her up for their date. He rang her doorbell and, as he waited for her to buzz him in, he decided that if he couldn’t get her in bed tonight he was going to dump her and move on.

The door buzzed and he walked into the lobby. He punched the button to call the elevator and waited as the rickety old thing puffed and chugged its’ way down.

Sandy was already at the door of her apartment, waiting for him. “Hi, Bobby,” she said in her squeaky, little-girl voice as she lightly brushed her lips over his. God, I hate it when they call me Bobby, he fumed inwardly while keeping a smile on his face.

“Ready to go?” he asked. She nodded, turned and walked back to the couch to get her jacket and purse. Once again, Bob’s eyes were riveted to the undulating circular motion of her hips. Man, that looks tasty. Gotta have me some of that.  

They made it to the car making inconsequential small talk. Bob let her drone on about how tough waitressing was, how her boss was always trying to pat her ass and the drunks who kept rudely hitting on her. He occasionally nodded or made some non-committal noise she took for conversation as she kept revealing all.

“We’re heee-re” he announced as they pulled up in front of Ronnie’s building. They got out and he tossed the keys to the parking valet.

Ronnie answered the intercom shouting as he had to overcome the sounds of the party behind him. He greeted them at the front door, saying “Hey, Bob, how are you, great to see you!  And you must be Sandy,” he added as he took her jacket and purse. Ronnie actually bowed and kissed her hand.“You’re even more beautiful than Bob said…what are you doing with this bum, anyway?  You can do better, you know!”

“Hey, hey!” came from Bob as he cut in, “cut it out, you old smoothie, she’s my girl!”

Sandy let out an embarrassed little laugh and said, “Oh, thank you.” Ronnie ushered them in but hung back as they walked in. Bob saw Ronnie’s eyes locking on to the sway of Sandy’s hips…that round-the-world walk of hers. Ronnie grinned and lightly nudged Bob in the ribs.

“There’s someone I want you to meet” said Ronnie as a tall, busty brunette came up and wrapped her arms around him. “This is Linda” he said as he nodded to the brunette who batted her eyes at Bob and said “Hello” in a low, throaty voice.

Bob politely shook hands with her and backed away. She might just be a willing participant, but she was Ronnie’s…for now. But Bob already had a target he was working on and Sandy was plenty hot indeed.

The doorbell rang again and Ronnie untangled himself from his date to answer it. He threw the door open, ready to greet another batch of party-goers then suddenly stopped.

Claudia was standing at the door, but this wasn’t the hot sexy chick he’d met at the bar. Her hair was matted, her lipstick was off, she was dressed in workout sweats…and she was glaring at him as her eyes filled with a fury that stopped him in mid- greeting.

“Aren’t you going to ask me in?” she said after a few seconds of uncomfortable silence.

“C-Claudia!  What are you doing here?” was all Ronnie could say. She walked in, looked around and asked loudly, “which one is she, Ron? The bitch you’re dumping me for, which one is she, huh? Is it her? Or her?  Which one, Ron, WHICH ONE?”

Ronnie’s guests were stunned into silence by her screaming demand. A few people shifted or coughed uncomfortably. There was a forced, sickly smile twisted on Ronnie’s face. “Hey, now, ummm, come over here so we can talk…” and tried to push her out the front door.

Claudia wasn’t having it. She batted Ronnie’s hand aside and stood there, staring at him and trembling. A lone tear started to go down her cheek as she repeated in a low voice, “how could you?  How could you, Ron?  I love you and you said you loved me…how could you?”

Ronnie took her by the elbow and steered her out of the living room and into his den. As he walked by Bob, he whispered,” run interference, Okay?”  Bob nodded dumbly, unsure of what to do. As he turned to face the party, the first thing he saw was Linda’s back as she walked out. The next thing he saw was the accusing look in Sandy’s eyes as she grabbed her purse and jacket and followed Linda out the door. Things were sinking fast.

“Hey, come on everybody, let’s relax and enjoy the party…” But by then, there was a mass departure of people walking out the door.  The party was turning into a disaster.

To make things even worse, he could hear Ronnie and Claudia arguing in the den. The door was thick and he couldn’t make out everything they were saying, but they were getting pretty loud and he could most definitely hear Ronnie yelling “Youtube -- you crazy bitch!”

