Monsters & Demons: A Collection of Short Horror Stories

by Brian Rella

  Roy looked down at his black sneakers, his ten-year-old jeans, and the yellow polo shirt that didn’t quite fit him anymore. He noticed a blue pen stain on his shirt below the pocket of his polo. He rubbed at it.

  “I’m done with you,” Pierson said, disgusted. “Come back at the close.”

  Roy looked up at him, nodded and walked away. Something whispered in his ear again, but he couldn’t make out what it was saying this time. He stuck his finger in his ear and scratched as he went back to his desk to log a help desk ticket to replace Pierson’s video card.

  As soon as Roy sat down, the stench hit him like a punch in the face. He scrunched his nose, repulsed by the smell of it—it smelled like rotten, decaying meat. He looked around his desk, then under his desk, and in the desk drawers, but couldn’t find the source. He swiveled his head left to right, making sure no one was looking at him and pulled the front of his polo away from his chest, dipped his nose down and sniffed. He only smelled his deodorant. When he looked up, one of the pretty admins, Sarah, was staring at him with a nauseated look on her face. He looked away quickly, fighting off a distant sense of embarrassment and pretending to himself that it never happened.

  Roy logged into the help desk system and started creating the ticket. That’s when the buzzing started again. He stuck fingers in each of his ears and closed his eyes, breathing deeply, fighting back the nausea from the rotten smell, then letting the air out slowly, hearing his heartbeat slow. The buzzing persisted and then the whispers started again.

  Are you really going to let Pierson speak to you like that? You know he is nothing without you. All of them, all these traders, how could they trade without you? And you just let them walk all over you. You’re pathetic. You don’t have to take it you know? There are things you can do to teach them respect. Grab your Leatherman and go stab Pierson in the face. Cut his eye from his head and show it to him. Show him your power, Roy. Show him that he can’t speak to you like that. That fucker deserves it.

  Roy shook his head, trying to stop the whispering. He reached into his desk drawer and took out a couple of pills the doctor had given him to help with the voices and walked swiftly to the bathroom to get some water. His shoulder twitched as the whispering continued in his ear and the hall began to roll counterclockwise as he walked. He felt himself leaning toward the wall as the floor began to rotate under his feet. Touching the wall, he dragged himself along it so that he wouldn’t fall over. He felt the panic rise inside him. He wished the room would stop spinning. He wanted quiet in his head. He just wanted peace.

  Roy burst through the bathroom door, his heart racing, and stumbled to the sink. He shoved the pills in his mouth, held on to the edge of the sink, cupped his hand under the faucet, and slurped water from his hand into his mouth, washing the pills down. After a few slurps he stood tall and looked at himself, swaying slightly in the mirror.

  He saw his combover standing straight up. Frowning and slightly embarrassed, he took his wet hand and matted the hair down across his balding head. He noticed the pen stain on his shirt and felt the shame crawl over his skin. He grabbed a paper towel, wetted it, and dabbed at the ink on his shirt, but the ink just turned a lighter shade of blue and spread the more he dabbed at it. His shirt stuck to his chest and he could see his pale flesh through the wet circle growing on his yellow shirt in the mirror.

  Frustration built inside of him as he looked himself in the eyes. Dark circles under his eyes accented a blanched face. He hated the way he looked; too fat, old clothes, and balding were just the tip of the iceberg. He had let himself go for a long time and it showed. He clenched his jaw, feeling the pressure build in his head and his chest. The voices kept yapping in his ear as waves of self loathing splashed over him, drowning him in his own thoughts.

  He covered his ears and squeezed his eyes shut. “Stop, stop, stop,” he whispered to himself, slamming both hands down on the edge of the sink in exasperation. He wanted to cry and scream and lash out all at the same time. He wanted out of himself. He thought of what it would feel like to take a knife and slice his skin open from his head to his feet and just step out of himself. He could barely contain the feeling of claustrophobia. It was hell. He wanted out.

  You could change all of that, Roy. Take the world by the balls. That Pierson fucker. Take it all out on him. He’s the one.

