Journals of Horror: Found Fiction

by Todd Keisling

  July 12, 2014

  I killed them last night.

  The terror in Jess’s eyes when she saw what I’d done to Jake was priceless. And I did a pretty nasty thing to a guy I thought was my best friend. She wanted him over me? I gave her what she wanted.

  They got home last night after midnight from their hotel honeymoon in Kennebunkport and I was ready. I hung out in my room as they brought in their shopping bags. Through my open door, I watched them kiss like two high school sweethearts. I drank in the affectionate display like a tall glass of spoiled milk. A few minutes later, there was a soft knock on my door, and Jess said, “Troy, can I come in?” I didn’t answer. Standing on the other side of the door, she continued, “I just wanted to apologize…for…for everything.” I stayed silent and waited for her to go away. She did. I waited another half hour before sauntering out to the kitchen for a beer and winked at Jess from the doorway. She dropped her pretty eyes, took one of her infamous towels from the closet and disappeared into the bathroom. Jake sat grinning on the couch next to where I stood. He turned his head up toward me and said, “Man, what a night. I bagged me a wildcat.” He started to follow up with something else. I didn’t give him a chance. The bottle in my hand crashed across the bridge of his nose and shattered with a satisfying crunch. He cried out, but I silenced him with the broken bottle neck, plunging the makeshift weapon into his throat and ripping it back toward me. Blood flowed like the river of deceit his new bride and I had bathed in. Jake’s eyes looked toward mine, but landed somewhere beyond before going cold. I went to work cutting around his hairline with the edge of the bottle, being careful not to ruin his face. The bottle sliced with relative ease by his ear and down the side of his neck like a Ginsu knife through the skin of a fresh salmon. I had to stop and wipe the blood on my jeans to keep the pseudo-scalpel from slipping out of my hand. I got back to work, hurrying to free the skin from his face before Jess finished her shower.

  I placed Jessica’s surprise down on the coffee table and dragged the rest of Jake to my room. I heard the water shut off just as I re-entered the living room. I snatched the skin-mask up, crept into the kitchen, and stood in front of the mirror by the door. Jake’s face fit close to perfect over mine. I looked at my eyes through his face and smiled beneath the wet, cooling mask. I heard the bathroom door open and Jessica shriek. I tucked Jake’s neck flap under the collar of my t-shirt and stalked toward my screaming succubus.

  She backed away and hit the wall, her towel slipped to the floor. The perfect form she’d allowed me to ravage called to me. I answered. “T-Troy…what? Why?” she sputtered as she reached down for her towel, unable to remove her eyes from my new face. I watched her hands searching for the large purple cloth like she was lost in the dark. “What’s the matter, Jess?” I said. “Don’t you recognize me?” She answered with a series of high-pitched wails and slid down to the floor, hugging her knees to her chest. “Troy, please, I never meant for this to happen. I- I didn’t mean to–” I didn’t want to hear her lies. I didn’t want to listen to her bullshit apology. “Shh” I said. I reached down and picked up my pseudo-scalpel from the coffee table. Tears streamed down her cheeks as I walked over to her. “I’m going to kill you now,” I said. “But before I do, I want you to kiss me like you did behind the haunted house.” “Troy, please, don’t do this,” she tried again. “You’re a good guy. You’re better than this. I was wrong to treat you the way I did.”

  “You’re wrong. I’m not a good guy.”

  Her eyes trembled in their sockets as I crouched down in front of her and moved in for our last kiss. She screamed her lungs out. I held Jake’s face steady as I placed our lips to hers. She cried until I jabbed the broken bottle into the side of her neck and accepted her last breath.

  Sirens wailed like her ghost cries already haunting this room. My neighbors had never been good at minding their own business. I slipped my jeans off, held the mask in place as I carefully removed my t-shirt, and put my naked body between Jessica’s and the wall, wrapping my arms around her from behind. The sirens reached their crescendo and then began to fade, passing us by. I fell asleep holding her.

  The sun is brilliant this morning. Jessica is safe in my bed. I’m feeling accomplished.

