Twilight Nightmares (Twisted Tales Special Edition Book 1)

by Wilson, Jay

  The stories contained within Twilight Nightmares and the Twisted Tales series are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidence.

  Copyright © 2014 by Jay Wilson

  All rights reserved

  mrjaywilson.com

  facebook.com/authorjaywilson

  TWISTED TALES SERIES

  #1 Descent Into Darkness

  #2 Moonlight Escape

  #3 Reapers (coming soon)

  TWISTED TALES SPECIAL EDITIONS

  #1 Twilight Nightmares

  #2 After Dark (coming soon)

  To my mother whose strong inalienable determination

  and outlook on life continues to inspire.

  Twisted Tales

  Twilight Nightmares

  Twisted Tales

  Special Edition

  #1

  CONTENTS

  Mother Says

  Outside the Window

  The Lost Journal

  The Demons Among Man

  A Dark Day

  Bullies

  The Deranged Author

  Whodunit: Killer Bee

  System Shock

  The Eyes of Death

  Mister Misery

  Drinking a Soul

  A Suicide Story

  Three Minutes

  Sheldon’s Shack

  The House of Sin

  Dionaea Muscipula

  Consequences

  Summer of ‘46

  Here’s Timmy!

  The Curious Case of G. Ferghoof

  Days of Future Past, Unknown

  Row Three Dead Man

  Moirai

  Plot #233

  A Tale of Two Tails

  The Offering Tree

  The Black Ooze

  Black Widow

  Santa’s Gift

  The Cursed Ring

  The Girl and the Cab

  What, Now, Beyond Departure?

  Only Human

  The Layoff

  The Brantley Estate

  Serendipity

  Monsters Beget Monsters

  Drowning in the Past

  The Nightmare on Christmas Eve

  Road Rage

  City of Demons

  The Boogeymen

  Sometimes They Escape

  Sometimes We Escape

  Four, Six, and Three

  The Life of Kameron Carpenter

  The Men in Apartment 10C

  The Ghost of a Murder Past

  Just One Fix

  Bonus: Reapers Preview

  Mother Says

  Mother always told Damien that women were evil. They are Satan's children, she would say, they will go right for your heart and make you do evil, unclean things. As long as he could remember, though, he had been drawn to them, and there was nothing his mother or her God could ever say to make him stray from his desires.

  Unlike men’s bathrooms, the women’s was eerily clean. The stall he’d been sitting in for the last twenty minutes had no writing on the walls, and the air had a strange fruity scent to it.

  The door leading to and from the office opened, and someone entered the bathroom. Cynthia’s seductive laughter echoed from the tiled walls and floor. Damien looked down at the watch secured to his left wrist, and smiled.

  Right on time, he thought.

  "Hang on, I just got to work. I'll call you back." She said, and after a moment, she replied to the person on her cell phone, "I love you, too."

  Who the hell was that, he thought, it had to be her mother, who else would she love besides me?

  Cynthia’s heels clacked against the floor, and she stopped in front of his stall. His heart began to pound as she reached out and pulled on the door. It clattered and vibrated, denying her entry. He let out a soft sigh, glad he remembered to lock the door this time.

  As she moved to the next one, she said, "You know, for two weeks I've been trying to open that door, and it’s always locked."

  He stayed quiet while she talked. He knew he couldn't say anything, but he wanted to... oh, did he want to. Instead, he retrieved a small mirror from his pocket, and extended the handle. He angled the reflective surface near the bottom corner of the stall, and peered into it just in time to see Cynthia hike up her dark grey skirt. She dropped a pair of pale blue panties that reflected the fluorescent lights with a soft sateen sheen and sat down.

  As the sound of water dripping against water started, she said, "I feel like we're already best friends. I mean, we always go to the bathroom together, so to speak. Is it the coffee or the drive that gets you? For me, I think it's a little bit of both. Today, the rain was extra hard while driving, which prolly made it worse. My boyfriend says I got a child’s bladder, and I guess he’s right."

  I never said that, he thought, who has she been talking to?

  “I mean, I love him and all,” she continued, “but sometimes he can be a real pain in the ass. Can’t we all, though? I’m sure you know what I mean.”

  He felt his face turn red and burn hot, probably bordering on purple. He rarely got angry, but he hated it when Mother was right about women. Still, this one had to be different. She wasn’t like the others. She was special.

  Cynthia giggled, "I love that you're so quiet and mysterious. You're like, the bestest best friend because all you do is listen. I wish my boyfriend was like that."

  Mother said, "See, she doesn't love you. You're just her friend. Someone else is her boyfriend."

  Shut up, Mother, he thought.

  Mother said, "She only wants your ear while she fucks someone else, that evil little bitch. See? Satan’s little whore!"

  Shut up, Mother, he thought, I love this one.

  Cynthia said, "We should seriously hang out sometime, but not, like, in the bathroom. We gotta be girlfriends, you and I."

  Mother said, “Great. Ya hear that? She wants you to be her girlfriend. It’s not bad enough that she’s making you do this filthy thing, but now she wants you to be a damn homosexual!”