  Roy opened his eyes. The light above him started to flicker and he gazed up at it. The buzzing was growing louder and in rhythm with the flickering light. Something cold crept up his back, like icicles scratching up from his lower back to his shoulders. He shuddered and raised his shoulders as the frozen fingers went up along his neck, crawling along his scalp, and then dug into the top of his head. He opened his mouth to scream as he gaped at himself in the mirror—and saw blood streaming down his face.

  A toilet flushed. A trader walked out of the stall, buckling his belt. Roy’s mouth was wide open, his lungs filled with air, ready to scream. He caught the eye of the trader in the mirror as he exited the stall. The trader glanced at Roy suspiciously in the mirror. Roy looked away. The trader didn’t even wash his hands. He just left the bathroom in a hurry, leaving Roy in his misery, with his mouth dumbly open. Roy darted his eyes back to the mirror. The blood was gone. He felt dizzy and steadied himself at the sink, unclenching his teeth, shaking off the images and the noises, and then made his way back to his desk.

  ***

  “Yeah, man,” Pierson said. “I know it will…Yep…Look at the chart…wuh…hold on, the tech guy’s here.” Pierson laid the phone on his shoulder and looked at Roy. “What do you want?” he asked in a nasty tone.

  “I’m here to fix your video problem,” Roy said meekly.

  “I’m not done working. Come back at five.” Pierson picked the phone up off his shoulder and went back to his conversation.

  Roy stood there for a moment and the whispers resumed in his ear. He walked away before they got too loud.

  It was going to be a long night, he guessed. Pierson had done this to him before: made him wait around making personal phone calls or just talking with other traders when Roy had work to do for him. Roy thought he was doing it on purpose, and it made him hate Pierson all the more. He probably did it to mock Roy and show him who was boss. Roy went back to his desk and surfed the net. He had nothing else to do while he waited for Pierson to finish his work, or whatever it was that he was doing.

  At five, Roy sent him an instant message, asking him if he was ready. A half hour later there was still no response, so he went over to Pierson’s desk, where he saw Pierson sitting, enthralled, in his chair. There was a small video screen in the lower right corner of his monitor and Roy could just make out two guys and two girls involved in what looked like a very uncomfortable, yet enjoyable sexual position from the looks on their faces.

  He felt a rush of blood below his belt and had to put his hand in his pocket to try and hide the tent that was rising from his pants. Pierson didn’t seem to know he was behind him so watched the video for a while, until Pierson turned suddenly, realizing that someone else was there.

  “What the fuck, Harper!” he said. “Don’t you ever sneak up on me and look over my shoulder again, you got it?”

  Roy was still staring at the video.

  “You like that, Roy-boy?” Pierson taunted. “Only way you’d ever get some of that is by paying for it, I bet and even then, maybe not.” Pierson’s face twisted as he spoke. “Guys like you, Roy, you gotta pay for it, don’t ya? It’s the only way you can get laid. I mean, look at yourself. What woman would want to be with a guy like you unless you paid them?”

  Roy turned away from the video and glared at Pierson. He’s a motherfucker, Roy. Bury that telephone in his head. Pick it up and hit him over and over until he stops moving.

  “What?” Pierson said. “You got something to say?”

  Pierson stood. He was a full foot taller than Roy. Roy looked up at him, breathing heavy, the pressure in his head starting to build again. His visio
n became dark around the edges, so that only Pierson’s face was in focus and he felt his eyes bulge as if they were being pushed from behind by the stress in his head.

  Grab him by the balls, rip them off, and make him eat them, Roy.

  Pierson stood there for another moment, but said nothing. “Didn’t think so. Now fix my shit, bitch.” Pierson pushed past Roy and headed for the exit. The pressure in Roy’s head began to subside as he turned and watched Pierson go. Roy watched as the trader strutted past a few of the pretty young admins on his way to the exit. The girls turned and whispered, staring at Pierson’s fit figure as he swaggered out the double doors to the elevators. Roy sighed and sat down at Pierson’s desk to get to work.

