The Horror Emporium: A Horror Anthology

by K. A Knight

  "I don't fail." I cross the space between us, rip the cord from her hand, and summon a pair of shears into my other palm. Opening them with a satisfying swish, I line the cord up along them and snip.

  I growl as my shears fall apart, leaving the cord completely undamaged.

  "What's going on here?" Lachesis mocks, bending to pick up the useless metal. She hands them to me with a sly smile on her face. She's always been attached to the mortals.

  "Well, that's surely . . . interesting. For the sake of science, try again."

  Lachesis whips her head around to look at Clotho so fast I think she might give herself whiplash. "I'm sorry?"

  "I'm just curious, and seeing Atropos so riled up is amusing." Clotho’s mouth stretches with a wide grin and I bite back a curse. "She might be favored."

  I push my nails into the cord, marking several upcoming events with death. We'd know soon enough if the little whelp was favored. It has been a long time since we've had to deal with something like this. Our mother, Ananke, didn't typically involve herself in human affairs, choosing instead to leave it up to us.

  "I can't stand the favored," I mutter, drawing the life chord out along the wall. I shove one broken half of the sheers into the wall and hang the cord over it, then repeat the process at the other end of the dry rock. I can't be certain without touching the cord, but it looks like the next ten years or so are on display on the wall. I glance at the indentions marked out along Misery's cord and narrow my eyes.

  "I'll never understand why Ananke bothers to favor humans and ignores us," Lachesis whispers behind me.

  I turn to her, a brief moment of agony welling in my chest. That had been the truth for our entire existence. "We're the daughters of Necessity, but she's never found her children worthy of her concern."

  Those words had been a mantra between us in the early days, when mankind still huddled by a single flame at the base of Mount Olympus. I shudder as the temperature drops around us.

  "The child is not favored by me, but the stars." The chilling voice rings throughout the house and my breath catches in my throat.

  "Mother?"

  "Ananke?"

  Clotho and Lachesis turn around and around, as if searching for the source of the sound.

  I focus on my other senses, listening to the swirling, black nothing known as the Ether as it crashes into this plane. Ananke is barely holding it apart to speak. A shiver curves my spine as she lets go and all the Ether comes slamming down around us, sucking the air from the room. My eyes search out the corners of the room as the Ether retreats. It’s not truly black or devoid of color as some describe it. The Ether is every color at once, always moving, always changing. It’s beautiful. I’ve been immersed in it my entire existence. After Lachesis winds the cords along their path, they disappear into the Ether until it’s time for me to sever them.

  "Holy—"

  "Not holy!" Clotho interrupts Lachesis, clamping a hand over her mouth. "Alright, Attie, let's figure out why she's favored. I'm in."

  "Me, too," Lachesis murmurs quietly, holding one of her arms with her other hand. She looks like an injured child, one who was spanked too often or too hard.

  My chest aches to go to her, but it won't do any of us any good to wallow in our sadness. Comfort breeds weakness; that was something we had learned a long time ago. Now isn't the time to forget everything life has taught us.

  "I can't believe she chooses this moment to speak to us, after how long? It's—" Clotho's words end on a squeal. Her frustration is palpable.

  Our mother has ignored us for thousands of years, only breaking her silence to communicate with us about a human.

  Yah, that definitely sucked.

  Chapter 2

  Misery

  21 years old

  My hand searches frantically for the source of the blaring sound. My fingers close on my cell phone and I shut it off with my eyes still closed. Why is my alarm going off so early? Rubbing blearily at my eyes, I roll over and come face to face with the reason I'm so damn tired.

  Trey. I groan, wiggling backwards away from him. If I can just slip out of the bed without waking him up, then we won't have to have the same awkward conversation we have had for three Saturday mornings in a row. My toes slide against the hardwood floor and I squeal—internally so he doesn't hear me—as I rush toward the restroom.

  Brushing my teeth is fast enough, I pull my hair up into a messy bun and throw a clean-ish t-shirt on. It smells like perfume, so it had definitely been worn recently, but it doesn't smell like sweat and I don't see any stains so . . .