  God damn it! Shut up, mother!

  Cynthia chuckled and said, "You're probably the most impossibly quiet woman I ever—wait, what is that?"

  Cynthia quickly slammed her knees together and stood. She pulled up her panties and dropped her skirt as he pulled the small mirror back into his side. She rushed out of her stall, and moved in front of his again. She began banging on the door.

  "Come out of there! What the hell was that, you sick bastard." She screamed and banged on the door some more. "If you don't come outta there right now, I'ma call the police on you!"

  She doesn't love me, does she? He thought.

  Mother said, "No she doesn't. See? She broke your heart, made you do unclean things. I always knew you weren’t my child. No child of mine would do something like that!"

  No, Mother, you’re lying to me again!

  Damien stood, unlatched the door, and tossed it open. Cynthia eyes grew wide when she recognized him, and then she threw her finger in his face.

  "You sick little weirdo! I knew you were a freak the moment you started working here. I'm gonna tell the boss and you're gonna get fired, you little fucking weirdo!"

  He reached out and grabbed Cynthia, and hugged her. He tried to snuggle into her neck, but she bit his cheek and pushed him away. A look of surprise twisted with emotional pain turned his face dark.

  Mother said, "You're not my son anymore, you unclean little Satan's child! Look what you’re doing!"

  Damien smacked the
sides of his head with his fists and screamed. Cynthia stepped back, eyes wide with fear, and he lunged forward. "Fuck you, bitch!"

  He wrapped his hands around her neck, and pushed her against the porcelain sink. She grabbed his wrists and fought for air, choking and fighting to extricate his grip.

  "Fuck you! You made my mother hate me!" He screamed as spit foamed at his mouth and ejected from his lips. "My mother was right, you fucking whore!"

  He looked up and his mother nodded her head disapprovingly from inside the mirror.

  “No, mother, please don’t hate me!” He said, tears dripping from his red face.

  Cynthia soon fell limp, and when he dropped her body, he punched the mirror. Once. Twice. Three times. The glass cracked into a spider's web, and his knuckles bled with the blood of his anger.

  He looked down at Cynthia, whose eyes were pink and whose tongue stuck out of her mouth.

  He said as he got down next to Cynthia, "This is your fault, mother!"

  He took Cynthia into his arms, and began to weep. He rocked back and forth and said, "Look what you made me do. Just like all the others, Mother. Why can't you just be happy for me?"

  Heather, the receptionist, entered the bathroom and screamed. She ran out, and immediately told the man at the cubical just outside what she’d seen.

  Mother said, "You're going to jail you know, you unclean little brat! Serves you right!"

  “Shut up, Mother!”

  Outside the Window

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  The glass sounds thin and loose as the creature's blackened claw taps upon the window. I hear a soft squeal as the sharp claw grazes the surface.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  I keep my eyes closed, wishing it away as the boys from It had wished away Pennywise. Over and over in my head, I chant for it to leave my nightmares and find some other place to be, but, of course, there is no such luck when evil breathes the same air as you.

  I expect the tapping to continue, but I get nothing other than silence. I don't know if I should open my eyes or leave them closed until morning. Something about monsters makes them seem innocuous when you can’t see them. I suppose it might be that I don't know how close or far it is from me or if not being able to see the malevolence painted on its face like the evil upon remorseless killers made it easier to deal with. Whatever it is, I keep my eyes shut, and try to ignore it as best I can.

  Pop!

  It’s the sound of splintering wood and the brass lock giving way. My body tenses.

  Reeeeeee!

  The tortured scream of wood against wood erupts, but I do not open my eyes.

  Am I awake? Am I still in my dream? I don’t know. How could I? The vivid nature of my dreams has often confused me into believing that what I feel in them is real, but is it? I’ve heard that reality is nothing but perception, and if so, does that make my dream, in essence, a reality because I believe it to be so? Can it be possible that my actual reality is just a dream, and can I escape this monster the same why? Should I not fear it, and instead allow it to kill me so I can wake?

  I feel a presence next to the bed the way you might feel when you’re walking alone at night and you sense someone following you or that chill you get when a ghost caresses your soul from the other side. It’s hot, too. The warmth on my left arm lets me know that the creature is close, and I begin to smell the warm fetid breath chuffing from his likely gaping, razor-sharp maw.

  I can’t handle it anymore, so I open my eyes. The monster is as I had always dreamed. Its black leathery skin is wet with some kind of thick oily substance. Its silver cataract-clouded eyes blink with two thin mucous-like eyelids, and it hunches over like an evil Quasimodo. Then, it screams. The ululation is dark and separated binaurally as if two beasts sing a song of hunger for my inevitable death. It raises its sharp trident claws, and assumes the position to slash me open and likely feed on me while I slowly die.

  That’s when I see him. At the far corner of my room, Mr. Muggles, my childhood friend, appears from the shadows and jumps onto the bed. His fluffy brown nylon fur glistens in the moonlight, as does the small but sharp sword carried in his left cotton-stuffed paw. His black beady eyes gaze upon the monster without fear.

