Twilight Nightmares (Twisted Tales Special Edition Book 1)

by Wilson, Jay

  "Hello there young, Mikey." The man said with a normal man's voice. Again, Mikey expected a deep jolly tone, but it wasn't there. "Where are your parents?"

  Mikey pointed at his door and said, "They’re sleeping in their room."

  Santa pulled the glove from his right hand and placed his palm against Mikey's face. His touch was ice-cold, and he used his thumb to feel the thick puffy scar next to Mikey's blind eye.

  Santa stood and walked back to the window. He reached out and grabbed his bag of presents. He heaved them over his shoulder, and walked to the door.

  "You stay here, Mikey." He said, "I'm gonna hand out presents."

  Mikey nodded excitedly as Santa opened the door and exited the room into the hallway. The area smelled like garlic and baked noodles, and it was darker that the bedroom because there were no nearby windows to shed light. So, he navigated slowly across the corridor and stopped at the master bedroom.

  He leaned close to the door and listened. He thought he heard the soft sound of someone breathing, but it turned out to be his own. He reached down, and turned the knob. It participated silently, and he pushed the quiet door open.

  When he stepped into the room, he saw the boy's parents cuddled together upon the bed. The incredibly large master window brightened the room enough that if they'd opened their eyes, they would see him. He quickly walked to the edge of the bed, and set down the red velvet bag. From the sack he withdrew two large knives that had "CC" engraved on the hilt, and with a quick thrust, he sunk one into each of their necks.

  They choked and stuttered, trying to call for help. Soon, they both died with a bloody gurgle. He left the knives in their throat, a gift for each of them.

  He returned to Mikey's room, and the boy had fallen asleep. He wasn't sure how the boy had been able to fall asleep so easily with Santa in the house, but he suspected the boy didn't want to ruin the magic by staying up.

  Santa carefully pulled out a box, and placed it on the nightstand. He then crawled through the window and left the boy in peace.

  The next morning when Christmas arrived, the boy woke and pulled the box to his bed. He looked at the neat green bow encasing the well-dressed red aluminum-paper box. He opened a small card, and it revealed that the gift was from Chris Cringle.

  Mikey tore the gift open, and then unpacked the box. Inside he found a small Ninja Turtle action figure and a letter he'd written to Santa:

  Dear Santa,

  I only want one thing for x-mas. I don't want my parents to hurt me no more. I don't like it. Oh, and can I also have a Ninja Turtle toy? I always wanted one, but my parents always said no.

  Love,

  Mikey

  The Cursed Ring

  Deep in the thick concrete jungle on a street pockmarked with holes and fissures, stood a brown and cream brick building. Inside was the apartment of one Kace Connell. Only one light burned weak near a small window that doesn’t open, and it cast the shadow of the apartment’s inhabitant against the far wall just near the entrance to a small grimy kitchen.

  Kace stuffed the final dumpling into his mouth, and as he worked the morsel into something swallowable, he reached to the floor next to his chair and snagged a purse. After pushing aside a small takeout box of Kung Pao chicken, he set it on the round and flimsy aluminum dinner table.

  The handbag wasn’t an expensive one, but worth more than most. The old woman he had stolen it from drove a late model Beemer, and had large diamond earrings he probably would have taken, too, if she had not fought back.

  He tugged the zipper of the designer tote, and the lips parted with ease. Inside he found a small box of make-up, a powder brush, a small wallet with a little over a hundred dollars, and a tiny Ziploc bag full of Kleenex. He set everything out on the table, and as he began to move the purse to the floor, a small glint captured his attention.

  Kace reached back into the bag, and fished around. His knuckles rapped something hard, and his middle finger finally found a small metallic loop. He snared it, and pulled the object out. It was a small gold ring, not unlike the kind found on the finger of a washed-up football player. The centerpiece gem looked to be emerald and surrounding it was an inset with raised lettering. The words were either Hebrew or some other language he couldn’t read.

