by David Reuben
The man’s black hooked mouth showed a compassionate but unyielding smile.
“Yeah, I know,” David said taking the cup and raising it to his lips, “no goddam refunds.”
From the ranks on the back wall, jars of amber liquid caught the light and glowed like bulbs on the midway, each one an anxious welcoming eye. He drank, amazed at how sweet and oily the brine was, and then knelt by his jar to wait, even as his arms shrank to slender, infirm stalks. They did this rapidly, like deflating balloons. He only wanted to be away for a little while, he thought, picturing Monica and Trey speeding to the hospital to have the boy checked over. He wondered what they would find when they came back. Funny how a little while can become an eternity.
He raised his cup, demanding to have more of the sweet and acrid juice flowing through his guts, wanting this part of it to be over, craving the silent safety of the waiting jar.
Above him, the black-suited man watched quietly and nodded and smiled his shy painted smile.
SHE SAID
By Craig A. McDonough
All she said was, “Hello, my name is Miranda. I live in the house across the street.” That was all it took for me to become completely infatuated.
I paid with my life for that obsession. It was a little over twenty-four hours since I had first noticed her, and began watching out for her. But what I didn’t know was that she was really watching me.
I should have taken more notice.
When I first moved to my new address six months ago, the house across the street was of no interest. I was so busy with the move I didn’t have the time to stickybeak. I do remember thinking that it was a much older house than the other houses in the neighborhood.
Once all the paperwork had been done and the unpacking completed, I began to take a bit more of an interest in the house across the street. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was being drawn to it.
I should have taken notice of that.
That I hadn’t seen any movement there at all caused me to believe it was vacant. However, the lawns were well-kept and the hedges trimmed. It was feasible that a gardener came while I was away at work; that made sense. Still, I hadn’t seen anyone at all and there were no lights on at night. Surely the house was vacant.
Then one warm summer night I got up from my bed to get a cold drink from the fridge. It was around midnight I think, and I grabbed some ice-cold water, but instead of heading back to bed, I stopped by my front window and glanced at the house across the street. A small light shone from a room on the second floor. As I watched, I could see the light moving from room to room, leading me to believe it was candlelight.
“So there IS someone living there!” I said aloud.
Curiosity got the better of me, and I kept the house under surveillance for the rest of the night. Staying up wasn’t a problem—I didn’t have to be at the office the next day and could catch up on sleep later. An hour or so later, I saw her for the first time when she exited her front door.
Even from this distance I could see that she was beautiful, enticing. Her long black hair hung to the small of her back, and I could make out thick, dark eyebrows that arched over deep-set eyes. Red lips glowed like burning embers against pale skin that gave off an eerie glow. Although it was dark outside, I could see her so clearly, as if she was being projected to me. Perhaps she was. She wore a soft, white evening dress reminiscent of the early 1950s, with a plunging neckline that was quite revealing. A white shawl draped over her shoulders completed her outfit. She moved as if carried by gossamer wings, floating on the night air itself.
I should have taken more notice of that.
I watched her open the garage door from the safety of drawn curtains. Inside her garage was a black 1949 Buick Roadmaster, still in showroom condition. I remember the make very well because my dad owned one when I was a kid. There wasn’t a mark on this beauty—the car or her, as a matter of fact—the whitewall tires glowing as bright as the street lights above. A car this old shouldn’t be running, let alone be in perfect condition. The car fascinated me, but not as much as she.
The Roadmaster also moved as if supported on a cushion of air. I stayed awake all night watching the house, waiting for her return and hoping to catch another glimpse. I tried to think of ways that I could introduce myself that didn’t seem like an obvious come-on. Most of all, I wondered who she was and why it had taken so long before I finally laid eyes on her. I also wondered about that damn car.
Finally, about an hour before dawn I heard the purring engine of that immaculate Buick as she returned to her house. Again I watched from the safety of my drawn curtains as she eased the car into the garage. Stepping almost delicately from behind the wheel, she glided her way once more to her front door. Just before entering she paused, looking from side to side, searching. Suddenly she turned and looked directly at me—through the darkness and the distance, through the curtains—right into my eyes. How could she have known that I was there, in the dark, hidden as I was?
