by Tim Marquitz
He crawled his way up the stairs, his chipped fingernails clawing at the splintering wood. He reached the floorboards and collapsed, falling face first into the stemming splinters and aged construction. He heard the snap, the pop, as his nose met the surface and shattered under his weight. The pins of splintered wood dug into his parted lips as his teeth grazed the cold, hard grounds. Still, he felt nothing.
“Oh, fuck,” he mumbled, his voice muffled. “Jesus fucking Christ…”
Suddenly, the door swung open, the edge meeting his skull and sliding him across the floorboards like a weightless pile of debris. Then, a pair of claw-like hands gripped him around the collar and dragged him inside. As his cheekbone met the ground, he heard the door slam. His vision blurred and all he could see were swirls of light and color. He blinked hard, pinching his eyes closed, trying to will the return of his sight and trying to understand where he’d landed and why he’d worked so hard to make it this far.
The footsteps circled him and he could feel the eyes burning into his flesh. How many of them were there? He heard the sounds of breath and then a slight chuckle. One. There was only one. And by the sounds of that high, feminine laugh, she was female.
“What…?” he mumbled, finding it more difficult to speak than ever before. “Who…? Where…?”
She laughed again, harder, heavier, filled with glee.
He blinked again. Still, he couldn’t see. Was he blind now? Were these the final stages of decay? Was this the end?
No. At least not yet. He began to focus. Slowly, his vision returned. He saw the orange flames of burning candlelight perched all around him. Saw the shafts of thick, black wax. His eyes continued to rove, seeing and studying the countless relics. Bare skulls. Shelves overflowing with thick, worn texts. Reverse crosses decorating the walls of chipped wood. A line of animals hung in suspended decay all around him. And then, the bare feet approached, a cloak of black dangling just above the ankles.
“Hello, Adam,” she finally spoke.
Adam.
Adam…
He’d suddenly been hit with a bolt of clarity, a signal of who he once was leaping through the darkness.
Adam, he thought, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. Adam Randall. I’m Adam Randall…
“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said, kneeling down before him.
He looked into her eyes, hoping to see and feel that spark once again. He prayed this mere glance would offer another clue, but it didn’t. He didn’t know this woman. He was positive, he was certain. Her hair hung long, straight, and as black as the cloak slung over her slim, feminine shoulders. Her skin was pale and smooth. Lips full and enticing. Her eyes hypnotized him. They were the color of fresh grass and seemed to intensify her otherwise plain features.
He stared deeper. He didn’t know her…yet he did. Her features seemed oddly familiar somehow. Something in her stare… Something in her eyes of captivating green…
“Who… are you…?” he managed to choke. “Do I…?”
“Do you know me?” she asked through a smile. “No, you don’t know me. You don’t know me, but I most certainly know you.”
His last bit of endurance was waning. There was almost nothing left. He could barely keep his eyes open. A long, deep rest called out to him, pulling him forth, welcoming him in its arms of desolate comfort.
But no.
He couldn’t. He had to know why he was here. He had to know what she wanted of him.
She stroked his thinning dark hair, tickling the back of his neck with her long, painted fingernails. “I bet you’re tired,” she murmured. “You’ve come such a long way.”
He could take this no longer. He’d had his fill of this endless confusion. He’d spent hours trying to decipher his true identity and why he’d held no choice but to force his way to this cabin in the middle of nowhere. He had to know why… and he had to know now.
His frustrations took hold of him and he wanted to scream, to grab this woman by the throat and pull his secrets from her obstinate grasp. He wanted to punch, kick, beat. He wanted to yell, shout, bellow. But the most he could do was ball a weak fist. The most he could bring himself to utter was, “Tell me why I’m here…”
She stood back on her feet, tall and proud. With an exuberant amount of strength, she kicked him over on his back. Then, she stood over his withering existence and straddled him, seated firmly on his abdomen. Placing both hands on his chest, she leaned forth.
He could feel her naked flesh beneath the cloak. Could see her heaving breasts as she stared down upon him with those enchanting eyes. Once upon a time, he would’ve been so much more than sexually aroused. He would’ve been wrought with pure heterosexual desire. He would’ve taken this strange, nameless woman and had his way with her… multiple times. He wouldn’t have stopped until she was panting his name and begging for release. But now, nothing more than a lifeless organ hung between his legs. Not a single movement, not an ounce of desire. Just shriveled, useless death. But why? Dear God, why?
“I bet you don’t even remember her name, do you?” she said, sliding her tongue along her eyeteeth.
Lady, I couldn’t even remember my own goddamn name until thirty seconds ago, he wanted to shriek, but all he could do was grunt.
“She had long, dark hair much like mine,” she said. “She had bright green eyes just like mine. She was tall, fragile, beautiful. She was sweet, kind, and caring. Her name was Emily. She was my sister.”
Emily…
Holy shit, Emily…
She was the last… She was his final victim before they caught him.
Now he knew who he was… and what he was…
He was Adam Randall, Hemdale’s most ruthless and notorious serial killer. He’d taken dozens of lives before anyone suspected a thing. He knew he would’ve taken dozens more, had they not discovered his identity. Taking lives made him whole. It was what he did. It was the unquenchable urge that brought him out of his bed each morning. It was the one thing that made him face each day. He was vicious and unmerciful in his acts. He was cruel and sadistic. He was all of these things and hordes more, but the one thing he was not was remorseful. He laughed in the faces of those that dragged him towards those lethal volts of electricity. He spat in the face of the priest who’d been sent to give him his last rites. He cursed those few restless souls perched and anxious to witness his execution. That was who he was… and it all came crashing down upon him like a drowning tidal wave. He knew now… and he smiled.
“I watched you die,” she then said. “I watched you die, but it wasn’t enough. It hasn’t been enough to get me through these endless nights. It hasn’t been enough to ease the suffering, or the suffering of the families of your countless victims. It’ll never be enough.”
Yeah? Well, why didn’t you just bring back your stupid bitch of a sister? he thought. Why didn’t you just bring all of them back and leave me in peace, you stupid cunt?
“I’ve thought about that,” she said, reading his sadistic mind. “I’ve thought of it many, many times before. But Emily is in a better place now. She’s far from a world where men like you roam free. She’s happy now. I know that for sure. She’s free. But you’re not, Adam. And you never will be.” She stretched out an arm, reaching for something out of his field of vision.
She released a breath. “Anything else you’d like to say to me, Adam?”
Go fuck yourself, he thought.
Once again reading his thoughts, she smiled.
Without warning, she brought the cleaver down upon his throat, severing his head from his defenseless body. The maggots and slithering worms spilled out of him in a rush of flooding death. She raised the cleaver again and began hacking away at his arms, legs, hands; his head resting on the gaping hole where his ear once hung. His eyes focused, he watched her proceed.
#
“Good morning, Adam.”
His eyes opened to the slim aluminum bars of a rusted birdcage, then met hers.
She smiled. “How are you feeling today?”
He said nothing, he thought nothing. His eyes turned toward the fireplace where his dismembered remains lay in a heap amidst the flame.
“I hope you’re comfortable, Adam,” she said. “You’re going to be here for a long, long time.” She twisted the chord and watched as the cage spun round.
For Adam, there was no crossing over. There was no Hell. There was certainly no Heaven. There wasn’t even the uncertainty of Purgatory. There was nothing but an eternity behind these slim bars.
Watching as she prepared the morning’s cauldron, he dreaded what was to come.
Afflicted
A.J. Brown
Pryor jerked awake, a scream tearing from his throat. Darkness surrounded him. Both hands went to his face, rubbed his eyes. Behind tired lids, he saw the remnants of a dream, the images fading until they were nothing.
He pulled the lamp chord. Darkness ran for the corners as light flooded the rooms. Pryor sat up the best he could, his arms shaking beneath him. Pain raced up his spine and into the back of his skull. His hands quivered as he reached for the pills on the lamp stand. He dry swallowed two of them and laid his head back on the pillow.
After several minutes, and with great effort, he pushed himself up and propped his back against the headboard. He pulled the sheets away. A road map of scars dotted his legs, and ran down into his white socks and up into his boxers. An indention sat where his left kneecap used to be, reminding him…
Screeching tires; the sound of metal on metal and screams—his. Smoke and the strong scent of gasoline; heat wrapped itself around him. Then nothing. No feeling, no sounds, or smells. Only weightlessness.
"Stupid drunk," Pryor said and punched the mattress.
The hospital stay lasted two months. Surgeries—a seemingly endless amount—did nothing for the almost unbearable pain in his legs and back. Shattered bone and shredded ligaments made the procedures to repair his knee more difficult than the doctors would have liked. Though they had replaced the knee with a hinge, the indention remained. He could walk, but not without a cane.
Pryor eased his legs over the edge of the bed. Tears soothed his tired eyes and blurred his vision. He reached for his cane, tipped off balance and fell forward. He landed hard on the cold floor and a bolt of pain streaked from his left ankle up into his hip. It traveled along his spine and into his head where yellow orbs danced in his vision. His scream gave way to crying.
When the pain subsided, Pryor struggled to roll over. He used the bedpost for leverage and pulled himself up and onto the mattress. He picked up the phone, dialed Doctor Milsap.
#
The door swung open. Pryor hobbled in, gritting his teeth and forcing back fresh tears with each step. A rush of air followed as the door closed behind him. After checking in at the front desk, he sat down as close to the receiving counter as possible. A door to his right opened and a light skinned nurse called out a name, and waited for the patient—a woman with gray hair and Grandmother's Syndrome—before they both disappeared into the maze of halls and examination rooms.
"You be afflicted," the elderly man said and sat down beside Pryor.
"Excuse me?"
The man was darker than anyone Pryor had ever seen. His brown eyes held wrinkles around them and bags beneath them. Yellowed fingernails and bright white teeth contrasted the black skin. "I says, you be afflicted."
"Afflicted?"
"That's a-right, son. Afflicted."
Pryor gave a nervous chuckle. "If you mean I'm in pain, you're absolutely right."
"No, son. I mean you be afflicted, you has a sickness."