  "What are you doin'?"

  I turn toward the deep southern voice, my toothbrush still hanging out of my mouth and wince.

  "Oh, hi there," I mumble around the bristles.

  "Mhm." Trey crosses his arms over his chest. The man is nothing but muscles and has been since we were in high school. I have a bad habit of thinking of him as this scrawny kid, but he has changed a lot since then.

  My eyes drag down his corded neck to his thick biceps. I try not to notice the abs hiding under his crossed arms, but I can't help it, they're gorgeous. I swallow my lust and point my toothbrush at him like a weapon.

  "Mulligan."

  "What?!" Trey's eyebrows draw down together. He's obviously offended. His long, dark blonde hair is ruffled up in the front like it always is in the mornings. Those baby blues make it hard to say this to him, but . . .

  "I'm calling a mulligan. I went out last night with your sister, I don't know how I ended up even running into you! I'm starting to think she's setting me up, or you're stalking me." I suck in a breath, closing my eyes to try and refocus. "So, mulligan. I'm going to go out tonight and not end up going home with you, because that's what's best for me, Trey. You and I are not good together."

  He cocks his head toward the bed with a smile. "We're good at a few things."

  "Be that as it may!" I snap, my cheeks flushing red under his careless scrutiny. "We tried to date, man. We are so much better as friends! Do you remember the last time we did this? You broke someone's nose in a bar for touching my ass."

  "People need to keep their hands to themselves."

  "I am capable of deciding who is allowed to touch me and isn't!" I fling the toothbrush down on the sink and glare at him, my heart-rate speeding up by the second. This was how we'd always been, even as kids. We fight, we make up, we fight some more. My mom is convinced that Trey is the one for me, but I'm not so sure. I shake my head, pulling on a pair of jean shorts while Trey watches from the doorway.

  "We can make this work, Mizz." His voice is barely a whisper, filled with all the emotion that has become the soundtrack to my Saturday morning routine lately.

  I flinch at the familiar nickname and make my way past him. The truth is, things between us have been better this time, but that will only last as long as there aren't any titles attached to this thing. The moment I call him my boyfriend, he will lose his ever-loving mind and start acting like some kind of primate whenever another man is around.

  And truth be told, I enjoy my freedom too much to coddle Trey's ego.

  I grab my back-pack style purse and sling it over my shoulder, sliding into my flip-flops and head for the door.

  "Where are you going?" he grumbles.

  "Out. I have things to do." I slip through the door, closing it behind me. The electronic lock clicks into place seconds after it closes and I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. I lean against the post that holds up the veranda and slam my head back against it. This is one of those defining moments in movies where the guy comes outside and says all the right things. The girl will wrap her arms around his neck and cry, all super gushy like, and accept whatever bullshit excuses he has for his bad behavior and then they kiss. The scene fades to black and we just know they live happily ever after only to have our faith rewarded with a cute wedding montage during the credits.

  The thing about real life is there are no fade-to-black moments. Everyt
hing is on all the time. You have to get from that kiss to the wedding without skipping over all the hard parts, the important parts. Does he keep his promises? Does she really forgive him? Or does she bring up his mistakes at breakfast for the next five years straight?

  Real life is different than the movies. Trey isn't going to change overnight. I've known since the first time we kissed, in high school, that he was different. I shake my head and make my way to the car, pressing my key-fob repeatedly to get the stubborn thing to unlock. One last glance at the house leaves me feeling sad. When I get home tonight, Trey will be gone. I know that. We'll do the same thing next weekend, and maybe the weekend after that, until eventually he loses his patience or I give in. Neither of those will end well for us.

  My teeth graze my bottom lip as I back out of the driveway, pretending I don't see him standing in my window, watching me leave for the hundredth time.

  Maybe one day this will end differently for us.