The next thing Bob heard was Claudia screeching, “Baaastard!” and a bunch of crashing, banging noises followed by the loud smacking sound of a physical blow. The door of the den flew open and Claudia ran out, one hand cradling her jaw, crying and still screaming, “how could you?! How could you?” as she ran out of the apartment.

Bob started to inch his way towards the front door. It was getting progressively worse and he didn’t want any part of it.  Ronnie was standing in the doorway, panting, as a drop of blood running down his chin from a nasty scratch on his cheek.  He turned to look at Bob; a plea for help in his eyes.

Bob stared back and mumbled, “uh, can I call you tomorrow?” then quickly backed out of the apartment.

Oh shit, he thought as he saw Claudia standing by the elevator, still crying.  He quickly turned and took the stairs down, threw a sawbuck at the parking valet and got the hell out of there.

*

Bob never did call Ronnie the next day. Actually, he didn’t want to call him. Three days went by until Ronnie called Bob.

The Blackberry was vibrating and jumping all over his coffee table.  Bob saw it was Ronnie calling.  He took a deep breath and said, “hey, man… you okay?”

“Hey, Bob” said Ronnie, “I’m not sure, man…can you come over, right now? I just got something yesterday by email and… dude, can you just come over? I can’t talk about this on the phone…”

“Right now? I can be there in half an hour but…who’s it from?”

There was a slight pause then he heard Ronnie’s voice saying, “it’s from her of course, man…can you please come over asap?”

Bob never heard Ronnie sound like this. He sounded scared, really scared. Bob gulped and said “Okay man, I’ll be right over, just give me about a half-hour, tops, okay?”

Ronnie sounded almost pathetically grateful as he answered “thanks, man, thanks…” and then hung up.  Bob dropped the Blackberry into his pocket and looked around his apartment. Laundry can wait.

*

The city was doing some road work on his street so Bob had to circle around to get out and reach the main drag. He tried to get to Ronnie’s as fast as he could -- there was just something in Ronnie’s voice that made Bob nervous.

He found a parking spot a half block away. He sprinted down the street to Ronnie’s building and hit the intercom. He heard Ronnie’s voice asking “Bob?” He responded affirmatively and the buzzer rang, opening the front door.

Bob knocked on the door of Ronnie’s apartment. He heard shuffling footsteps and the door opened. He started to greet his friend and stopped.

Ronnie was haggard and unshaven with deep circles under his eyes.  Bob could see his hands tremble as he slid the chain and opened the door. “Christ, Ronnie, you look like shit, man” he blurted out.

Ronnie gave him a sickly smile as he ran his fingers through his hair in a useless attempt to comb it. He stared at Bob for a few seconds and said “Hey, man…damn glad you’re here!”

Bob had never seen Ronnie like this, not even when his parents died.  He looked around the apartment…it looked like a disaster area, like Ronnie had never cleaned up after that party. All he could think of saying was: “What the Hell happened, man?”

Ronnie motioned to the den and Bob followed him. A laptop was on a desk and Ronnie pointed to it, saying “Look at the last email, man…”

Bob sat down in front of the laptop. The cursor was already on an email from Claudia with a video file attached. There was no note attached.

Bob double-clicked the attachment and waited a few seconds for the Windows Media Player to open. The video started to play, showing Claudia’s face. She was berating Ronnie, calling him a bastard, saying that he deserved to suffer, asking why he’d done this to her, how could he? Then she stepped back.  There was a step-ladder behind her, and something that looked like a rope hanging from the pipes running along the ceiling.

Bob saw her climb the step-ladder, grab the rope…and he saw that it was a noose. He turned to look at Ronnie, who was sitting on a leather chair in the far end of the room, shivering and sweating.

 The video was still running…Claudia was still screaming, “How could you?” over and over as she slipped the noose over her head and stepped off the step-ladder. She struggled for what seemed an eternity as her legs twitched and one of her shoes went flying and smashed into something, her fingers clawed futilely at the rope -- then her body simply swayed back and forth in the air, her arms hanging limply.

“Is this…is this for real?” asked Bob in a hushed tone.

Ronnie didn’t budge from his chair. He was rocking back and forth and crying as he answered, “oh, yeah...it’s real…God dammit, man…what am I gonna do?”

“How do you know it’s real?  Ronnie, you’ve got to tell me everything if you want me to help you, man.”