My knees trembled, the small hairs on the back of my neck stood erect, and my lower abdomen twisted into a knot. Her eyes bore right through me, like an X-ray. I felt ashamed. I had been caught out like a common peeping tom, and had become root-bound to the floor with the shock of my uncovering. Her glare had a hypnotic but enchanting quality. Then she called to me, eased my concerns. Her eyes conveyed a message; I could read it in my mind.
“Worry not, I shall see you soon.”
I became excited at the prospect of our meeting. “What will I say?” I asked myself. As she turned to go inside, it seemed her complexion had changed. She had more color, and was somehow more vibrant.
I should have taken more notice of that.
Eventually I fell asleep on the couch. I had been awake all night, first due to the heat, and then the excitement of finally seeing my neighbor, who happened to be the most stunning and alluring woman I had ever laid eyes on.
When I awoke midmorning I immediately returned to the front window to look at the house across the street, hoping to catch another glimpse of the enchanting vision I had chanced upon only a few hours before. The rest of the day I kept a vigil on her house, watching for any movement and listening for any sounds. When nothing had happened for several hours I began to think about taking another nap, but that idea was interrupted when, a few minutes after two o’clock in the afternoon, my next-door neighbor came by to return the cordless drill he had borrowed from me earlier in the week.
“Wasn’t the moon great last night?” he asked, handing back the drill.
I looked at him blankly. “The full moon,” he repeated, “don’t tell me you didn’t see it?”
“No, I didn’t,” I finally answered, “must’ve fallen asleep early. Overworked and underpaid!” I tried to make light of the conversation; I wasn’t about to confess my voyeuristic activities.
“Well, it’ll be pretty full again tonight,” he said. “Thanks again for the drill.” He waved from the end of my driveway.
“There was a full moon last night?” I said to myself, closing the door. Somewhere in the back of my mind I heard a voice.
You should have taken notice of that.
As the hours until nightfall approached I kept an enthusiastic eye on the house across the street. Tonight I would keep a watch for the moon. As darkness began to fall, my thoughts turned to food, and I realized I had not eaten since I’d started my nocturnal activities the previous night. I rushed into the kitchen to prepare a snack, but was alerted to her return by the sound of a car door slamming.
It’s her. I know it’s her… it has to be her!
I ran back into the living room to my spot beside the window. Another glimpse of her before turning in, that’s all I wanted. I shifted the curtains ever so slightly from the side of the window frame. It was perhaps a little too much but I had to see her again—had to! My throat tightened when I saw her impeccable 1949 Buick Roadmaster sitting in MY driveway! Before I could compose myself there was a knock on
my front door.
That must be her. My powers of deduction, even under stress, amazed me at times.
Timidly, and with shaking hands, I answered the door.
All she said was, “Hello, my name is Miranda. I live in the house across the street.” That was enough.
I’m sure my mouth dropped open at the sight of her. She was less than an arm’s reach away. Her sultry eyes penetrated and lured me in, an invitation I couldn’t resist. Her skin glowed as if lit from within, and her blood red lips tempted me to a place I could never even have imagined. All I could see, hear, feel, was her. Maybe it was my imagination, but I swear I could see her breasts heaving with every breath she took.
“I’m ah, my name is …” my voice trailed off. I tried to speak, but couldn’t—I was as tongue-tied as a teenager in the seventies would be if he chanced to meet Raquel Welch in a bikini.
“Bates,” she said, smiling mischievously, “you’re Jeremy Bates. It says so on your mailbox.”
“Oh, ah, yeah,” I laughed nervously, “it does say that.”
“My hot water system seems to be having some trouble, and I was wondering if you might be able to take a look at it?” she continued, “I know nothing of these things.” I detected a slight accent in her voice, maybe Scottish or perhaps Irish.
“Sure, I can t-t-take a look at it,” I stuttered. I was literally trembling.
Without even bothering to shut my front door behind me, I followed her to the waiting Buick. She opened the passenger door for me, and drove us the whole fifty yards across the street to her house. The car was as immaculate on the inside as it was on the outside. I idly noticed there were no keys in the ignition, but was so captivated by this woman that I gave it no further thought.
I should have taken more notice of that.
“It’s just down the hallway here,” she said, letting me in the front door. Everything inside the house looked brand new, but from another, earlier era. It was as if I was taking a tour of a museum, or had stepped into a time machine.
“Here it is,” she purred as we reached the middle of the hallway, “the hot water unit is here in the cellar.”
