Shock Totem 9: Curious Tales of the Macabre and Twisted

by Shock Totem

“What was the happiest time of your life, Solomon?” I’ll ask. “Who were you with, and how did they die? Do you ever think of them?”

  “What’s the worst thing you ever did, Solomon? Do you remember how it felt?”

  “Do you think you’ll go to hell, Solomon?”

  “When do you think you’re going to die?”

  It doesn’t matter what I say, really. I’m not sure how much of it he even understands. I could keep it up for hours while he sits there slobbering at me, his eyebrows twitching up and down. But time marches on, and I’ll check the small silver wristwatch his granddaughter gave me for Christmas, and tell him when it’s time for lunch.

  • • •

  Lunch is out on the veranda, because there’s at least one meal a day when I have to get him there on time. I band his neck tight with layers of napkins so that he doesn’t mess his nice, clean shirt. I’m sure to tuck them thick enough for the small, weak knuckle of his Adam’s apple to knot against the top. He doesn’t like that very much, and makes noises in his throat like he’s starting to choke.

  “Give a nice, strong cough!” I’ll say, standing to bend over him, pounding at his back.

  Lunch, usually, is soup. Potato and leek, or ham and pea. He leers at me, ecstatic, as the table fills with people, voices, laughter and jokes. The folks that like him will touch his shoulder, his hand as they talk, and when that happens he’ll give me a look of satisfied vindication, as though he’s just won something, and I’ve lost.

  I fill his spoon shallow and tickle it against his lower lip. His mouth snaps open and shut, trying to catch the broth like a fish gasping at shallow water.

  “Such a messy feeder!” I’ll tease.

  Later, the Matron will ask me about his weight.

  “He just won’t keep his strength up,” I’ll tell her. “I just don’t know what to do!”

  The Matron and I agree that if this goes on much longer, I’m going to have to start using a feeding tube.

  • • •

  After lunch, it’s nap time. I’ll be tired, too, after such an exhausting day of entertaining myself. I’ll wrestle him out of the wheelchair, careful not to let him fall and break anything too severe, and once he’s laid out on the bed I’ll pile the blankets over him.

  “Frail men like you can die from colds,” I’ll tell him.

  Sometimes I’ll ask him, “Do you feel that chill?”

  And I’ll chatter my teeth and rub my arms to make myself clear.

  He lies there, withered face slowly splotching red and glistening with spots of damp. I sit in the armchair beside him and read, sometimes doze. After the nap is over, I’ll feel his forehead.

  “Let me get some meds,” I’ll say sadly, “your temperature is up again.”

  I pack the extra blankets away before I head to the dispensary, yawning and stretching all the kinks out my back as I go. My feet make a soft, swift shushing sound as I walk.

  “Oh Ruth,” Eileen says when she sees me so tired, back at her station so many days in a row. “That one’s clock is ticking down fast.”

  “Yes,” I’ll say, sighing, rubbing my forehead, brushing my fingers through wisps of stray hair. “I’ll miss him so much, when he goes.”

  We share empathetic smiles while she hands me the bottles. On the way back, I shake them in my fists, listening to the music the pills make, crashing around inside.

  Of course, I can’t take him outside again. Not with a fever like that.

  • • •

  Dinner is boiled fish and vegetables, and jelly or custard laced with medicine and salt. He chokes and splutters, grabbing at his neck, saliva spraying out his mouth.

  “S… s…” he’ll try to say, his eyes hot furnaces of hate.

  “What was that, dear?” I’ll ask, and force another spoonful past his lips. “Why, you haven’t said a word in years!”

  • • •

  The day will come, I know, when I’ll wake to find his corpse frozen against his mattress, his blankets coiled on the floor at the foot of the bed.

  “I don’t know how he did that,” I’ll sob, and the Matron will take me in her arms as I sob against her. “To think of him lying there, alone and freezing cold.”

