Keys jingle, then a snap when one slips into the lock and turns. The door creeps open. A middle-aged man, with graying hair and black wire-rimmed glasses, pokes his head around the door. A coy smile creeps across his face as he steps into the room and approaches Stephanie. She recoils, but her bonds keep her pinned to the bed. There’s no escape. The man sits on the bed, reaches out a gentle hand and strokes her cheek. She tries to pull away, every inch of her contracting on her small frame. She crinkles like a plastic bag in an oven. He leans over and kisses her forehead.
She mumbles into her gag in protest. The frail old man in the wire-rimmed glasses, lays his hands on her face, trails them to the back of her head and releases the gag.
Stephanie coughs and gasps deep labored breaths. She realizes this man may not be her captor, but her savior. He stands walks over to a table beneath the window and pours a glass of water. A robin lands on the branch of the maple tree; he stares at the bird and that same smile creeps across his face.
The water overflows from the glass and spills onto the table. “Oh fiddlesticks,” he says. The man pulls a towel from beneath a water basin and carefully cleans the table.
Back by the bed he holds the glass to Stephanie’s lips and helps her drink, her body still bound to the bed, the nylon rope snaking through the frame. She nods her head signifying she has had enough. The man sets the glass on the nightstand.
“Thank you,” Stephanie whispers. The smile returns to the man’s face. “You’re welcome… you know you’re not at all what I expected you to be.”
Stephanie cocks her head to the side, puzzled, “What do you mean? Who are you? What’s going on? Why am I here?”
The man drops his head and fiddles with his fingers; he sinks back onto the bed and looks up, a sad expression in his eyes, “You don’t recognize me?”
“Should I?”
The man’s chest rises two inches then deflates as he lets out a sigh. “You really don’t know anything, do you.”
“About what? What is this place? Who are you? Why am I tied up like this?” her breathing frantic as her world becomes smaller. The more she panics, the larger his smile gets.
“Calm down. God, you are so ridiculous, you know that? There is no reason to get all excited over nothing.” The man leans over, retrieves the glass of water and holds it to Stephanie’s lips. “Come on drink this, you’ll feel better.”
“What is it?”
The smile dissolves from his face. “Its … water… are you really this paranoid? Or are you just that stupid? You’ve already drank from this glass, you’ve tasted it.”
“Well how do I know there isn’t something else in it, maybe you’re trying to poison me?”
The corners of the man’s mouth upturn. “Stephanie, if I wanted to poison you, I would have done it already.”
“How do you know my name? Are you a psychic?”
The smile retreats, he slams the glass on the nightstand and walks over to an antique mahogany wardrobe. “I wasn’t sure until right now if you were just some horrible self-indulgent, self-righteous, self-important, self-involved canker on the earth, or so ignorant you didn’t know that what you were doing was reprehensible. But now, after that little display, I know it’s both.”
The man opens the doors to the wardrobe to reveal a collection of torture devices, whips, restraints, knives, needles, hammers, and blocks of wood. Stephanie struggles against her restraints trying to free herself, as the man pulls a sledge hammer and a block of wood from the back of the closet and walks back to the bed.
Stephanie claws at the bed searching for a way out, anything she can grab onto to defend herself with. There is nothing. The man sets the block of wood between her legs on the bed.
“What are you doing?” she screams.
The man shakes his head, adjusts the restraints on her wrists, grabs the block of wood and slips it between her arm and the mattress.
“Are you going to kill me?” Stephanie queries in a panicked vibrato.
“That’s the first good question you have asked. No.” The man tightens the rope to secure the block in place.
“What are you doing?”
The man raises the sledgehammer over his head, “Making it so you can never hurt anyone ever again.”
He swings the hammer down, shattering her wrist.
Stephanie vomits a low guttural scream.
The man lowers the hammer and releases the block of wood. He walks to the other side of the bed, slips the block between the mattress and her arm, raises the hammer and crushes her left wrist; the shock of this blow pulls Stephanie back into consciousness.
She screams and cries uncontrollably.
The man walks back to the closet and carefully returns the wood and the hammer before taking out a large pair of scissors and forceps.
Stephanie through muffled tears asks, “Why are you doing this to me?”
The man stabs the scissors into the mattress. “I already told you, so you will never hurt anyone ever again.”
“What are you talking about? I’ve never hurt anyone.”
The man pulls the scissors out of the mattress; an explosion of cotton falls on Stephanie’s legs. “Are you kidding me? You have tortured millions of people for years, with your so called writing.”
Recognition finally comes to Stephanie. “My books? This is all about my novels?”
The man rushes to her, pressing the scissors to her throat, “Novels? What you write are not novels. Austen, Tolstoy, Tolkien, Gaiman; they write novels. What you write isn’t worthy of that title.”
Stephanie forgets herself. “People love my books, I have made millions of dollars, and the films are even more popular. People love me.”
“People are sheep… I’ll give you this, the movies are much better than the books, but that’s because they hired someone to actually write them, with plausible story structure, and consistency.”
“If it wasn’t for my novels, there wouldn’t be source material for them to write from.”