I wanted so much just to look at her, at her red lips and her dark lustrous hair, to gaze longingly at her cleavage, but lacked the courage to do so. Something in the back of my mind told me this was not a woman one would “undress with your eyes,” as you would the girls that packed Sammy’s Bar and Grill on Saturday nights.
She leaned forward to open the door for me, exposing more of the milky-white skin of her breasts. I tore my eyes away lest I be caught staring!
“The foolish people that built this house put the light switch at the bottom of the stairs. Can you believe it?” she said, while I looked cautiously through the doorway.
I didn’t answer. So fascinated was I with her that I had lost the power of speech.
The first three steps were illuminated by the hallway light, but after that there was only darkness.
“If you stay close to the wall and move slowly, you’ll be okay,” I heard her say. “The switch is at the bottom, just after the last step. On your left.”
I eased down the steps one at a time. I thought that perhaps after I got this done she might ask me to stay for a drink; even a coffee would be nice. I kept my left hand on the wall to guide me and inched along slowly. I felt for the fourth step with my toes, balanced myself, and reached for the fifth step. My toes inched forward but I couldn’t feel the next step, so I reached out just a bit further. An instant later I was flailing through the air before landing hard on the cellar floor.
There was no fifth step!
I don’t know how long I remained unconscious, but I seemed to drift in and out of strange visions, dark, mysterious, and surreal images that were periodically replaced by images of blood. My blood. I was also aware, in my comatose state, of a piercing pain in my neck.
I fantasized about Miranda. Of her long silky hair wafting gently in the breeze, of her milky-white skin that glowed in the night. These pleasant dreams charmed me, played with me … danced with me. When fully captivated by these images, an abrupt change would occur. A fanged demon with hideous glowing eyes would appear, accompanied by visions of the full moon. It would be during these demon visions that the sharp pain in my neck would be most intense. I heard a voice, ominous and distant, calling out to me.
You should have taken more notice, you really should have.
A deafening thud echoed in the back of my disoriented brain, waking me, freeing me from the demon’s torment. I shook my stupefied head, hoping it would help me focus on my surroundings. I realized that the thundering crash that woke me was a heavy door being slammed. I heard it again, with slightly sharper senses. I also thought I heard the sound of a hoofed animal walking over cobblestones, but put that down as part of my malaise.
My consciousness returned but my breathing was labored and heavy. I felt mentally and physically weak. I became aware too that my wrists and ankles were restrained by chains that had been bolted into the brick wall behind me. I was being held captive.
Again I heard the ‘clip-clopping’ of hooves, this time closer. Light from a single candle burning on the opposite side of the room showed there was no furniture in my cell save the small table the candle sat upon.
The stench of rotting meat and the putrid odor of human waste filled the air. I struggled feebly against my restraints to the chorus of approaching hooves. In my endeavors to free myself from these shackles, I detected the outline of three other men in the dim light, also manacled to the wall.
I could see now what fate had in store for me. These men had been chained here long ago, never again to see the light of day.
I struggled harder to free myself, but I had no strength. In desperation I tried to scream for help, but I had no voice. I felt so weak I simply collapsed, held upright only by my manacles and chains. My head fell onto my chest, and I saw the blood on my shirt for the first time. My collar too felt moist. I could not see a way out of my predicament, but I kept repeating, “I have to get away, I have to get away.” Whether it was out loud or only inside my mind, I couldn’t say.
The room spun about suddenly when my head was violently wrenched upward. Miranda stood in front of me, clutching my hair in her hand. No longer did she look like the appealing mystery woman across the street; she was, as a matter of fact, downright ghastly.
“So I see you have finally woken.” Her voice was now low and raspy, and her breath reeked of an open sewer.
“Who or what are you?” I managed to say.
“That is of no concern to you,” she said. “These other gentlemen,” she continued, twisting my head, “they supplied me with my nutritional needs, saving me from venturing into the uncertain night. But they were older than you, their hearts couldn’t hold out.”
I looked back at the repulsive Miranda, not with dread in my heart or terror in my soul, but with resignation. This must be what it’s like to be a lab animal, I reasoned. She took a step closer and an icy cold shaft of fear shot up my back, returning me to a state of panic.