  Before he shut down the computer, he pulled up the video again and watched some more of it. “You pig!” he heard from behind him. He whirled, startled, and saw it was one of the admins—this time, Amanda—standing over his shoulder. He spun back around and clicked the video off. He stared at the screen, embarrassed, and shut down the PC without saying a word to her. He finished the replacement process as quickly as he could and left for the night.

  ***

  Outside, it was hot for a late May afternoon. The smells of spring had fully invaded the city, and they mixed with the trash piled on the sidewalk for pickup. New York City stank in warm weather. All those tall buildings and the millions of people in them generated a huge amount of trash, which most supers just piled in bulging black bags on the side of the street for pickup. The sun cooked the detritus in the bags and the smell of roasting garbage and Dogwood blossoms made Roy want to vomit on his walk home to Hell’s Kitchen.

  Roy felt people’s eyes on him as he walked. He avoided looking directly at people, staring at his shoes or the cracks in the sidewalk as he hurried home. He took the less crowded streets even though it took longer, trying to keep calm and just get to where he lived without any voices or visions.

  On the corner of 50th and 8th, a homeless man with a heavy-down winter jacket, no shirt, tattered pants, and no shoes was muttering to himself as he strode in a tight circle, flailing his arms around him. Roy felt the revulsion and fear rise in him and his feet started to buzz and vibrate as he approached the agitated indigent man. Roy began a wide arc around the man well in advance, his face turned away, praying the light would change quickly so he could cross to the other side of 8th Avenue and get to his apartment without incident.

  The homeless man went quiet. Roy felt his eyes on him waiting for the walk sign across the street. He tried to ignore him, watching the red don’t walk sign, wishing it to change to the white walk sign. He smelled the man’s approach and turned just in time to see the man charge up to him, stopping inches from his face.

  “KILL HIM! KILL THE MOTHERFUCKER!” he shouted in Roy’s face. The homeless man’s face was a twisted swirl, distorted into an unrecognizable shape, like looking at someone through water going down a drain. Roy fell backward and into the garbage can on the street, knocking it over, and spilling the refuse into the crosswalk. He yelped like a little dog, crashing to the pavement, raising his hands to his face, trying to protect himself from the assault.

  A woman crossing the street shrieked. Roy glanced at her. She was staring in obvious horror at him. He swiveled back to where the homeless man had been standing—but he was gone. The man was gone. Roy staggered to his feet and the woman backed away. The lights changed. A taxi honked at the woman, who was still in the crosswalk. Roy darted across 8th Avenue and was halfway down the block before he stopped, panting and leaning against a building. He checked behind him as paranoia gripped him like a vise. He jogged the rest of the way home, glancing over his shoulder the whole way.

  ***

  It was late when Roy finally walked up the five flights of stairs to his crappy little apartment, got undressed, and ate his dinner of left-over pizza and cola in front the TV. There was an E! documentary on Anna Nicole Smith on. She reminded Roy of one of the girls in the video and he felt a mountain rise in his pants again. He glanced at his computer in the corner of the room thoughtfully as he stuck his hand under his gut and fondled himself, thinking about Anna Nicole Smith and the video. He got up, went to the computer, and logged on to watch some porn.

  Roy tried to pull up several videos, but for some reason, he couldn’t get anything to play no matter what site or video he tried. He was getting frustrated and losing his erection. He started tapping the keys harder and clicking the mouse furiously, trying to find a single video that worked, but kept getting a message telling him the video was loading and that damn swirling circle that never stopped turning.

  His tension was peaking when he saw a picture of a young-looking girl in the corner of the web page, scantily clad in a bra and panties. It was an advertisement. The ad said, “Click here to meet girls in your area.”

  Click it.

  Roy scratched his ear. The girl was blond and petite, except for her enormous breasts, which were barely contained by the smallest of bikini tops. Roy stared at her curves and thought about what was hidden under her those scant pieces of cloth. He started getting excited again.

  You want her. Click it, Roy. Take her.

  He clicked and several windows popped up with ads for multiple escort services. Roy looked around the room, nervous and embarrassed at what he was doing. It had been a long time since Roy had been with a woman. He heard Pierson’s voice in his head from earlier that evening and knew he was right, as much as he hated to admit it. He wanted to be with a woman and knew he had to pay for her company.