“Stop calling them novels… you know what? That is true. If you hadn’t written those awful books, then maybe the stories would be better.” The man releases the scissors from her throat and sets the forceps on her cheek. “Stick out your tongue.”
“No.”
“Stick out your tongue!”
Stephanie turns her head away from him. “I still think it’s unfair to say my books aren’t novels.”
“You are a petulant child. How old are you? Forty? Fortyfive?”
“I’m 36 on Christmas Eve. I was born on the same day as Jesus. I’m a good person, a Mormon, and a mother. Don’t do this.”
“Stick out your tongue. I can’t listen to this incessant rant anymore.”
Stephanie clamps her mouth shut.
“You’re really going to make me do this?”
The man climbs on the bed, sets the scissors on her chest and straddles Stephanie. Holding the forceps in his right hand, he presses them into her lips.
She stops them with her teeth.
He raises his left arm and with his index and thumb pinches her nose. “You are only making this harder on yourself.”
Stephanie stares at him pleadingly, her body tense as the need to take a breath consumes her, and the smile creeps across his face, manic and childlike now. Stephanie gasps for air and the man clutches her tongue with the forceps.
He releases her nose, transfers the forceps to his left hand, picks up the scissors from her chest and takes them in his right hand.
Stephanie mumbles one last please, as the man in the black wire frame glasses slips the blades around her tongue and closes them. His deed complete, he wipes the blood from the scissors onto her shirt, releases the portion of her tongue into the glass of water on the nightstand, walks over to the wardrobe, puts the scissors and the forceps in their proper place, closes it, turns, and walks to the door.
Stephanie mumbles incoherently choking on her own blood.
He stops to stare at
her from the door and shakes his head. “Vampires burn in the sun, they don’t fucking glisten. That’s the gayest thing I’ve ever heard, vampires that fucking sweat glitter.”
He turns and slams the door behind him.
RITA STRADLING
Rita Stradling brings to life her most feverish nightmares, tantalizing imaginings and colorful fantasies. Whether she is writing for young or aged minds, she always introduces an element of the supernatural. Rita lives with her husband and baby son on the edge of an ancient forest in Northern California.
M ONSTER
What evil prowls outside my window?
Who needs rescue? Who can be saved from the calculating daemons of the night?
[email protected]
Monster
Rita Stradling
Copyright © Rita Stradling 2009 Wha
What is that?
I open my eyes.
Is there someone in here? Who’s that? What’s that sound? I strain to listen. I can’t hear anything.
I’m going back to sleep.
There it is again.
I try to concentrate on the noise.
It sounds likelike ababy.
My eyes lids close, I peel them open. I need to wake up, but
everything is blurry. My throat hurts. I need some water. There is that sound again, I raise my head and look around.
Where is that crying coming from? The noise can’t be from inside my
room, it soundsmuffled.
Ok, I’m getting up.
I sit and peer around once more. Wait, I already checked my
room. I feel dizzy.
The moonlight illuminates my clutter.
My stuff is everywhere. I must’ve knocked over my dresser when I
snuck in last night, I don’t remember that.
Ugh, I’m never going to drink again! Well at least not until
graduation. No, prom, I’m not going to drink until prom. Oh my god, I’m going to puke!
What am I doing? Oh! The baby! There is a baby crying somewhere. This is so strange; there is no way that sound could be coming from
the neighbors’ house. They live way too far away. This baby is close. My head hurts.
I climb over the shambles of my room to move to my door. What is that smell? Ew, I do not remember vomiting. Oh, I feel
queasy again.
I pick up a wet towel from my bed and cover the pool of sick
on the floor. I’ll deal with that tomorrow.
Pushing my clothes aside I open my door.
No, the wailing is not coming from inside the house.
“Mom?” I whisper.
There’s no answer.
“Mom?” I say a little louder.
She doesn’t respond.
Wow, my hair smells awful, like old beer and cigarettes. Maybe it’s
better if my mom doesn’t wake up. I close the door as quietly as I can. I turn to my room and look out of my sliding doors, which lead to the balcony. The moon is huge; no wonder there is so much light.
The crying is getting louder and higher pitched. I trip and stumble across my room.
Ouch! That hurt so badly, what was that? Glass, I stepped on a damn piece of glass and now my foot is bleeding all over the carpet. I extract the shard and hobble over to my sliding doors to force them open.
Oh no, I forgot to lock them again! I need to quit doing that.
The misty night air is freezing, I feel more awake now. I step outside. Ops, I am only wearing a shirt and underwear. The boards are cold and slippery I should put on some sandals.
I can’t believe what I am seeing; there is a baby on the grass! Who would leave an infant on the ground? He’s only wrapped in a little blanket. He must be freezing.
What the hell!
Should I walk through the house to reach him? No, then my mom would wake up. I should carry the little guy inside first, and then I’ll clean up a bit before I wake my mom.
Should I put on pants? No, I have no time; I need to save that child!
I throw my leg over the railing; wow, that’s cold on my skin. Scooting off the balcony and onto the roof I scrape my thigh. Maybe I’m still drunk.