  The creature lunges for him, but Mr. Muggles is fast. The bear jumps onto the beast’s head, and stabs the sword into its skull. Another scream erupts from it, but this scream isn’t of its desperation to kill but rather of pain.

  The beast and Mr. Muggles drop out of sight, and I scurry over to the edge of the bed to see what has happened to my best friend. I see nothing but a cloud of fog that slowly dissipates and Mr. Muggles standing alone.

  He jumps onto the bed, and we stare at each other for a moment. I smile, hoping he understands how grateful I am. The sword in his hand dissolves into smoke, and he takes a seat upon my comforter. I pick him up, and he feels as he always did: without breath, without heart, without mind. Yet, he feels like a champion with both compassion, fearlessness, and a bright soul, one that saved me from a monster that surely would’ve indulged in killing me, and so I snuggle him close.

  “I’ll never get rid of you again.” I tell him, and lay down to finally get some rest.

  The Lost Journal

  [Excerpts taken from a leather-bound journal found wrapped in plastic and floating on the ocean’s surface. No date was found within its pages, and much of the ink had been destroyed by the saltwater.]

  It's only been hours since I came to be stranded on this island. There's large emerald trees, and different types of animals cooing and calling from within that thicket. I plan to stay on the beach to try to claim food from the sea as best I can.

  I don't know if there are any other survivors, but I don't want to go into the forest to find out. Something about it bothers me. Therefore, for now, I plan to stay as close to where I washed ashore as possible. I hope that there will be a rescue endeavor started when the ship doesn’t show at our next scheduled destination.

  [Several destroyed pages.]

  ...and the moon glows gorgeously, glistening from the ocean like a million pale blue glow bugs dancing on its surface. I watched it for hours the other night. I never knew the ocean, as terrifying as it is, could be so beautiful.

  There’s good news! I honestly never thought I’d be writing about any since the shipwreck, but I finally found dry wood. When I was young, my parents dragged me kicking and screaming to this terrible ranch where we learnt to survive off the land. At the time, I didn’t think much of it, but because of the things I learned there, I managed to work the wood into a fire. Now that I have light, I can stop worrying about the things in the dark forest at night.

  I've been eating leaves because it's too hard to catch fish. We never learned to fish without rods, and I can’t figure out how to make one. Now that I have some means of cooking them, perhaps I'll try harder tomorrow. I pray God will send me some fish!

  An odd thing occurs to me as I sit here watched the sparkling ocean. When I left the port of the eastern continent, I was merely a man with a dream to explore the world. I wasn't keen on the ocean itself. It’s nothing but a large body of water, but I must admit I’m taking kindly to it. I may no longer float upon its surface, but the longer I stay on this beach, the more I come to respect and love those crystal-azure swells.

  [Several more damaged pages.]

  I found people on the island. They were just down the beach from me the whole time! How could I not have noticed them? One of them was the Captain's aid, but I don't know his name. He was washing himself in the ocean. There was that woman, too. Annabelle is her name. She was wearing that same cream gingham dress, except it was now mottled with sweat and damaged by the elements. Still a visage of beauty, dare I say!

  I still haven't caught any fish. I prayed to God, and he has denied or ignored me. Why does he snub me so? Could it be that He’s just a myth? Would He allow such things to happen to His children? In Sunday school, I learnt he gave us the free will to do whatever we like. We le
arnt that Jesus, his son, died for our sinful ways. I appreciate this much. What I do not understand is how He can allow this to happen to me! This is not my free will. I didn’t break the boat and my sins didn’t result in the shipwreck. If I had my own way, if I was truly in control, I'd be back at Bronwent with a full drink and a wench on my lap!

  The leaves aren't keeping me sustained. I think I will have to go into the forest soon to hunt for food. It still scares me, but I must. I have no choice or I might perish to the demons living in my breadbasket. Oh, just thinking about bread makes me think of Mrs. Rene’s fresh Sunday loaves!

  [Several more damaged pages. The writing becomes sloppier, some parts illegible.]

  I went to the forest and stood at the foot for some time. I watched the leaves move, but there was no wind. I watched...

  ...and for some time it just stared at me. It looked like a little boy, but it wasn't. There were no boys with eyes like his. They were dark and cold. I don't remember there being a boy on the ship, but he didn't appear to be indigenous, either. I wonder...

  ...then I went back to the beach. Hunger snacked on the lining of my stomach, and still God made me suffer. The boy was equally dark for he would not let me enter the forest.

  I waited for some time, and decided to find out what the others were doing up the beach. If I could keep myself occupied, I might be able to rid myself of that sickening feeling of hunger, if only for a short while. I hope so, anyway. The hunger makes me angry, and I do not like it.

  [A few pages withered and destroyed by the elements.]

  ...my hands were shaking when I washed his blood off them. The striations of that crimson liquid seemed to snake through the clear ocean's body as if I’d poured a red ink into it. The woman had run. I'll look for her tomorrow, but for now, I must eat.