Ronnie took a deep, ragged breath and answered “I jumped out of here as soon as I saw it and I drove to her place. I was too late, man…the paramedics were bringing a covered body in a stretcher out of her building.  I knew it was her because her right arm fell out from under the sheet and I saw the rose tattoo she had on the back of her hand…” Ronnie stopped and began to sob. Bob could only sit and stare at him.

“Ronnie, man, I don’t get it” he said, “I don’t get your reaction. Look, I’m real sorry for her but you didn’t kill her, man! This isn’t your fault, man, do you hear me? This isn’t your fault!”

Ronnie stared at Bob and began to laugh hysterically. Bob was scared, he’d never seen Ronnie like this…”Not my fault, huh?  Close everything and look at the screen, man…” he said.

Bob shut down all the open programs and stared at the screen. All he saw was a panoramic view of the Pacific Ocean. “What am I looking for, man?  It’s the shot you took from Diamond Head last year…”

“You don’t see it?” was Ronnie’s response.

“It’s just the ocean from Diamond Head,” said Bob.

“That’s just great, just fuckin’ great, man…it’s not what I see. You wanna know what I see, you really wanna know?  It was just kinda blurry at first then it got clearer and clearer…all I see is her, that bitch, stepping off that ladder and killing herself and yelling, ‘how could you’ over and over…” Ronnie buried his face in his hands as his whole body shook with uncontrollable tears.

Bob took a deep breath and got up. “Ronnie, what’s happened to you? Come on, man…playas don’t cry over bitches, it’s the other way around… let’s get you dressed and down to the bar for a drink, man, come-“

“Don’t touch me!” Ronnie screamed. “It’s not just the laptop, man.  Didn’t you notice my TV, man? Didn’t you notice all the TV’s here? DIDN’T YOU NOTICE THE MIRRORS?!?”

Bob suddenly saw it. Ronnie’s big plasma TV was smashed on the floor -- then he saw the mirror in the hallway. It was also smashed. He turned to look at his friend; a cold sensation in the pit of his stomach…

Was Ronnie going nuts?

“She’s punishing me, man…all I see is her hanging herself and saying it over and over again…I couldn’t stand it, I saw her on every screen, on every mirror…I can’t even look at the screen on my phone!”

Bob could feel cold sweat on his forehead. “Ronnie, you need help, man… have you called a doctor?”

Ronnie laughed a bleak and bitter cackle. “A doctor?” Are you kidding me? They’ll lock me up in the nuthouse. Man…look at you, you think I’m crazy too, don’t you -- don’t you?”

Bob started to back away, trying to get to the door.  “Ronnie,” he said “you need help -- professional help…”

Ronnie got up from the chair. “Don’t leave me, man, don’t leave…” He went to Bob, who seemed to be rooted on the spot and put his hands on his shoulders. Bob could feel Ronnie’s fingers digging in, trying to hold him there. Ronnie kept saying “don’t leave, please, don’t leave…” but Bob could say no more.

He turned and ran out of the den and out of the apartment. He could still hear Ronnie’s voice pleading with him not to leave him alone…Bob ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time. He ran down the street to his car and peeled out of his parking spot.

He didn’t stop running until he was back inside his apartment with the door dead-bolted behind him…

Bob was online, checking out an auction for car parts when he got an email from Ronnie that night. His hand trembled just a bit as he opened it.  There was no text in the email, only a video file clip attached. Oh my God, he thought as he opened the attachment.

It was Ronnie. He was standing next to a chair and asking how could you leave me, man, how could you…he saw Ronnie get on the chair, place a noose around his neck and kick the chair away…

That’s when Bob saw it, too. It was just a blur at first then the outline became clearer. It was a hand on Ronnie’s shoulder, a hand with a rose tattoo.

Another twenty minutes passed before Bob noticed his laptop screen changed…and everything was getting blurrier.

*

Anthony Castro is an aspiring pulp/horror fiction writer from Northern California. This marks his first published story, which makes him, his wife Diane and his dog Fred very excited. After many years as an IT geek, Anthony decided to chuck that stuff away and return to his first love...writing! He spends his days writing, walking Fred, talking to Diane and his nights watching strange and obscure movies that come together in the blender that is his mind then re-emerges as a short story. "How Could You" came about after watching some Japanese horror movies, reading ghost stories and drinking some lousy Cabernet. He is threatening to return with yet another story to poison people's dreams.  Leave him comments in the guestbook or email him.

tcastro09@comcast.net

                                         Anthony Castro

YOU BETTER WATCH OUT

G. Allen Wilbanks

“I’m sorry, sir. I can’t break anything larger than a twenty.”