  “I know, darling,” she’ll say. “It’s not your fault. I wish you didn’t always get so attached.”

  Then the family will come, and they’ll sit with me in the common room and we’ll drink hot tea and eat soft biscuits, talking about what a lovely man he had been, how loved he’d been, and how much he’ll be missed.

  “He’s a very lucky man,” the granddaughter’s husband will say, smiling at me with an appreciative nod from behind his wife’s back. “To have such a pretty young woman take care of him in his final days.”

  “Oh, thank you,” I’ll say, and laugh, flattered through my tears. “You have no idea what pleasure he gave me.”

  “No, you did wonders,” the granddaughter will say sincerely, taking my hand in hers. “Even though he couldn’t talk, when you were with him there was always so much spirit in his eyes. It always made me glad, to see that.”

  Probably they’ll hand me an envelope stuffed with crisp bills. “A token of our appreciation,” they’ll say. If they’re feeling super generous, maybe it’ll even be car keys, or a necklace. Something expensive, anyway.

  “We always knew this place was the best money could buy,” they’ll say, nodding with satisfaction as they climb into their convertible, glancing out at the rolling green hills and the wildflowers in their pastel shades. “Such a beautiful place, with such quality care.”

  Someone will say, “Good help is hard to find,” and look at me like I’ve just won a prize.

  I’ll smile back with all my teeth, wipe the last of my tears, and wave goodbye.

  The Matron will give me a short holiday, and then I’ll come back to take over my latest charge.

  I hope I get a woman, next time.

  Karen Runge was born in Paris, France. The daughter of a diplomat, her family lived in France and then Gabon before returning to their native South Africa when she was a young child.

  She is a horror writer, sometimes an artist, and works teaching adults English as a second language. Her works have appeared in Pseudopod, Something Wicked, Pantheon, Structo, and Sirens Call, among others.

  She lives in Beijing, China, but you can find her at karenrunge.wordpress.com.

  ALAN ROSCOE’S CHANGE OF HEART

  by S. R. Mastrantone

  Alan Roscoe’s death was short lived. Once his bloated, alcohol-ruined heart was replaced with a working one, he spent a further two weeks in the hospital before being allowed to return to his 14-room home to be tended to by a small army of medical professionals. Penny, from the safe vantage point of her daily chores, watched them come and go while she scrubbed and vacuumed, trying to work out how Alan was doing from their facial expressions.

  Eventually, it became clear the operation was a success and Alan Roscoe was going to live, much to Penny’s disappointment. She stopped rehearsing the little leaving speech she’d planned to give his assistant, Donald, and tried to forget about that brief hope she’d guiltily felt. She would be stuck cleaning for him forever.

  She tried to focus on the positives, the largest of them being that while Alan was bedridden she didn’t have to endure his presence around the house. She knew at some point she would have to go upstairs and see him, possibly even wish him well, but for now she decided to see how long she could last before someone said something. What was the worst that could happen? If he fired her that might just be for the best.

  • • •

  Two weeks after Alan’s return home, Donald came into the kitchen while Penny was wiping down the surfaces, and he asked: “Have you been in to see the old man yet?”

  She shook her head.

  “I thought not. I think he’s a bit upset about it.”

  “I didn’t know if he was awake. No one told me.”

  Donald shrugged and took an ap
ple from the fruit bowl. “Go and say hello, please. He won’t bite.” The apple crunched between his jaws.

  Her shift having only just started, Penny decided to get it over with rather than spend her work hours dreading the encounter. “Shall I go now?” she said.

  “Yes.” Donald flapped his hand as if to swat the question away. Penny turned to the door connecting the kitchen and the hallway. “Penny,” Donald said. “The doctors want us to keep an eye on his behaviour, you know? These things can be quite traumatic, even for a chap like Alan. You’ll let me know if you notice anything unusual?”

  Penny nodded, and once out of earshot she let out a long sigh.