Her once-luxurious jet black hair had been replaced with frizzy streaks of grey and white, the whites of her eyes now red-blood red. She smiled playfully at me, shaking my head once more, and a lump formed in my throat when I saw the two large central incisors protruding from her mouth, jagged, yellow, and old. I understood then how the wound to my neck had occurred. I knew this wasn’t an average woman when I first saw her, but this—this I had never imagined in my worst nightmares.
“You’re nice and strong, I think I’ll keep you around for some time,” she said. “Might even feed you from time to time.” She ran the tip of her tongue across the sharp teeth, then abruptly let go of my hair. My head plummeted forward, and my chin bounced hard on my chest.
I wasn’t a lab rat, I was her food supply!
I looked down past my blood-streaked shirt, beyond the toes of my shoes, to the hem of my captor’s dress. As she turned to le
ave the split in her dress flew open, and to my utter horror there, in front of my very eyes, were the legs of a goat, cloven hoofs and all. My pulse raced, my heart pounded, and in my mind I cried, What on earth have I gotten myself into?
This time I did take notice.
THE HAPPY PLACE
By Derrick Lacombe
"Hilbert, honey, go to your happy place when I pull off this band-aid," his mother would say.
That's how Hilbert remembered it; to go to his happy place for protection from all bad things. Now at thirty-one years old, yet again, he had to go to his happy place because of a jerk boss, Mr. Battleman. But this time, his special place didn't feel the same, nor did it have the beautiful colors or wonderful scenery. Somehow, he thought, everything looks the same color. He breathed the stale air deeply, could feel stiffness to it. Rounding a street corner, bullies from his younger years appeared. His chest tightened. The bullies made a beeline towards him. Left to right were Sammy Da’ Booger Flicker from third grade; Too Tall Sally from sixth grade, who’d trip him with her exceedingly long legs; and a leather clad Metal Head from the eleventh grade, who’d take his lunch money. They advanced, all the while mocking him. He tried an old trick, and clenched his eyes together tightly to get out of the unfamiliar place, but he was stuck on the sidewalk. The bullies parted and started flanking him.
“Why am I not in my happy place?” he nervously asked. They mocked him even louder, their venom seemingly causing the skies to darken. A wave of nausea compounded a burgeoning migraine. He knew a beating was imminent, and then, unexpectedly, he was at the gates of the old amusement park known for one thing: "The Drop!" A rollercoaster so high, everyone looked like dots below. It was his second most hated thing; the next thing he knew, he was standing in line for the ride with everyone pushing him forward. He vomited, and suddenly was thrust into the last car of the rollercoaster: the whip position. Terrified and shaking, he sat frozen as the lap bar went down just above his thighs, but it wiggled too much for his liking. He tried to get the attendant’s assistance, but the car took off with a strong lurch. Laughter erupted as if from a television sound track as Car number 13 whizzed up the giant first hill. He squeezed his eyes together tighter than ever before. To his relief the car stopped. When he reopened his eyes, a humongous sign in the parking lot exclaimed, “Like your happy place now, HILBERT?” The air swirled and he became even more horrified when the car jerked forward, causing the lap bar to loosen further. He tried to force it down, but the next thing he knew, his guts churned and his cheeks were flapping from the hurricane force winds that assaulted him. Then, he was in some rough seas in the Gulf of Mexico in a boat. A fishing pole was in his hands. When the pole bent so much that it nearly snapped in half, he squeezed his eyes shut extra hard; he couldn’t fathom what was going on. He opened his eyes in time to see a large triangular fin cutting through the waves. It created a huge wake. In the next second, a gigantic shark leapt from the water. It bared rows of teeth and kept leaping until it was next to the boat. Then it spoke saying, "I'm going to eat you, boy! Taste sooo good!" Hilbert shielded his eyes from the menacing jaws of the ungodly monster. It started to climb aboard using its malformed fins as hands. When it was halfway on the boat, it opened its jaws mere inches from his face, and then … he hung with one hand from a steep cliff. Lava bubbled below. With his left hand, he grabbed a hold of a jagged rock to save himself from falling into an abyss. Birds of prey circled above, swooped down, and began ripping the flesh from his fingers. He screamed in agony as each strip was peeled away, and when he couldn't hold on any longer, he released his misery. He plummeted toward the searing, bubbling inferno, but then … he was back in his office and it was nine thirty in the morning.