Michael Rogers stared at the cashier as though waiting for the punch line of a joke he already didn’t like. But there was no punch line. And no joke. Forcing a smile he did not feel, he pushed the fifty-dollar bill back across the counter. “Well I don’t have anything smaller,” he explained, holding onto his already frayed patience by a thread. “I tip very well, however, so I can make it worth your time if you just help me out here.”

The cashier – Jaime, according to the plastic name tag on his white baseball cap, shook his head and shoved his hands in his pockets, emphatically demonstrating his dedication to company policy and refusal to be tempted by the implied bribe.

“It’s just a fu...!” Michael checked himself before finishing the statement. The kid was just doing his job. Even if he was being a prick about it. “It’s just a cup of coffee,” he said after a brief pause to calm himself. “This shouldn’t be such a big deal. Just give me two twenties, keep the rest, and we’ll call it even.”

Michael watched Jaime’s previous moral certitude waver for a moment. The cashier'’s gaze flickered between the bill on the counter and the cash register, perhaps doing some mental calculation of the change that would be left in his pocket after the transaction. Michael waited anxiously for the internal war waging in the greed center of the cashier’s head to arrive at a conclusion. Unconsciously, the thumb and forefinger of his right hand grasped the ring finger of his left, seeking a gold band that was no longer there. The nervous habit he had picked up over years of marriage had not yet dissipated despite the fact his wedding ring had unceremoniously found its way into a sewer over a month ago. The fidgeting remained a frustrating reminder of a painful time in his life, and he had tried to break himself of the custom, as yet without success. At least the tan line had started to fade, he thought, irritably.

“I’m sorry, I can’t take it.”

“Huh?” The comment sucked Michael out of his reverie and back to his current problem: lack of ability to pay for his morning coffee.

“Maybe if you had a credit card,” the cashier suggested. “We take most kinds of cards.”

“Use a credit card for a two-dollar cup of coffee?” asked Michael in disbelief. But he had already pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and, after replacing the cash, he thumbed through it for a card. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, although loud enough for the cashier to hear. “It’s going to cost the owner most of that to pay the transaction fee, but fine. We’ll do it your way.”

After signing the pay slip, Michael grabbed his coffee in one hand and snatched up his credit card off of the counter with the other. He took a step back and bumped into another customer standing in line behind him. He turned to see a heavy-set older man slowly moving away from him and holding his hands up apologetically. The man smiled; his mouth barely visible through the full tangle of white beard covering his face.

“Pardon me, son.” The man’s voice was light and musical, though his eyes reflected something much more dark and sinister. Michael met his heavy gaze for only a moment before looking away with a slight shiver. In that brief look, Michael felt as if he had been analyzed and categorized, as if the old man had peered right through to the back of his skull.

“Not much for personal space, are you, pal?” Michael tried to sound brusque, but the words only choked out with effort. He stepped around the man in a rush, staring at the floor in front of him.

Embarrassed and angry at his timidity, Michael slunk into a back corner of the coffee shop and sat at one of the smaller tables. Grumbling, he sipped from the steaming cup in his hand before folding his credit card back into his wallet and slipping the billfold into his pants pocket. His face twisted with self disgust as he noticed his hands shaking.

“I think we should have a little talk.”

Michael started in his chair at the sound of the voice. He hadn’t seen the old man approach, but there he stood, hovering over the table like an unwelcome relative at Christmas dinner. When Michael met the man’s gaze he felt panic lightening his chest and he was forced to look away.

He let his eyes wander down the man’s torso, noting the red flannel shirt, black jeans and black leather cowboy boots. Unable to comfortably look the stranger in the eyes, he settled for observing the paper cup the man held in his hand; a large dollop of whipped cream floated at the top of the container.

“Mmm, Hot cocoa,” said the old man, noticing the direction of Michael’s stare. “’Fraid I have a weakness for the stuff.”

The stranger pulled out the only other chair at the table and sat down. “As I said, we should talk. That was quite an uncharitable display at the register just now. And so close to Christmas time, too.”

Michael pulled his feet underneath him, shifting his weight forward. He had not yet decided if he was going to walk away or run like the devil was after him, but he knew that the time to leave had definitely arrived.