  July 17, 2014

  The police are at my door. They’ve come for me. I disposed of Jake’s body early Sunday morning, and Jess’s last night, but I never bothered trying to clean up all the blood. I don’t think they’ll let me keep this journal, my confessional, our memories. Looks like I’ll have to hold them in my dreams.

  Author bio: Glenn Rolfe is an author from the haunted woods of New England. He has studied Creative Writing at Southern New Hampshire University, and continues his education in the world of horror by devouring the novels of Stephen King and Richard Laymon. He and his wife, Meghan, have three children, Ruby, Ramona, and Axl. He is grateful to be loved despite his weirdness. http://glenntheory.wix.com/glennrolfehorror

  Twitter @Grolfehorror

  Letter to Grandma

  By Crystal Leflar

  Case #BF 0769030158

  Journal transcribed from a handwritten child's letter, never mailed, found in an attic..

  Dear Grandma,

  Thank you for your letter. I hope your kitty gets better, he shouldn’t be fighting with other cats though. There is more fighting today. Momma brought me up to the attic and told me to stay here and write you a letter then she left. It was just Daddy and his friends fighting but then Momma had to go. She said she would be back soon. I haven’t been to school for a week. That’s been nice but I miss my friends. Because of all the trouble I haven’t been allowed outside. It’s almost Thanksgiving. Are you coming to our house? Then only 10 more days until my birthday! I will be 9 years old. I hope I get to have a party and see my friends again. I hope the fighting is over. That would be a good present but I want real presents too. Can you tell Momma that I want a new bike? All of my friends have bikes and we used to ride down to the creek but then my bike broke and the fighting started before Daddy could fix it. It is old though. I want a new one, a purple one with a basket on the front. Momma said she would be right back but she hasn’t come back yet. It’s been a long time. I don’t have a watch but I bet it’s been an hour, maybe two hours! I thought I heard a door slam maybe she will come back up here now. She told me not to leave the attic and I’m not supposed to open the door unless she says it’s all right. She said everything will be all right and I should just write you a letter. Do you think that the fighting is over and she could be throwing me an early surprise party? No. I heard a gun go off so I guess they are still fighting. I don’t know why they are fighting people from across town. Sometimes Jeffy would say that he was going to beat a team from a different high school but no one ever got their guns before. I touched Daddy’s gun before while he was cleaning it. I got in trouble. I’m not supposed to touch guns until I get older and learn how to use them. That’s what Daddy said, I got to shoot Jeffy’s BB gun though. I hit a target. Just the white part, not the red. I think Mommy is coming back. I thought I heard something on the stairs. I don’t think its Mommy not unless she got hurt. What I heard was a “shoosh” or a “swoooshy” sound, not feet. Maybe she’s dragging something up the stairs with her.

  I waited for a few minutes, but I didn’t hear anything now it’s quiet again. I wish Mommy would come back its getting dark and the light doesn’t work up here anymore. There are candles in the bag mommy brought but I’m not allowed to light them. Maybe there is a flashlight in the bag too. I’ll check. I found a little one! Now I can keep writing. I peeked out the window when I was looking for a flashlight. Mommy told me to keep away from the window, but I peeked anyway. I had to stand on my toes but I was able to see outside a little bit. There is a house on fire across the street. That’s Sarah’s house. I hope she is ok, her and her puppy and her new baby bother. I wonder where the fire trucks are. I didn’t see Mommy when I looked outside, I didn’t see anybody. The ground looke
d wet, did it rain? I couldn’t see much else because the moon hid behind some clouds. I wonder where everybody went. There was a lot of noise a while ago. It is really dark now. I have the flashlight shining on the paper so I can keep writing but it’s really dark everywhere else. I heard a door downstairs maybe Mommy is coming up to get me! If there is no noise and no people then maybe the fighting is over! I hear footsteps and the “shhhh” sound on the stairs. The footsteps must be Mommy! I wonder what that other noise is. The door handle is moving. She really has come back! I called out but she didn’t answer. Maybe she didn’t hear me. I called out again. Nothing. But the door is opening now. I think it’s her. I shined my flashlight at the door, it is Mommy! She doesn’t look too good. I think she’s hurt. She is coming over here, I shone my light on her again. I think she’s blee----

  Author bio: Crystal Leflar is not skilled in referring to my-herself in the third person but she, like most authors, keeps a blog (http://crystalleflar.wordpress.com/) and sometimes "tweets" @crysa_leflar.