  I spin my coffee cup on the table, blinking at the investor. His silk shirt is unbuttoned at the top and I have to resist the urge to roll my eyes. Aging men always think it’s cute to show off their chest but honestly, it only serves to make them look older. My eye snags on the huge number scrawled on the paper.

  "You're serious?" I ask, my heartbeat pounding away against my ribcage.

  "Of course," he assures me as he takes a sip of his own latte.

  Letting go of my coffee cup, I blow out a breath, nodding. This was insane.

  "It's a good idea, Misery. I think we can take it somewhere. I don't have the time to be involved in a project like this on the ground floor, but I think I can throw some money at a good idea and watch it flourish."

  I suck my teeth, my eyebrows furrowing down low.

  "Will you take good care of my money, Misery?"

  "Of course, Mr. Spaniard." I almost laugh at the on-the-nose last name for the hundredth time since I met this man. Jay Spaniard is a renowned businessman. He even has his own television show where people compete for his investment. He's the second wealthiest man in the country, and that's just the income the public knows about—I'm sure there's more, there always is.

  "I can't believe how lucky I was to be standing behind you in line that day. All I need now is for you to sign this paperwork and we will get your dream started, young lady. A dating app that links up with your streaming apps. It's ingenious, honestly."

  "It can be used to find friends, too," I remind him, reading over the contract one last time.

  Mr. Spaniard was investing two million dollars for a twenty percent stake in my new company, Misery Loves Co.. I'd come up with the idea—jokingly—that there should be a dating app which connects with your streaming apps and brings up the pictures of other people watching the same show as you. From there, the idea got more complicated. It should only show people within your chosen age range, within your chosen distance. I don't have the electronic smarts to make this work, but Mr. Spaniard seems to think he knows the right people.

  It had all started as a joke, anyway. What could it hurt to try?

  I slide the papers toward Mr. Spaniard with a slow smile.

  "Excited?"

  "I'm so fucking excited," I laugh, covering my mouth.

  "Well," he chuckles. "Here's to doing great things together young lady." Mr. Spaniard holds up his coffee cup and I quickly scramble to grab mine. He knocks the bottom of our paper cups together and I laugh again, shaking my head.

  The table suddenly shakes beneath us and I throw out a hand to steady myself—I don't want to spill my coffee.

  "What's that?" I ask, worry creeping into my voice.

  "Uh, I believe it's an earthquake," Mr. Spaniard blinks slowly as if he's trying to believe it himself.

  "We don't have those in Alabama!" I shriek, looking around the coffee house.

  Several people have already crawled under their tables, glancing around with worried looks. I've never been in an earthquake before, but it feels like the world is going to turn on its side at any minute.

  Mr. Spaniard grabs my hand and pulls me away from the table.

  I follow him without hesitation—he's from California after all, he probably knows how to survive these things.

  "Watch out!" Someone screams, pushing us to the floor.

  My back hits the hard linoleum floor and I try to adjust to the new weight on top of me at the same time as a loud crash sounds less than a foot away. I can just barely breathe. Whoever is on top of me is quite large. My fingers cling to something for dear life and I can only hope it's nothing inappropriate. Is that a shoulder? My head rolls to the side, searching for Mr. Spaniard. He's staring at me with wide eyes.

  "Holy shit," he mutters.

  I push at the man on top of me, annoyed I can't see what's going on. The big oaf was kind enough to knock us out of the way before whatever happened happened, but now he's just suffocating me.

  "Go get under one of the tables," the big mystery man mumbles. He lifts his weight off of me and I crawl away, tugging at Mr. Spaniards hand.

  We make it to one of the unoccupied tables and I do a quick body check. Nothing's broken. I might have a bruise or two from being knocked to the floor later, but nothing permanent.

  "I need a fuckin' drink," I mutter.

  "Likewise. Since when are there earthquakes in this part of the country?" Mr. Spaniard looks wild in his silk shirt and pressed pants. His hair is mussed, his cheek dirty. He'd looked like he walked off the cover of a magazine when we met this morning.