  Though it looked expensive, he knew the pawnshop he frequented would probably offer much less for it than he hoped. Barney, the man who operated the shop, didn’t mind stolen goods, which was one of the reasons that Kace fenced there, but jewelry that specific could be located, which meant good old Barney had to sell it outside the store to other unsavory people. He called it a convenience fee for putting his life in danger, as if his continued existence wasn’t already a miracle in this God-forsaken city.

  Kace set the ring down just to the right of the stack of greenbacks he extracted from the wallet. He ordered everything by their value, starting with the bills first, because cash in hand was worth a barrel of fish—or some such shit according to his imprisoned father. Then, of course, the ring. After that, he moved the tissues before the make-up kit and blush brush. He didn’t think he’d find value in any of those items, but because he suffered from allergies and didn’t wear make-up, their value of usefulness was obvious.

  “What a weak take.” He said to his empty apartment.

  A small roach skittered across the table, dived under the cash, and the disappeared over the edge. He picked up the bills, folded them, and put them in his wallet. He picked up the ring, looked at it in the light for a moment, and then slipped it onto his left ring finger. He liked the way it looked on his hand, and enjoyed the way it felt even more.

  Maybe I won’t sell it after all, he thought.

  He gathered the make-up, blush brush, and wallet, and stuffed them back into the purse. He stood, and walked to a trash bin near his door. He hung the bag over the opening for a moment, and wondered if he could sell it. He twisted it, sizing up the possible sell, and found a sizable stain of the old woman’s blood on it. He knew there was no way Barney would take it, especially with the death of the woman probably invading the news channel that evening. So, he dropped it, and it landed in the bin with a soft thud.

  As he began toward the kitchen to grab a beer, someone knocked on his door. He stopped, and raised a quizzical eyebrow. Everyone he knew called before stopping by his place. It was the rule among thieves, dealers, killers, and all other unsavory types. If there was a knock with no call, then it was always best to assume that police stood on the other side of that door.

  He waited for a moment, hoping his guest would go away. Again, someone pounded on the door, rattling it against the frame. He cautiously approached it so he didn’t make any noise that might reveal he was home, and peeked through the eyelet. The glass warped the hallway, and even though the light in the corridor blinked in and out, it was on long enough for him to see that no one was out there.

  “Hmm.” He said, and walked to the kitchen.

  The refrigerator didn’t have much in it. There was a stick of yellow butter on a plate so old it almost looked like a slightly melted bar of cheddar, an opened can of beans, four off-brand Mexican beers, and a jug of water he bought three weeks ago when he told himself he was going to get back into shape. He thought about grabbing the water for a moment, but instead snared one of the longneck brews.

  He let the fridge close behind him, and it slammed as if he kicked it shut. Then, it began to bang as if someone was inside it. Kace’s heart raced as he watched the refrigerator actually move and rock with each loud crash. He backed away from the kitchen, and ran into something that shouldn’t be there.

  He twirled around, and dropped his beer. It crashed upon the wood floor, tiny bits of the glass from the explosion embedded in his foot causing little beads of blood to form. Standing in front of him, was an elderly man with thin silver hair. He had thick hands enlarged by arthritis and calloused by decades of manual labor. He wore a black suit, white shirt, silk tie, and black polished shoes.

&nb
sp; “How the hell did you get in here?” Kace said, and eyed the knife on the dining table.

  The man took a step toward Kace, extending his arms out with his hands stressed into arthritic claws, and Kace saw the ring on the man’s finger. It was the same one he’d taken from the woman. He looked down to be sure, and there was no doubt.

  “Who are you?”

  The man took another step closer, and Kace attempted to move away. However, he tripped over a UPS box he’d stolen from his neighbor, which he’d now wished he left at their door.

  When he hit the ground, he fell back and rapped his head against the floor. A crack of white lightning sliced through his eyes, and he scrambled back toward the kitchen. He looked up, and the man was no longer there.

  Panting, he stood and his left hand suddenly filled with pain. He looked down, and the skin around the ring on his finger began to turn black. Kace screamed and tried to pull it off his finger. He twisted, pulled, and yanked but it wouldn’t budge. The pain became more intense, and the blackness continued to spread.