  LOOK UP

  By Michael Seese

  Case #BF5305157846

  Journal transcribed from a series of messages scattered throughout the city.

  I stepped out of the church and saw it immediately.

  Easily.

  Too easily.

  A casual observer might have missed the 8 1/2 x 11 photocopied sheet of paper fighting for space with the other 8 1/2 x 11 photocopied sheets of paper stapled to the telephone pole. But to the people like me, the others who would be stepping out of that church at that hour, it could not have stood out any more had it been blinking neon.

  #1 We Are Powerless →

  The sign was right. I am powerless. I know that I am powerless. I have a weakness, one I can’t control. My best hope is to contain it. Coming to these meetings has helped. They have provided me with something real. Something tangible. Something I could not find alone, festering in my dingy apartment.

  The arrow pointed me up Superior Avenue. A rational man might have looked at his watch, then turned the other way. But I am anything but rational.

  I had to know.

  I walked, looking everywhere—left, right, up, down—for the next sign, hoping it would not be too hard to find. Perhaps 200 feet on, I saw spray-painted on the sidewalk

  #2 Restore Sanity →

  I turned right, up some unknown lane, its name lost along with the street sign. My pulse quickened a little bit, even though the area was fairly well lit, and seemed safe.

  Enough.

  Restore... Hmmm. “Restore” makes it sound like a home improvement project. Like I can just stop by some big box retailer, go to the returns / help counter, and place a special order for sanity. No, this is more like a reclamation project. Gut it, clean away years’ worth of grime and mold and neglect, and start again.

  About halfway up the unnamed street, another jutted off to the left. And, scrawled on the rear of a dilapidated garage were the words

  #3 Turn Your Life Over ←

  By now it should be apparent that these three directives, these three steps, would bear a familiar ring to someone with an addiction, the omission of direct mention to god notwithstanding.

  Words from a well-known song came to my head. “To everything turn, turn, turn.”

  We turn the corner.

  We turn the page.

  We can even turn over a new leaf, as opposed to an old one.

  But to turn your life over...

  To most people, I suppose the first thing which would come to mind is to hand it over. To give it to someone who can do a better job of maintaining it. To admit that you need help, that you need guidance, that you need a clear and defined path to follow.

  But there is another sense...

  When you turn a trash can over, you make a mess, spilling new refuse—as well as the old and unidentifiable goop which has accumulated over the years and mixed with more recently discarded garbage, forming a vomit-inducing toxic slop—onto the sidewalk.

  To be completely honest, I found both interpretations to have rather repulsive implications and ramifications.

  Now rather removed from the downtown lights, I felt more alone than I did several minutes ago. But I pressed on, looking, watching, hoping. My prize soon presented itself.

  Sitting on the ground—no, placed atop several rocks so as to raise it slightly above the ground—was a coffee can. You could miss it, overlook it, were it not for the fact that it had been painted blaze orange. I opened it carefully, half-expecting one of those spring-loaded comic snakes to leap out, and praying that nothing worse would. But I found no wicked surprises. Just a quantity of fortune-cookie-message-sized scraps of paper. I grabbed one.

  #4 Take A Self-Inventory ↑

  I took the up arrow to signify that I should continue on my current path, rather than fly. It seemed like a reasonable assumption.

  As I proceeded, I took a self inventory.

  When you get down to it, my life story reads like some boo-hoo cry-me-a-river-you-spoiled-brat saga. I was born to wealthy parents, who seemed to resent the inconvenience I caused by disrupting their tennis lessons, their bridge club night, their world-class, first-class vacations, and their boozing. Left to my own far too much, I managed to discover the latter at a tender age, and soon rivaled their ability to drown myself. The thing is, three drowning people don’t even notice each other, let alone offer help. They’re too busy trying to gasp in enough air before going under yet again.