Pryor frowned, his brows creased. "No, sir. I'm not sick. Unless you count being sick and tired of hurting all the time, then okay, I guess so."
"Nah. You afflicted up here." The man tapped his temple several times before dropping his hand into his lap.
Pryor laughed, though he didn’t find anything the man said funny. "I'm not crazy."
The man smiled. There was knowledge in it. "We all a li'l crazy, Sonny."
"Okay, sure. Whatever you say."
Pryor braced himself on his cane and went to stand. The man placed one hand over Pryor's. Warmth raced up his arm, into his shoulder and down his back, easing some of the hurt. "I knows som’one who can help you."
Pryor stared for a moment, his eyes wide, teeth clenched tight. The warmth of the man’s skin on his didn’t bother him. The fact that the man had touched him did. "No, thank you. I'll take my chance with my doctors."
"This ain't 'bout no body aches. This is 'bout your mind, your soul. When you see what you be afflicted with, you be better."
Pryor pulled his hand free. "That's okay, old man. I just want my medicine and I'll be on my way."
The man shook his head and reached into his shirt pocket. He pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and held it out.
"I don't want that," Pryor said.
"Take it. You call. You be better."
"Really, I don't want it."
"You 'fraid, that's all. Take it."
The man's voice held strength in it, making his command feel as if Pryor had no choice in the matter. He took the paper and shoved it in his pocket. The man nodded, folded his hands one over the other in his lap and looked directly at the wall.
"Pryor Lee," the nurse called as she opened the door.
Without hesitation, Pryor pushed himself to a standing position. Pain ratcheted down into his legs and raced up his spine. He looked back into the waiting room as he passed through the door. All the seats were empty.
#
Sleepless nights drained him. Unable to get comfortable in bed, he laid on the couch in hopes of dozing, even if only for a few minutes. He moved from the couch and shuffled toward the recliner, a Herculean effort since the accident. A simple action, like standing and moving from seat to seat took seconds before, but now took him long, agonizing minutes.
He made it to the chair, relaxed and let out a deep breath. He set the cane by the recliner and reached for the television remote. His hand brushed the paper the old man had given him the week before. Picking it up, Pryor unfolded it and stared at the scribble of black ink.
"Miss Lillie Mae McCoy. Old State Building 3, Route 19. Cures all known and unknown afflictions. No appointment necessary. Need penny with birth year."
Pryor started to toss the paper aside. One word caught his attention; the same one the old man had used: affliction. The man's words came back to him.
This ain't 'bout no body aches. This is 'bout your mind, your soul. Once you see what you be afflicted with, you be better.
"I'm afflicted with two screwed up legs and a bad spine. That's what I'm afflicted with. No voodoo magic can fix that."
Pryor crumpled the paper, dropped it to the floor. He closed his eyes and hoped for sleep.
He woke with the sun shining through the blinds and a hazy dream vanishing from memory. A dark man had beckoned him, told him a truth and faded. Though he didn't remember the rest of the dream, he recognized the man.
Reaching for his cane, Pryor noticed the note in his hand. It was no longer crumpled into a ball and the black ink stood out against the white backdrop.
"What do you want with me?"
He stood, let out a whimper and hobbled on stiff, aching legs to the bedroom. He took his pills and went back to the recliner. The medication did nothing to alleviate the pain, or even take the edge off even just a little. He sat on the edge of the bed, dialed the familiar number to the taxi company and requested a ride.
#
He didn’t like cars. Or trucks. Or busses. Or really anything with wheels that zoomed by on roads. Before the accident, he lived in his car, going from place to place without much thought. Now…now, getting in any vehicle made his stomach quiver with nervousness. Still, they were a necessary evil and taxies were quite possibly the worst of the bunch. He handed a piece of paper to the cabbie.
"You sure this is where you want to go?"
the cabbie asked. He had a Northern accent and Pryor took him for a New Yorker, maybe even from Jersey. He looked huge from the back seat, someone Pryor never wanted to meet in a back alley.
Pryor licked his lips. "Yes, sir," he said and got in.
"Okay, but I have to tell you, there isn't much out there."
The cabbie drove out of town and out into the country where long, winding roads were lined by tall trees with knobby, bent branches. The car came to a stop in front of a crumbling concrete wall. The gate that divided its two sides lay on the ground.
"This is it, buddy."
Pryor paid the fare and got out. The door clicked shut and the cab pulled away, doing a U-turn and speeding down the pothole filled road.
A cool breeze ruffled leaves and sent tingling chills through Pryor's body. He checked the address on the paper. "Yeah, I guess this is it."
With his cane out in front, Pryor limped around the fence and entered into the large unkempt yard. A dirt path ran through the center of the yard, dead flowers and weeds lining it in brittle grays and browns. A shack sat a couple hundred feet from the gate with tall pines standing guard. Near the edge of the house were several crumbling headstones. It sent a ripple of ice along his skin.
Pryor struggled across the rugged path, stopping near the weathered building. A rocker sat on the sloped porch and the entrance held no door to keep the world outside. Six warped steps led up. Even when he had full use of his legs Pryor wasn't so sure he would have climbed up the worn wooden slats, but hobbled as he was, there was no way he could make it to up.