  "I don't know. I think we have them sometimes, but they’re tiny and rare. This one didn't feel tiny." I look away from him toward the table where we'd been sitting. A large metal light fixture had fallen, crashing through the table and breaking through the hard flooring. I swallow, trying to ignore the shivers racing down my spine. That could have done some real damage. I try not to picture myself laying under huge heap of metal but I can’t help it. Phantom pains make me cringe.

  "Not at all," a deep voice interrupts from my side.

  I turn to get my first real glance at our rescuer.

  The dark haired man offers me a lopsided grin. He looks like he hasn't shaved in a few days, but there's something attractive about the look on him. His bright blue eyes roam over me and I blush under his attentions. His hand reaches out toward my face and I shy away, my eyebrows cinching together.

  "There's a cut on your face, I was going to check it out," he sighs. "I didn't mean to scare you."

  I blink, not really registering his words as his hand drops to his side. He's heavily tattooed and has muscles for days. Our rescuer is a hottie. And he only wanted to check on my cut.

  "Oh! I'm sorry," I whisper.

  "Not to interrupt," Mr. Spaniard laughs. "But it feels like it's over for now. We need to get all of these people outside before any aftershocks hit."

  "Do you think there will be aftershocks?"

  "I don't know. I just know what they tell us to do in California. Once it's over, get outside and away from any hazards because the aftershocks are frequently worse than the original quake." Mr. Spaniard tosses me an apologetic smile.

  My hands ball up at my side before I move out from under the table, following the man who was going to change my life, if we didn't die in this freaking coffee shop first.

  I look over my shoulder for the mysterious rescuer and see him pulling an elderly couple to their feet, ushering them toward the exit as he glances around. He's checking to see if anyone else needs help . . . that's a good man. Brushing the intrusive thought to the side, I step over the threshold and breathe a little easier once we're in the open, taking in our surroundings.

  The parking lot looks mostly unmolested, save for a few alarms blaring. The ground is calm. There are no tremors that I can feel. I rake my fingers through my curls, searching the crowded parking lot for the mysterious rescuer.

  "Ah, hell!" Mr. Spaniard taps his finger to his bottom lip.

  "What is it?" I ask, turning toward h
im.

  "I left the paperwork in there. It's fine though, we can redo it—"

  I jog toward the coffee shop, ignoring the worried calls behind me from Mr. Spaniard. The moment my hand grips the handle of the door, it swings open and my mystery man staring me in the eye with a look of disapproval.

  "Looking for something?" he taunts as he waves the stack of papers in front of my face.

  "Ah!" I squeal, snatching the papers unceremoniously from his hands and inspecting them. They're only a little smudged here and there from the debris, but all in all they look fine. I throw my arms around his neck to show my appreciation. “Thank you!” The urge to call him my hero is riding me hard, but I resist it. I refuse to let my adrenaline make a fool out of me.

  The behemoth pats my back awkwardly before picking me up and walking into the parking lot toward a very annoyed Mr. Spaniard.

  "We could have reprinted them, what if you'd gotten hurt?"

  I turn my head toward the concerned voice and almost laugh. I don't need another worried dad, mine is already enough of a pain. I squeeze my arms around the mystery man's neck and raise my eyebrows.

  "What's your name? And why are you still carrying me? I can walk. I didn't get hurt."

  "You did get hurt," he notes, brushing a finger over the scrape on my face which had troubled him earlier.

  "Well, a small little cut," I mumble, looking to the side.

  His large hands cup my face, examining the tiny wound. A shard of glass from the falling light fixture must have nicked my cheek. I don't even remember feeling it, but I suppose I could have been distracted by the adrenaline.

  My eyes meet his and I suck in a breath. He is beautiful from head to toe, this one. The tattoos swirling under the collar of his shirt catch my eye for the second time. Lord, I needed to get my life together. There was just an earthquake and here I am, drooling over this man for nothing.

  "Give me those," Mr. Spaniard sighs, snatching the papers from my hand. I can tell he isn't as annoyed as he seems, he’s just worried. He has children of his own and no doubt it's a dad thing.