  Soon, the alcohol lost its charm, and I turned to other destructive pursuits. I hate to use the cliché “on a downward spiral.” But I was. I was spinning down, down, down, with no way out. Then I found “The Program,” which provided me with an outlet for my demons. Though I still have not learned to completely control them, I have used the offerings of The Program to steer them somewhat.

  Speaking of steering, stuck in the ground ahead of me was one of those flimsy wire and corrugated plastic signs, the kind the hardware stores sell for $2.99 so that you can advertise your “KITTENS! FREE to a Good Home.”

  #5 Admit You Have Wronged →

  The arrow pointed me up a forlorn alley which ran behind the rows of houses on either side. Many had rear-facing garages, or remnants thereof, which dumped out onto the alley. Almost every one had some graffito splayed across it.

  “Paco”

  “Blood Brothers”

  “Satan’s Slaves”

  This was not a friendly place. I hoped the next sign would not be too hard to find. I walked cautiously, carefully, my eyes alternating between the ground—and the broken bottle shards I wished to avoid—and everything else on my quest to #6.

  I repeated the words. “Admit You Have Wronged.” I have done wrong. Some people are said to be born under a lucky star. Most would say I had been born under a lucky star. But luck is relative. Sometimes I think I was born under a rock. Or, a better analogy would be the say born under the dirt. And my life has been one constant struggle to claw my way out. To escape my internment, and see the sky and the stars. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. To breathe the same air as everyone else. Unfortunately, when you’re buried alive, sometimes you can’t help but reflexively grab the ankle of someone ahead of you, and pull. Understand, it’s not that you’re not trying to drag them down. But that’s what always happens.

  I wish I could apologize, make amends. But I can’t imagine trying to dig up the people attached to every ankle I’ve grabbed.

  Up ahead, I saw something gleaming. As I drew nearer, I realized it to be a hubcap, glinting under the alley’s lone working streetlight. It leaned up against a fence, just so, so that the slight breeze caused it to rock back and forth. I picked it up and turned it over. There I saw

  #6 Remove Defects

  KEEP GOING

  I had to stop and laugh at this one. Oh, the irony! My life’s quest, my “mission,” has been to eliminate defects. But man is a flawed creature. The bible tells us so. Teachers tell us so. Overburdened, overwh
elmed, ill-prepared, inconvenienced parents tell you so. But where to start? Do you start with the small ones, so you can enjoy a bunch of little victorious baby steps? Or do you shoot for the biggest, try to hit it out of the park, and then mop up the (in comparison) easy ones?

  So many defects. And so little time.

  I replaced it carefully, and proceeded to the end of the lane. The road took dog-legs to the left and right.

  Which way now?

  On the opposite side of a rusted chain link fence, directly ahead of me, I saw a large metal box. That seemed out of place. Cardboard, sure. Metal? Hmmm. Clinging to the fence was a deconstructed coat hanger, just long enough to conveniently reach the handle on the box’s upper face. I opened it and peered in.

  Laying across the bottom was a colorful array of letters, the (you would assume) magnetic sort used by parents everywhere to let their kids learn to spell on the dishwasher or refrigerator.

  #7 Remove Shortcomings → ↑

  I closed the lid, replaced the crude grabbing tool, and kept walking. I had to tread carefully. The sidewalk was uneven, and none of the streetlights seemed to care enough to shine down on me. I did pick up the pace somewhat when a dog began barking in that vague distance between “somewhere over there” and “damn, those teeth look sharp!”

  What is the difference between a defect and a shortcoming anyway? I suppose you could argue that defects are flaws, permanent flaws, which somehow must be eliminated, whereas shortcomings can be overcome with a little bit of work. I didn’t have much time to ruminate semantics, as I soon came upon a fork in the road. (If there is such a beast as a two-tined fork.) Facing me was the rear of a “Yield” sign. I could just make out something written on the back. I pulled out my lighter. (Doesn’t everyone in The Program have one; doesn’t everyone in The Program smoke?) I read: