Dark Screams, Volume 9

by Dark Screams- Volume 9 (retail) (epub)

  They smelled like pot, like wine, like the cheap beer from the concession stand. Old Milwaukee. Sometimes I didn’t even kiss them after.

  They stayed that way until I got them down to the rec room. They woke up when I opened the vinegar under their noses. I already had them tied up, their ankles to their wrists and then their necks. You could raise and lower them over the beam to make them shut up.

  I didn’t really need the mask; it was more for them.

  “Please,” they said. “Oh my God, please.”

  They were all lying there in the sun with the waves coming in. That summer, it seemed it was always a beautiful day. The outlook for the weekend was good. They heard it in the morning, waking up to the clock radio, drinking coffee, thinking of taking Friday off. Hard to find a parking spot. They circled the lot, signaled to stake their claim.

  They drove little pickup trucks and Camaros with pinstriping. They drove their mother’s old Volare with the peeling wood-grain decal. Their keychain had the name of their insurance company on it. Their keychain had a picture of their niece.

  They prayed. They closed their eyes and they prayed.

  They had a favorite sweater around their necks, in case it got cold later. They had a dab of mustard above their upper lip. They had a bump where the cast hit them. They had a tattoo of a moon, its eye winking just below where their tan stopped. They had gold chains that broke if you pulled on them too hard, and blue eye shadow you couldn’t rub off.

  “What happened to you?” they asked, like it was funny.

  “You do that sailing?”

  They screamed when they saw the knife.

  They said, “Oh my God.”

  They said, “No.”

  The lot. The lake. A beautiful day, highs in the mid-eighties.

  They screamed.

  “Be quiet,” I said.

  The windows were boarded over, with cinder blocks piled against them, but they didn’t know that.

  I lifted them up. Now I was doing all the talking.

  “Shhh,” I said.

  “Please,” I said, and they looked like all of them by then. They looked like they knew how it felt to be me, and for a second even I was sorry for them. For a second we were together there, me and them. We knew.

  How I wanted to be honest then. You don’t know.

  I reached over and touched their hair, the two of us quiet in the still air of the basement.

  “It’s all right,” I said. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  The Dead Years

  Taylor Grant

  Emma Grace had been dead for more than fifteen years when I noticed her standing across from me. She was scrutinizing a glass sculpture on the opposite side of a display case during a silent auction. The shock held me as if I had just shaken hands with a live wire. It was impossible. And yet, there she was. Not missing. Not dead. And still as impossibly beautiful as I remembered.

  You have to understand that Emma had as perfect a face as was ever carved on any cameo. Despite my shock, my eyes absorbed every detail of her features: high cheekbones, soft, pouting lips, and a delicate nose. For the longest moment, all I could do was study her like a connoisseur examines a fine painting. The years had been more than kind to her—they had been downright indulgent.

  Her name escaped my lips: “Emma?”

  Azure eyes shifted up, catching the light. But I saw no recognition in them. “Excuse me?” she said.

  She sounded different. A lower pitch than I remembered. But hell, it had been fifteen years.

  “Emma…Grace?” I said, dazed. I stepped around the display case, moving toward her.

  She smiled, and it was as dazzling as it was familiar. “My name’s Margot,” she said, correcting me. She wore a shimmering silver evening gown that had three thin black velvet straps over each shoulder, with a plunging neckline that revealed ample breasts, and a split that went far up her right thigh. Her stiletto-heeled black-velvet shoes matched the straps on her gown and the small velvet clutch purse she carried. Around her neck was a sapphire-and-diamond necklace, which she wore with matching earrings and bracelet.

  She had gained a few pounds over the years, but in all the right places.

  As I looked into the face of the only woman I’d ever loved, endless questions competed with one another in my mind: Why was she pretending to be someone else? How can she still be alive? Why is she acting like she doesn’t know me? Was it possible for someone to look exactly like someone else? And if this wasn’t Emma, then who the hell was she?