“Mr. Rogers, please stay. It’s important. Do you mind if I call you Michael?”

The strength leeched out of Michael’s legs at the sound of his name from the stranger’s mouth and he collapsed back into his seat. With his shock, he found the courage to finally look at the man’s face. He peered suspiciously, trying to see past the hair to the visage beneath. “Do we know each other?” he asked, still searching for something familiar about this unexpected visitor.

“In a way, I suppose.” The stranger smiled. He took a long casual sip from his dairy-laden cup, licked the whipped cream from the stiff brush of his mustache then smiled again. “That’s quite good,” he effused.

“I don’t recognize you.” Michael caught himself beginning to fiddle with his nonexistent ring again and he forced his hands to settle around his coffee cup, hoping the stranger hadn’t noticed the nervous twitch. “Who are you?”

“We have never met, but I know who you are, Michael. Just as I am sure that you – if you gave it some thought – know who I am. Or rather, what I am.” The old man leaned forward, bracing himself on the table with his crossed forearms. Michael rocked back into his chair, subconsciously maintaining the distance between them. “Until you figure it out, you can call me Kriss. That’s with a ‘K,’” he added, winking.

“Kriss, with a K, I’m pretty sure I don’t know who you are. And I’m also pretty sure I don’t want to, so whatever you think you need to say to me, just say it fast and then go away.”

“Your Christmas spirit is in the toilet, Michael. How’s that for getting to the point?” The darkness was back in the old man’s eyes and Michael once again stared at the table, avoiding the confrontation of that look. “Everyone around you is struggling with their own problems, pains, and fears, but they still find a way to share brief moments of love and joy with the others around them, especially at this time of year. They recognize the opportunity of Christmas for what it is.

“You, on the other hand, are just bulling your way through life with your head down, lashing out in anger at everyone and everything around you. I’ve rarely seen such despair. That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I want you to let me help you find the joy in your life that you have thus far so successfully poisoned.”

“Christmas spirit?” asked Michael. He lifted his gaze as far as Kriss’ chin, but no further. He felt like a guilty child being called to task, but even the anger at his own feelings of helplessness could not bring him to look at those eyes again. He tried to laugh at the old coot, but it sounded as weak and as forced as it truly was. “Joy and love? You sound like a cheesy Christmas special on T.V. Am I supposed to believe I’m actually sitting in  a coffee shop with good ol' Kriss Kringle? Are you telling me that you’re…?”

Kriss raised his hands palms out, deflecting the comments away from him. “I’m not saying that I’m anyone important. Who I am does not change anything about what I’m trying to tell you. What is important, Michael, is that you need a serious adjustment in your outlook.”

“What?” Michael’s hands slapped the table top in front of him with a loud bang. He winced at his outburst and quickly looked around at the other patrons in the shop. No one seemed to notice or care about his momentary loss of control. He turned back to Kriss, still furious but keeping his voice under control.

“What do you know about my outlook? You don’t know anything about me or my life, or what I’m going through right now.”

“She’s gone, Michael.”

“Huh?”

“Your wife,” stated Kriss, softly. “She’s gone.” When Michael did not immediately respond, Kriss took the opportunity to sip once more from his hot cocoa. He wiped the chocolate froth from his mustache with his hand before speaking again. “Stop taking your anger out on everybody else. You’re really only hurting yourself.”

Several emotions flickered through Michael simultaneously: anger at this unwelcome intrusion into his affairs, depression at being reminded of his loss, and shock most of all. How the Hell did this old man know anything about it?

“I… How…?” Unsure of what he was feeling; unsure how to respond.

“You need to let it go,” continued Kriss, ignoring Michael’s confusion. “Ask yourself one simple question: Is she in a better place?”

“A better place? She ran off with our dentist. She isn’t dead, old man.”

Kriss smiled, parting his white beard with a flash of even whiter teeth. He shook his head as though amused at Michael’s lack of understanding. “I didn’t ask if she was in Heaven. I think we can both agree that would automatically be a ‘better place.’ No, what I’m asking you is a little harder. Put aside your personal feelings for a moment and consider: Is she happier now than when she was with you? By leaving, did she make the right choice for herself?

“To hell with her.” Michael growled out through clenched teeth. He leaned forward, wanting to shout in the man’s face but still managing to keep his voice low. For the first time, he met Kriss’ gaze evenly, without flinching. “She skips out on me, pisses away four years of marriage, and I’m supposed to worry about her happiness?”

