Horrorbook
Page 27
Her snickering was cut short as he fell on top of her, his cold lips brushing hers.
Fucking men—what do they do to me again? No matter.
She cackled as her brain went haywire, no hope, no love, only conquest and sickness. She reached down and played with his soft cock while she made out with him. She thrust her hips forward and stuck the tip of his penis into her sex. Hot piss filled her vagina while his shit came out in clumps and rolled down her ass.
Squishy, that.
The smell didn’t bother her. Nothing did, except for this disease, this insanity, all that was wrong with the world. When she came, she rolled him off her and went back to sleep.
Adriana woke when her husband shook her shoulder. “Honey, wake up.”
She stirred on the bed, blinking her eyes against the sun shining in the window. She remembered killing him now. Must’ve had a night terror. I’ll call Doctor Conover tomorrow and tell him I need to go back. “What time is it?” she mumbled.
“You’ve got an hour before work.” He got out of bed. “Can I take a shower before you?”
“Um-hmm.” She rolled over. “Wake me when you’re done.”
“Sure thing.”
She lost consciousness.
Monday.
Adriana woke after the sun had set. Did I sleep all day? Oh shit, I pulled a no-show! For some reason, she lay on the edge of the bed. She felt slimy down below. Wow, we must’ve really gone at it last night. Adriana wrinkled her nose at the putrefying smell, recognizing one of her hubby’s almost-lethal methane gas farts. He must be home from work, having decided to hit the sheets after a tough day.
She got out of bed. She needed a cigarette and some coffee.
Adriana stumbled into the bathroom, turned on the light and stared her reflection in the mirror.
Her chin was covered in blood. Yellow piss crusted on her legs. Wide-eyed, she turned around to check her ass to see what felt sticky back there. Traces of dark-brown shit caked her butt cheeks. Her eyes goggled, her frame shook, a nervous breakdown poked at her mind with ghostly, bony fingers.
She looked at her watch. It read 5:00 a.m.
She could barely walk back into the bedroom. Creeping, stumbling, she turned on the light . . .
Afterword
Since most of these tales harbor horrors that could occur in real life, perhaps tonight you’d better take special care to lock up tight. Not only should you double-check to see if your doors are locked, but also your windows, as that’s how The Night Stalker, Richard Ramirez, gained entry to his victims’ abodes. And just in case someone broke into your house when you weren’t at home and is hiding, I’d check the closets, behind the shower curtains, and under the beds if I was you. I’d grab a weapon first, of course.
And those calls to your phone when someone hangs up after you pick up, ever wondered about them? I do. I think a criminal’s at the other end of the line, casing the place, finding out if you’re home. I’ve been missing little things around the apartment, and I’m waiting for bigger things to perform a vanishing act.
But I could be wrong. It could be an escapee from a mental hospital with a score to settle.
If it was me, I’d have ten Rottweilers and ten pit bulls that would eat anything that came onto my property, a tall gate with barbed wire at the top (plus an armed guard in a hut) and a machine gun kept close to the bed or the couch during waking hours. If you’re well-informed, you know people snap every day and kill people close to them . . . or strangers.
And how about a house fire? Are you prepared for an arsonist? That’s another kind of violent criminal, a murderer if he gets lucky. You mustn’t take the batteries out of your smoke detectors just because they go off every time you cook. At least put the batteries back in at bedtime.
After all, these days, being paranoid is just good thinking. —A. R. Braun, October 2012
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