  But I uttered none of those questions. I simply said, “You look exactly like someone I used to…” It was such a clichéd pickup line, I stopped myself.

  That seemed to intrigue her. “Someone you used to…?”

  My emotions got the best of me. I choked out, “Someone I cared about very much.”

  She studied my face for a moment, making some internal assessment. I was barely keeping my composure, and I think she sensed that. With a touch of compassion, she said, “I’m almost sorry I’m not her. Do we really look that much alike?”

  I pulled my wallet from my jacket pocket and flipped it open. Margot raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. Behind my driver’s license was a photo I had taken of Emma on her eighteenth birthday, the last day we’d spent together. Six months before she disappeared forever.

  I retrieved the laminated photo and showed it to Emma’s double. In the picture, Emma was standing in a desert range, her hair glowing like spun gold in the sunlight. The woman stared at it for a long time, but I couldn’t get a read on her. Finally, she handed it back. “I’m rarely at a loss for words. But…I don’t know what to say.”

  “That makes two of us,” I said, putting the photo back in my wallet.

  We tried to make small talk, first discussing the virtues of the event, which raised funds for multiple sclerosis research, and then we agreed with amusement that the live folk music was utter shit. During this exchange, it took every ounce of self-restraint not to scream, “You are Emma Grace! You are the love of my life! Drop the goddamn façade!”

  You see, I had spent years staring at Emma’s face, memorizing every feature, making it a part of me. And I could see no discernible difference now, other than the natural aging you’d expect from the passing of fifteen years. She even had the same faint beauty mark above her lip on the left side.

  How was that even possible? I thought.

  I said, “I need a drink.” It was the understatement of the millennia. “I’d love it if you’d join me.” I was never this bold, not with a woman of such devastating beauty. But the familiarity of her face emboldened me.

  Margot offered another long look of assessment, appeared to come to some kind of conclusion, and said, “Yes. I could use a drink, too.”

  —

  Emma and I were neighbors growing up in Copper Creek, Arizona, a small desert town no one I’ve ever met has heard of. It was easy to understand. Abandoned copper mines, some lovely mountain views, and a struggling farming community were pretty much all there was to know.

  My father owned a diesel mechanic shop, worked himself to the bone, and liked to complain about it. My mother was a quiet woman, a dedicated housewife, and the most astonishing cook I’ve ever known. Emma’s parents were overly strict, deeply religious, and extremely protective of her, particularly with regard to boys. Fortunately, I didn’t have to deal with her parents much, as they worked long hours at the biggest dairy farm in the area.

  There were three reasons I was lucky enough to become close with Emma. First was proximity. As next-door neighbors, we played together our entire childhood—especially during the summertime, when it was easier to fight the perpetual boredom of Copper Creek together. Second, Emma’s parents were very selective of who spent time with their daughter, so I had little competition. Third, and most significant, my parents were heavily involved in our local Baptist church, which meant that I was involved by default. For this reason, Emma’s parents saw me as a God-fe
aring youth, and I got an automatic seal of approval.

  I was overweight back then. My mother was from the South, and we ate a steady diet of biscuits and gravy, buttermilk pancakes, chicken and dumplings, and an endless supply of fried foods—all made by hand. Mom’s food was impossible to resist, as my body gave ample testament to.

  My weight never seemed to bother Emma, though. As long as I could keep up with her, that is. She was just as rough-and-tumble as any of the boys in the neighborhood. Despite her beauty, what impressed me most about her then was that she could skip rocks on the river better than anyone I knew.

  Neither of our parents allowed us to watch much TV, so we spent a lot of time riding around the neighborhood on our bikes, causing as much trouble as possible. That was hard to do in a neighborhood with little more than wild desert shrubbery and desolate roads that seemed to lead nowhere.