  • • •

  Before embarking up the stairs, she looked down at her blouse and decided to fasten the top button.

  She hadn’t always hated the job, although she had never liked him. But Alan came with the territory; the way cleaning up stool would have come with being a nurse.

  Over the years, though, as his stock portfolio (and belly) had grown, Alan had been around the place more and more, wealth having freed him from the chains of the city.

  It had just about been tolerable when he’d been upstairs on his bed, drunk, feeding his endless appetite for 24-hour news, occasionally barking the odd incoherent demand. But when he sat down at the breakfast bar, pretending to read his newspaper while actually watching Penny’s arse, asking inappropriate questions about her love life, she began to dread coming to work.

  The money was too good to ever leave. Nursing college had left her in horrendous debt, especially once the family farm got into trouble. The closest she had ever come to quitting was after he had touched her: an unwanted shoulder massage that she had responded to with a rigidity that passed on her message more quickly than her stupefied mouth could. After that, everything had been in place to leave.

  Then she’d found out about Mom.

  Five years, she thought, when she reached the landing. Ahead she heard the familiar murmuring of the television. The muscles in her abdomen clenched.

  Tell him you’re leaving, while he’s too sick to fight. The thought of confronting him, sick or not, scared her even more than the thought of being forever a cleaner, so she banished it to the place she sent all such rebellious thoughts and continued down the corridor.

  • • •

  The door to Alan’s room was open, which was the first unusual thing that Penny noticed; Alan Roscoe was a very private man. He was sitting up in bed with the covers over his legs, facing the door. He beckoned her inside.

  “Penny, come in,” he said, raising his voice to compete with the chattering newsreader on the television. She obliged but stopped at the foot of the bed. The room had the unmistakable aroma of a hospital, as if the scent had attached itself to all the visiting professionals and alighted here.

  Alan turned the television off with the remote: a second unusual thing.

  “Oh please, keep watching,” she said.

  He grinned. “God, no. I don’t think I can watch another minute of it. It’s so mindlessly repetitive.”

  Penny studied his face for any hint he might be joking. Alan loved 24-hour news, only ever watched 24-hour news and had told her more than once that his career hinged on being switched on to current events 24-hours a day. “If I hadn’t sold my shares before the second plane hit the towers, I can’t tell you how much I’d have lost.”

  Now suddenly he found it repetitive?

  “Please, Penny, would you come a little closer.” With a come-here gesture he indicated that he wanted her at his bedside. Her body stiffened as if trying to anchor itself to the floor. As if sensing this, Alan held up an arresting palm and said: “Or stay where you are, if you don’t want to. I don’t want to make you...uh…to make you uncomfortable.” He looked down at his lap and his shoulders sagged. When he looked up his eyes were wet, his mouth was a thin line, rigid with composure.

  Unthinkingly, Penny took a step towards the bed. “Mister Roscoe, are you okay?” She’d never noticed before, but his eyes were a sparkling green.

  He tried a smile and a nod which caused a tear to run down his left cheek. He rubbed it away quickly with a baggy sleeve. “I’m wonderful, Penny. Never been better. Look, don’t stay long. I know I make you uncomfortable. I hate that I do, but I do and it’s my fault. I just wanted to see you quickly to say that I think you are a very lovely person, you know? And I wanted to say that I don’t—” His voice cracked and Penny took another step forward and had to fight her desire to reach out to him. “I don’t think I’ve been very good to you.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she said, and was surprised with the lack of conviction in the lie; she’d come to be quite proud of her deceits over the years.

  “I don’t intend this apology to make up for anything, Penny, although I am sorry. I’m very sorry. But there are going to be changes now.”

  “What sort of changes?”

  “I want to be better.” He sat up straight again and leaned back on the headboard. “You ran a fun run last year, didn’t you? You asked me to sponsor you and I didn’t, did I?” Penny shook her head reluctantly. “What was the charity?”