  As it moved its way up his arm, he felt the pain move as well. First his hand, and then the rest of his arm. He tried to wrap his other hand around it to keep it from spreading, but it moved beyond, unaffected by his effort.

  Kace tore his shirt off, and ran to the mirror in his bathroom. The blackness continued to move, turning his veins dark, skin fading from purple to black with each inch. Eventually it spread to his other arm and completely covered his torso. It worked its way up his neck and down his waste, each inch of skin burned as if seared against the metal of a hot pan. Silver whorls and fissures invaded his vision, and then he passed out.

  ~

  He didn’t know how long he’d been out, but he woke some time later because the pain all over his body had become far too intense. His hands, body, eyes, and everything connected to them burned. He crawled out of the bathroom, and into his bedroom. His muscles ached, and he was barely able to make it. When he reached the withered nightstand in the corner, he opened the drawer. After retrieving a revolver, he pulled the hammer back and placed the nose in his mouth.

  As he looked upon the ceiling, his tongue grazing the cold bitter metal, he watched shadows dance up the surface. It appeared as if there was a crowd watching him, waiting for him to pull the trigger. His finger quivered, and the pain intensified. He screamed, and squeezed the trigger.

  The Girl and the Cab

  The city lights sparkled in the sky, and eleven-year-old Regina watched them glisten off the fresh rainwater puddled in the street. A soft post-storm breeze made her yellow dress dance and her skin tighten with goose bumps. Her mother’s purse, which Regina appointed as her own after she died, hung from her shoulder. It was large, heavy, and made her arm ache. However, it was a reminder of the woman she loved, and she refused leave it at home no matter how uncomfortable.

  The few cars that drove the street this time of night splashed through the puddles as she waved her arm in the air. A passing cab stopped, and she ran to the door. She peered through the passenger window at the driver. He was an old man, probably in his late fifties, and wore thin silver hair and a thick coat. He reminded her of her grandfather, which made her feel good, and she pursed her lips with disappointment.

  “You need a ride?” He said with a strong comforting voice.

  She exhaled, “No, thanks, sir.”

  “Are you sure, little lady?”

  “Yeah.” She said, and stepped back onto the curb.

  “Okay, then.” He said, and pulled away.

  As he disappeared around the corner, she stuck her hand into the air again. Cars continued to drive down the street to their unknown destination, ignoring her. One nearly splashed a large puddle onto her, and she moved just in time but still wasn’t fast enough to avoid getting her shoes soaked. She looked down at her feet and took a couple steps in place. The water squished in her socks and between her toes, but despite that, she moved back to the curb to hail another cab.

  Finally, another cab approached and stopped. She looked inside and there was a young man with jet-black hair, a thin goatee, and a dingy wife beater. A pack of cigarettes adorned the dashboard next to a half-eaten burger. It smelled bad inside, like onions and gross vanilla.

  “You gettin’ in or what? I ain’t got all night.”

  Her heart started pounding. It thumped and thumped, and she swore she heard it drumming off the metal door as she leaned against it.

  “Hey, I’m talkin’ to you.”

  “Sorry, mister.”

  “I ain’t no mister. You need ta go somewheres?”

  “Across the bridge and to that Italian place, Lenny’s Lasagna.” She said, and pointed into the distance at no particular building.

  “Across’t the bridge, huh? You hun’ry or somth’n?”

  She nodded.

  “Alright, get in, but only if you got money.”

  “I do.” She said as she used both hands to yank on the rear passenger door handle.

  Regina climbed into the back seat, and then closed the door. She reached for a belt, but there wasn’t one. She looked up, and the driver watched her through the rear-view mirror.

  “Can we go please. I’m gonna be late.”

  The driver poked the machine that counted the mileage, and then pulled away from the curb. As they travelled down the road and over the bridge, he continued to watch her through the mirror. It made her uneasy, but she had to power through it. She just had to.

  When they reached the restaurant, which took only a few minutes, he stopped the car.