This is a bad idea, I’m not thinking straight. I should have gone through the house. My cut is getting dirty and I’m bleeding all over the roof. Also, how am I going to carry that baby up the lattice?
The baby’s crying is getting more intense; I have to rescue him now!
Laying my stomach on the rough sand paper shingles, I dangle my legs over the edge of the roof in order to catch hold of the vine-entangled lattice with my feet. My cut is dripping blood down the white lattice; how am I going to explain this to my mom? I climb down the wood frame and jump off the last four feet. I have to be fast.
The dew-covered grass is ice cold. Now my feet are caked in mud and blood; this is a terrible idea.
I look around. I can’t see anyone else in my yard. What if someone left this baby here to lure me outside and kill me?
I shouldn’t think of things like that. Now I’m terrified.
I need to help that little child.
The squish, squishing sound of my feet on the grass makes my heartbeat accelerate.
The little guy is wrapped up tight at least. I hope he’s not too cold.
There is something wrong with that baby. His eyes, there is something wrong with his eyes. They are all black, no color, and no white. This baby must have seen something awful. I have to bring him inside.
I swaddle his wrappings tighter around him and hold him close to my chest. His blankets are all wet from the dew. I should take him to a hospital.
Screw the cigarette smell! I’m just going to walk in through the front door. Clutching him tight I run across the yard to my door.
He stopped crying; maybe I am doing something right.
The door is locked.
I bang on the wood.
Mom, where are you?
I hit the door again. “Mom!”
She must be out cold.
“Mom it’s an emergency! Open the door!”
There is no reaction from inside, no sounds and no lights being turned on.
What is going on? I whimper involuntarily; I feel like crying.
Well I do not want to wait down here for whatever horrified the boy.
I gather him in a strong one-handed hold and climb up the lattice.
“There is a monster,” The baby whispers. His voice is sweet and chilling.
A monster, that is great, as if the situation isn’t bad enough.
Wait, shit, that baby talked. Babies can’t talk that young.
Maybe someone slipped me something last night at the party. I feel nauseous; maybe I’m on some kind of drug.
I look at him; he’s sucking on one of his fingers. He looks like an angel, the only thing off are those eyes
This is too weird. I need to carry this baby inside, eat something, and then call 911.
I tighten my hold around him as I clamber up to the top of the lattice.
“He is five percent jagged claws.” He grabs a lock of my hair and pulls.
I try to ignore the baby’s words, I’m just hallucinating he’s talking.
The roof juts out three feet from the lattice.
How am I going to lift this bundle onto the roof? I usually do a pull up, but I do not know how to do that holding an infant.
“He is eighty percent scales, thirty percent razor sharp teeth”
I wish the little guy would stop talking so I could concentrate.
Knowing the action could end disastrously, I raise the child and balance him on the rain gutter. I keep one hand there to make sure he’s secure.
I know this is a bad idea, damn it.
“Twenty percent going to suck your blood, one hundred percent going to kill you”
Shut up baby, you are not helping!
I take in a deep breath and swing my body up to do a pull up.
Yes,
the little guy is stable! Oh my god, If I had dropped that baby, but I didn’t.
I gather him into a snug hold.
“He is two-hundred percent flesh eating, five-hundred percent bone crunching.”
What was that? I whip my gaze to the shrubs behind my garage. Something is in the bushes groaning! There really is something else out there!
This is freaky; I want to move inside now.
I stand with difficulty on the rough roof.
Great, more scrapes.
“He’s ninety percent daemon”
I sprint across the shingles and kick my leg over the balcony railing.
“And three-hundred percent evil”
I yank open the glass door and step inside. Sliding the door shut I click the lock into place.
The baby and I gaze at each other.
“But he’s twenty percent a sweet, cute and cuddly baby.” His black eyes open wide.
I need to drop him! I can’t drop a baby
WENDY SWORE
Born a crop-duster’s daughter in Sacramento, CA, I lived in several states before my family settled in Pocatello, ID. While attending ISU, I met Mike, a farm boy with a computer brain, who wrote me during my 4 month stay in Europe, and asked me to marry him upon my return.
I spend my summers working our truck-bed farm along with our five young children. After the sweet-corn harvest, thousands of people come to learn about agriculture in my educational corn maze and farm tours.
Writing is my guilty pleasure for winter. My first YA novel follows Jenna, a farm girl, as she struggles against a lurking menace on the Sho-Ban Indian reservation. My next deals with arson and a girl’s race against devastation. An avid reader myself, I hope you enjoy my short stories.
L ETTING GO. Ryan despairs as his wife sinks into an inexplicable and severe depression. She ignores his pleas to seek help and teeters on the edge of madness. When the solution comes, he hopes for a reconciliation of their relationship, but learns that there are worse things than loneliness.
T HE FOUNDATION. Weary of her husband’s raging demands for perfection, Trina ponders whether there is anything left of their marriage worth saving, or if she and the children would be better off alone. She tells her husband, Ben, that their marriage is as rotted and feeble as an old dead tree...or is it?
Menage_a_20_-_Tales_with_a_Hook Page 21