  Due to the long working days of my dad and Emma’s parents, my mom was the default babysitter during the summer and after school. Fortunately for us, she was terrified of tarantulas, scorpions, and snakes, all of which were plentiful in Copper Creek. So when we went outside we were usually unchaperoned. This gave us free rein to defy death daily: climbing the endless black hills, catching scorpions and snakes, and skipping a mountain’s worth of rocks across the sparkling waters of Copper Creek.

  It wasn’t until I turned twelve years old that I started to see Emma differently. That was the summer her breasts arrived with the subtlety of Mount Vesuvius erupting.

  I knew she was beautiful, as was made clear to me daily by the students at our school. But my hormones arrived a bit later than some, and it wasn’t until the summer before high school that my feelings for Emma changed dramatically.

  If I’d known she would be taken from me five years later, I would have expressed my feelings sooner than I did.

  —

  We were surrounded by hundreds of people, but I couldn’t tell you what any of them looked like. For the next two hours Margot Walker was the only thing that existed in my world. We both drank a little too much, but that’s a risk you take with good company and a bar with free booze.

  Margot was fascinated by the idea of having an identical twin—even asked to see Emma’s picture again—and I was more than happy to talk about one of my favorite subjects. As crazy as it sounds, a part of me hoped that if I provided more details about her life, it might somehow jog her memory. My mind concocted bizarre scenarios in which she had somehow been hit on the head and forgotten who she was.

  On the other hand, if she was pretending not to be Emma, I thought perhaps I could get her to slip up. I’d like to say the wine had affected my judgment, but I think it was my desperation for answers that drove my thoughts and actions.

  Every now and then an acquaintance of Margot’s would interrupt us at the bar, but she kept the conversations short and to the point. This appeared to be the status quo for Margot. I had the impression that business took precedence in her life.

  She was a successful art dealer with her own gallery in Santa Monica, specializing in controversial works. I was both shocked and pleasantly surprised to discover she was single. When I told her as much, she said most men couldn’t handle the fact that they would always take a backseat to her career.

  I thought that was refreshingly blunt.

  Several rounds of hors d’oeuvres came and went, and there was an awkward moment when she realized she was ignoring her colleagues at the event. As usual, I had come stag, beholden to no one.

  I had a slight moment of panic. Would she give me a friendly kiss on the cheek and say it was nice meeting me? Or, worse, a firm handshake? Would this be my last opportunity to talk to her? The thought terrified me.

  This woman was far too savvy to fall for any charm-school bullshit, and I’d been around the block enough to know that desperation is the ultimate female repellent. My mind raced to find the best way to keep her interested.

  Fortunately, I was no longer that awkward fat kid from Copper Creek. Once I hit my twenties and stopped eating at home, I lost the weight. I guess I settled into my features, too, because meeting ladies never became a problem after that.

  Still, Margot was way out of my league; I would need a Hail Mary to keep her interested. During our time together it became clear that what intrigued her most was the topic of a doppelgänger.

  So I played that card for all it was worth.

  However, as the night wore on and I tried to dig more into Margot’s past, the sparkle in her eyes faded and her face became a mask of passivity. She not only managed to subtly evade my questions with general answers, she did it so well it seemed like second nature.

  Suspicious, I thought.

  We talked about our careers briefly; I got my start as a graphic designer and eventually started my own digital marketing agency. I had done well for myself, considering my humble beginnings.

  And while I was no expert in art, as a designer I composed visuals and used the shared knowledge base of an artist. It gave me enough of a footing to carry on a halfway intelligent conversation on the subject. I bought original art on occasion, and as a burgeoning hobbyist I expressed interest in seeing the controversial works she’d mentioned. She appeared to take the bait.

  As the clock approached midnight and the event neared its end, I had that terrible sense of panic again. I couldn’t let another Emma appear like a ghost, collect my heart, and vanish.

  I grinned and spoke the words as soon as the idea hit me. “I’m always looking for a little controversy in my life. Maybe something from your gallery?”

  My goal was to plant a seed upon which I could build. Buying art seemed like a sure thing.