  The driver turned toward her and said, “That’s six-fifty.”

  “Okay, but can we wait for a minute?”

  “Why?” He said impatiently, “I gots otha people ta pick up.”

  “Just a little bit longer. I’ll pay you extra.”

  “Ya better.”

  She watched the clock on her Little Mermaid watch. Ariel’s abnormally lengthened and unhinged arms pointed to 8:58 PM. A few seconds later, 8:59. Then finally, 9:00, and her heart slammed even harder in her chest. Her lips went numb, and she felt as if she might pass out.

  “How much longer, baby?” He said, and it infuriated her.

  As he threw his arm up on the divider between the front and back seats, she retrieved a gun from her mother’s purse and pointed it at his head.

  “Woah!” He screamed, and reared back. “What the hell ya doin’?”

  “You hurt my mommy!” She screamed back as tears poured from her eyes.

  He looked terrified and shamelessly guilty. He knew exactly who her mother had been.

  “You did bad things to her, and then you killed her!”

  “Listen, baby.” He tried to reason with her, but she pulled the trigger.

  The first bullet grazed the side of his head, but the second pierced through is forehead and painted the windshield with bone, blood, and what little brains he had. She continued to fire, fighting to keep the gun in her hands even as they went painfully numb.

  Only two other bullets hit him before the gun ran dry. She dropped it on the floor, and trembled as she crawled from the cab. She went around the car as a woman from the curb looked in and screamed.

  She approached the front door of Lenny’s, and stopped. Her reflection revealed a young girl who wasn’t so young anymore and covered in specks of another person’s blood. She pushed through the door, and walked across the dining room as people watched her. She sat down at the booth her mother sat at before she was raped and murdered. The last place her family was whole. She laid her head upon the checkered cloth wishing she could feel her mother’s embrace just once more, and she wept.

  What, Now, Beyond Departure?

  My name was Kayla. I have known for weeks now that I lay buried in the back yard of a dark house built in a typical urban neighborhood. I have known for days that I may never see, feel, or speak to my loved ones again. I have known for hours that this unrest is the result of my life being lost to the hands of a
man who cannot keep his hands to himself. I have come to know in the last few minutes the things I must to do or I may end up suffering the same dissonant eternity that so many souls without retribution have faced long after their death.

  Dark shadows melt from the walls, droop from the ceiling, and web in the corners of the black corridor. A small bar of warm light at the end just below a bedroom door immediately preternaturally dies as it hits the darkness. The wood floor is a sea of tar waiting to gulp the monster that roams the house lazily throughout the day, but on this night, it will not be the imaginary tar the kills him.

  I don't understand how but I somehow use energy to make the wall speak to him the only way a bodiless monster can: Bang, Bang, Bang!

  The light at the bottom of the door soon mottles with the shadow of my killer. The door opens, and when he steps toward the hallway, I fill it with my darkness. The human perception of my ethereal form makes it look as if the hallway fills with a thick viscous liquid. I watch him reach out and try to touch the blackness, but he hesitates. Apparently, his fear is far more powerful than his curiosity or courage.

  The man takes a step back, and I explode the light behind him. A bright flash fills the room, and the remaining gas burns out as the filament cooks white-hot. A shrill call of terror escapes his lips, and I begin to make a shuffling sound. I move closer and closer to him until he runs back into the room.

  Before he can hide in the bathroom, as if that would even make a difference, I snare his neck. He chokes and tries to tear free of my grasp, but with nothing actually holding him, he remains powerless to stop me. I squeeze harder and he lets out a sad little moan.

  I drag him across the room, and he attempts to resist me with kicks but lands no blows. When we reach the window, I force his face upon the glass.

  Heavenly glittering stars hang in the expansive cloudless sky. Earlier, the bright moon turned the forest below into a gloomy night, and now a soft fog slithers between the trees and leaks into the backyard. The thick mist encircles the spot where my body rests. I push his face harder against the glass until I hear the soft crackling of his fracturing bones, and then let go of his neck. He screams, but no one can hear him except me.