  “It was for Mouth Cancer Action. It’s what my mother had.”

  “Your mother is sick?”

  “Not anymore. But she needs a lot of operations to fix her face, they had to take away quite a lot of it and because it’s cosmetic we have to pay for it in stages.”

  He looked back down again and shook his head. “I’m sorry to hear that. Thank you, Penny. That’s all I wanted to know for now.”

  • • •

  On another day the impending laundry run would have moistened Penny’s palms and quickened her pulse. The washing machine and the dryer were down in the windowless cellar beneath the house, a long room with just a single dim bulb that left the farthest end in darkness. Instead, she was thinking about her conversation with Alan.

  Far from the orbit of the charm that had no doubt played a part in Alan’s amazing wealth, she decided what she’d just seen were perhaps alcohol withdrawal symptoms. Or maybe side-effects from the drugs that were stopping his body from treating the new heart like an invading parasite. He would be back to his old self soon enough.

  But while she collected the laundry basket from the downstairs bathroom, she couldn’t stop thinking about his wet, green eyes, and that palpable sense of kindness hovering in his bleach-scented bedroom. What if he had truly changed?

  She got to the cellar and was yanked into the present. The door was ajar. Penny approached it slowly knowing that only she ever ventured down those stairs. She pulled the door open further and called down, even though the light was off. No one responded so she reached up and flicked the switch on the wall. It took three flashes before the light stayed on, by which time Penny had already noticed the marks on the stone stairs: large damp patches every few steps, with drag marks between.

  Accustomed to feeling dread where the cellar was concerned, she descended the stairs quickly, hoping to outpace her fear, trying to think of other things: like how Alan being nicer wouldn’t solve anything in the long term, but in the short term it might improve her day-to-day life. It might give her some room to think about her next move while still being able to help pay Mom’s bills. She wasn’t convinced she even wanted to be a nurse anymore, and she’d been getting involved in campaign work with the local Green Party, so perhaps—

  Near the bottom she froze. On the cellar floor, a wide, dark path stained the concrete, from the foot of the stairs all the way into the line of shadow near the back of the room.

  “Hello.” Her voice echoed off the far wall, followed by another sound that at first Penny decided must be the gurgling of the washing machine, even though the washing machine was off. No one else had any reason to be down here.

  There was more than just the darkness to be afraid of now, but still she wouldn’t let herself run. Penny turned and very slowly went back up the stairs.

  Something moved acr
oss the floor.

  Penny ran up the last three stairs and closed the door behind her.

  • • •

  The cellar door was open again when she came to work the following afternoon. She went over to shut it, wary, and she saw two men on the stairs carrying up the washing machine. In the kitchen they both smiled at her.

  “I need to use that,” she said, smiling back.

  The older of the two men shrugged. “Don’t let us stop you, we’ve just been told to plumb it in up here.”

  “By who?”

  The man looked to his partner, squinted and asked him: “Was it Duncan? Or Donald?”

  “Donald,” the other man said, nodding.

  It wasn’t long before she heard Donald’s trademark thump as he descended the stairs. He shot past the kitchen in the direction of the front door, head down and muttering to himself.

  “Donald?” Penny said.

  He stopped dead. “Right, you’re here. Good.”

  “What’s going on? I need to do the washing.”

  “Right, well it’ll have to wait.” He looked at his watch anxiously.

  “Okay. Any reason?”

  “Do you remember that Alan always talked about making the cellar into a games room one day? Well, that day has come, my love—only now he wants a gymnasium instead.”

  Penny widened her eyes.

  “Oh, that’s just the start,” he said. “He’s full of it today, that’s for sure. No question of a long recovery.”

  “Full of what?” Penny said.

  Donald looked at his watch again. “I’m sorry, I’ve got to go and meet the accountant before she throws herself out a window. You’ll find out soon enough, though.”

  • • •

  “Don’t mind me,” Alan said, taking a seat at the breakfast bar.