“If you want your life back. Yes.”

“Just forget it. It hurts too much.” Michael rocked back into his chair and dismissed the suggestion with a sharp wave of his hand.

Kriss nodded sympathetically. “It’s okay to hurt, and it’s okay to be sad, but you can’t let anger run your life. You have to find it in your heart to forgive her and to honestly be happy for her. Only then will you be able to move forward and find any happiness for yourself.”

Michael swiped a hand across his cheek, trying to disguise the act as a gesture of fatigue or frustration and hoping Kriss did not notice the moisture he wiped away. “I don’t know if I can,” he said. The heat that had filled him so full only a moment ago had faded, leaving him drained and tired.

Kriss nodded again. He stood slowly and eased his chair under the table where he had originally found it. “Follow me outside,” he said, barely audible enough for Michael to hear. “I have something for you that may help. It may, and it may not.” He shrugged. “It really depends upon you and what you’re willing to believe.”

“I don’t know what you think you have for me, but I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“It’s your decision, Michael. I’m leaving now. I’ll be outside in the alley beside this building for two minutes. After that, I’ll be gone and we will probably never run into one another again. If you choose to sit here, then I wish for you a long and happy life.”

“Wait,” called Michael. Kriss paused and his eyebrows raised slightly in intrigue. “Kriss, tell me what I wanted for Christmas when I was ten years old.”

“Michael, how could I possibly know the answer to that?” Kriss chuckled softly and gave another wink. “Just who do you think I am?” He turned and, without a second glance backward, strolled lightly through the coffee shop and out the double front doors.

Michael watched him leave. “Crazy bastard,” he muttered, though he was unsure if he was referring to the old man or himself as he rose from the table and followed Kriss outside.

South of the coffee shop, between the shop and a neighboring dress store, a gravel-surfaced alleyway parted the buildings. The narrow unpaved roadway served as a through-way between parallel streets that otherwise did not connect and, as an access to the garbage dumpsters at the rear of the buildings. At this hour of the morning, the alley remained mostly in shade, but enough ambient light existed that it did not seem daunting or in any way intimidating.

Because Michael did not see Kriss on the sidewalk he assumed the man had already made his way into the alley. He called Kriss’ name to announce that he was coming, then pursued into the shadows. The loose gravel shifted noisily under his feet as he made his way through the gloom past piles of broken wooden pallets and some other accumulated debris. Confused, Michael called out a second time, but he still did not see or hear any evidence that Kriss was still here. He began to wonder if he had perhaps missed his chance. A chance at what, he did not know, but still….

A crunch of gravel behind him was the only warning he had. Something hit him hard, high in the back, and twice in rapid succession. It felt like he had been punched in the ribs.

A rough hand grabbed him by the hair on the back of his head and forced him to the ground. The gravel bit and cut into his hands and knees where he fell. Michael tried to cry out, but something was wrong with him. Something inside. His chest tightened and his lungs burned. He had difficulty breathing like an invisible pillow had been pressed over his face and he could not draw enough air to produce any more noise other than an asthmatic wheeze.

The same hand that had grabbed and pushed him moved into the rear pocket of his pants, pulling free his wallet. At the same time a knife moved into the corner of his field of vision. The blade was narrow, several inches long, and a ribbon of bright red blood glistened off the edge of the weapon. Too late...he understood what had happened.

He’d been stabbed. The fiery pressure in his chest was his lung collapsing as it emptied, his air escaping, bubbling, from the wounds in his back.

Something tickled the back of his neck. A beard, he realized.

“Michael,” whispered the now familiar voice. “Aren’t you a little old to believe in Santa Claus?”

This time, Michael felt the knife go in…

 *

G. Allen Wilbanks has been around the writer's block and is making his debut here at SNM. This story first appeared in Black Petals Magazine in 2006. Gary worked as a police officer in Northern California for 18 years. He writes crime reports to pay the bills and horror fiction to stay sane. His stories have appeared in Tales of the Talisman, Black Petals, Night Terrors, Dark Moon Rising, AlienSkin, Nocturnal Ooze, A Taste for Flesh and now SNM Mag.  He currently resides in Sacramento with his wife and two daughters. Readers can contact him by email or leave comments in the guestbook. Please welcome him  

                 gallenwilbanks@comcast.net

G. Allen Wilbanks