  “Screw it!” Roy said aloud and entered his name and cell phone number into the form, then clicked “send.”

  About thirty minutes and three-quarters of a pint of “everything but the kitchen sink” ice cream later, Roy’s cell phone buzzed. He stared at it for a moment, not recognizing the number but sure of who it was, afraid to pick it up. He licked his lips and tasted the ice cream residue left there from his last spoonful listening to the phone buzz on the table in front of him. He decided, lunged for it, swiped the screen, and answered the call.

  “Um, huh…hullo,” Roy said, nervously.

  A raspy woman’s voice on the phone said, “Is this Roy Harper?”

  Roy froze. He didn’t answer.

  “You there?” The voice sounded a little annoyed.

  “Um, I…ah…” Roy stuttered. He took a deep breath. “Hey, um, yes, this is Roy.”

  “You a cop?”

  “No, I’m not a cop,” Roy said. He was all in now.

  “Good,” she said. “Just so you know, this is a date only. No sex. You feel me?”

  “I…I understand,” Roy said.

  “Good,” she said. “Where are we meeting?”

  “Um…can you come here?”

  “Na-ah, honey. Not on a first date. I’m not that kind of girl. Where are you?”

  “Manhattan. Hell’s Kitchen.”

  “Meet me at Alibi’s on 47th and 10th. I’ll be in a black miniskirt and leopard shirt.”

  “O…Okay.”

  “In an hour.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Lizette. See you soon…Roy.”

  She hung up the phone. Roy held the phone to his face listening to the blank air for a moment, not sure if that had really just happened.

  Get dressed and go.

  He looked around the room, found his pants, and pulled them on. He put on his shoes and was about to walk out the door to head over to the bar when he caught a look at himself in the mirror, and saw he was still wearing the yellow polo with the blue ink stain. He stripped it off angrily, and saw that there were scrapes around his neck, like marks from fingernails. Remembering the icicle fingers from the bathroom at work, his heart started beating rapidly. He touched the coarse, clotted scratches on his neck and rubbed at them sending flecks of dried blood fluttering to his shoulder and the floor. He rubbed harder, gritting his teeth, and the scratches opened up and started to bleed.

  Roy’s finger
slipped under the skin of his neck. He felt the moist, squishy tissue, and his jaw dropped open dumbly. He dug his finger deeper, its shape bulging through the skin of his neck. A moan escaped his mouth as two more of his fingers went under his skin. He could feel the raw, warm sinews of muscle and blood on his fingertips. It felt good rubbing under his skin, like scratching an itch he couldn’t reach before.

  The mirror shattered. Roy screeched. He ran to the bathroom, his hand still under the skin of his neck. He removed his hand and saw in the bathroom mirror the blood flow from his neck, down his chest, soaking his shirt. He shrieked and opened the medicine cabinet, not sure what he was looking for but trying to find something to stop the bleeding. He grasped at the bottles and bandages in the cabinet, fumbled them in his bloody hands, and they crashed to the floor, lying in his blood. “No! No! No!” he shouted and dropped to the floor with a thud to pick up the bandages and bottle of alcohol.

  “What the fuck is going on up there!” he heard his neighbor below him shout. Then he heard banging on the radiator pipes. His neighbor was hitting them with a hammer again, his way of telling Roy to knock off the noise. Roy stood and held his breath, bandages in one hand and alcohol in the other. He saw himself in the mirror. He wasn’t bleeding. There were no scratches on his neck. He whimpered and put the bandages and the alcohol back in the medicine cabinet. He grabbed two more of the pills the doctor had prescribed and chewed them down, wincing at the bitter chalkiness of the tablets.

  He stomped back into the living room, still reeling from what he’d just experienced. The mirror was intact. It wasn’t broken. He saw the crazed look on his face in the mirror and darted his eyes away. A black shirt lay on the chair beside him. He put it on and smoothed his combover with the palm of his hand and the sweat from his balding head. He grabbed his keys and left, slamming the door behind him.