  She gazed at me again, assessing me for the third time that evening. The corners of her flawless lips curved upward. “What makes you think you can afford the work in my gallery?”

  I wasn’t expecting that. And she had a point. I wasn’t hurting for money, but I wasn’t rich by any means. To save face, I might have to fork over a small fortune.

  But, hell, it would be worth it.

  “What makes you think I can’t?” I said playfully.

  “Good answer,” she said and laughed. And it was the most beautiful sound I could imagine.

  She polished off her martini and set her glass on the bar. “My gallery is a mix of cutting-edge contemporary. That’s what keeps the lights on. But I keep the most transgressive stuff at home—for my private clients.” She gave a wry grin. “The erotic. The deviant. And, some might even say, the insane.”

  There was a long pause. She stared into my eyes and brushed her golden locks behind her ears. I met her gaze. Jesus, I thought. She’s flirting with me.

  “Still interested?” she said.

  “Now I have to see your work,” I replied, feeling flushed.

  She leaned in and whispered, “I live ten minutes from here.”

  —

  Most would say that beauty is a blessing, but it was a curse for Emma. Being close to her gave me a unique perspective, as I came to learn that people refuse to sympathize or empathize with those blessed with good looks, as if they are somehow less deserving of human compassion.

  You’re probably thinking, Must be real tough being beautiful. Cry me a fucking river. And I understand that perspective. But I saw firsthand how Emma’s physical attributes brought her misery and suffering throughout her childhood.

  Contrary to what the media would have you believe, beauty doesn’t give you a free pass in life. Though most people would rather believe it did. It’s so much easier to make sweeping generalizations about people than to take the time to see each person as an individual.

  This was never clearer to me than on one balmy summer night in our freshman year of high school. Emma and I were sitting on her porch, watching one of the gorgeous sunsets Arizona is known for. She had been despondent all day, and none of my usual jokes or witty repartee would lift her spirits.

  Tears welled in her eyes. She told me she hated her face.r />
  “Why?” I said.

  “It’s the only thing I’m ever judged on,” she said. “No one sees past it. No one wants to look past it. No one but you.”

  I put my arm around her and she wept softly into my shoulder for a long time. I wanted to tell her that it wasn’t true, but that would have been a lie. In my experience, most of the girls in town saw her as competition, and the boys just objectified her. I think she wanted to be seen as a whole human being for a change—more than just the sum total of her looks.

  Most people never saw it, but Emma had insecurities like everyone. Though hers were even more pronounced than most. Yet if she dared mention a bout of sadness or depression, it was generally dismissed out of hand because of her beauty, as if being attractive automatically made everything okay. Emma wasn’t allowed to have a bad day without being made to feel guilty. I saw this over and over again.

  You would think a girl as beautiful as Emma would have been the most popular girl in school. And I suppose if she had been a different person inside, this would have been the case. But Emma’s fatal flaw was that she seemed incapable of leveraging her beauty to her advantage. Instead, she let it push others away.

  I later discovered that this stemmed from deep self-loathing, something I was all too familiar with due to my own issues with weight. But I didn’t know how deep her pain went or what monstrous things she had suffered until it was too late.

  We were outcasts for opposite reasons. And I suppose that was what bonded us more than anything. It later grew into an unlikely romance that we kept a secret from everyone in town. Things were tough enough for both of us in school; we didn’t need to offer up any more fodder. We were already called “Beauty and the Beast” due to our lifelong friendship.

  I was fortunate with regard to my height, as I was the tallest kid in my class. So while being overweight kept me from being popular, my intimidating size also kept me from getting my ass kicked. Mostly, people just ignored me.

  Sometimes, that was worse.

  My romance with Emma began during the summer break between our freshman and sophomore years of high school, an unexpected kiss as we walked alongside Copper Creek. We had stopped to stare out at the glistening water, enjoying the serenity of the scene, as we had countless times before.