by The Blumhouse Book of Nightmares- The Haunted City (retail) (epub)
More cop cars descend on the lawman, and he’s trapped on every side. BOOM, BOOM, BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM BOOM. Bullets connecting on metal, rubber tires, back windows, and mirrors. The lawman’s rims tear through the hot pavement. He zigs where they zag. Sparks explode as he rips through the sidewalk, crossing into a full parking lot. Cops hold fire—too much collateral. Our hero severs a couple’s feet with his black steel interceptor rims. Toe fungus immediately chopped from their list of problems and personal hygiene regimen. He guides his sparkler back onto the boulevard.
BOOM BOOM BOOM. The lawmen resume. Our lawman is leaking. Split clavicle, powderized coracoid process. He battles through and hard-rights. Rims grip perfectly as the chasing cruisers overshoot and slam into one another. He reaches into his glove compartment and grabs his Glock, .40 caliber. Checks it. Loaded. Thumbs off the safety.
More black-and-whites, cherry-tops, unmarkeds, and a SWAT van join the party. The lawman cuts across the divider, narrowly missing a UPS truck, and somehow breaks through the web of officers. He sticks the gun in his mouth. Tastes the cold metal. It’s nice. He squeezes the grip…fingers the trigger…then…he bites down on the barrel and removes his hand from the gun. He chomps hard. Jaw clenches, red face. His teeth start to crack on the steel—central incisors, lateral incisors, canines, chipping, breaking. He pulls the gun out and rubs the cold metal on his face. Doesn’t last long. He stares at the internal camera, which stares back at him.
He points the gun at the tiny thing and pulls the trigger—SMACKKK!
Suddenly a metro train comes out of nowhere, launching his cruiser sky high. Reports will say that the conductor was inebriated, seventeen people were killed, and another forty-eight were injured, including the lawman’s fiancée, Rosie, who was going to stay with her mother for a couple of weeks to sort out her perverted constitution. The hospital will have to do for now.
Barely alive, still spinning midair, the lawman’s last thoughts:
I feel a little better…
Last contraction of heart. Brainwaves draw to a close. End of life.
Black. Black. Black. Black. Black…
Boredom is an awful thing. It’s the deadening of everything you do and experience. It devalues all that you once loved. Your wife, your work, friends, movies, food, long walks on the beach, sunsets, cigars, booze, laughter, you name it. It all just blends into one gray, lifeless, unamusing void. Once you’re on the boredom express, it’s impossible to get off. Days turn into months, months turn into years, and you rattle along bored by everything around you until you realize that there is absolutely nothing out there that can shake you into taking an interest in life again. That’s where I found myself. I was one of those poor assholes commuting to and from New York City, heading to a job that meant nothing and back home to a place I was indifferent to. I read somewhere once that boredom was nothing more than repressed anger. Maybe that’s true. It would certainly fit the bill, considering what happened.
I’d seen the homeless guy before. He was tall, thin, and dark with his features hidden under a hoodie, but I could feel him staring at me as I passed above him on the train. I’d be at my usual window seat looking down from the elevated tracks and he’d be there, as always, by his fiery trash can below. Since the first time our eyes locked we’d wait for each other, same time every day, to continue our stare-off. Neither one of us blinking. Neither one of us backing down. His stare was like nothing I’d ever experienced. It told me that I was the total embodiment of everything he had ever hated. It became a sick game for me, and I’m sure for him too. It was something to look forward to in our boring, monotonous lives. Some guys at the office had golf, others had women on the side, others jumped off bridges with bungee cords. I had my homeless guy who wanted to rip my face off and eat my heart while it was still beating.
And then I got bored with him too. One ice-cold afternoon as the train approached, he raised his head through the flames of his garbage can, his arms hanging at his sides as always, and I realized just how much I hated him. He was the mirror to the stupidity and redundancy of my own life. My dissatisfaction with everything. My home in the suburbs that I couldn’t afford. My wife, Victoria, whose words I could hear before they left her mouth. My inability to get her pregnant. My suspicions that she was cheating. My idiot boss. My need for booze and pills just to fall asleep. For one final time, I locked eyes with the hulking scarecrow. I stared him down as I’d done at least a hundred times before, and then I changed the rules. I smiled and flipped him the bird. His reaction was intense. His gaze bore right through my skull. And then he was gone.
My house in Mamaroneck is just a few blocks from the train station. I have to admit that I like hearing the train from my bedroom. It’s one of those things that I can count on. Every half hour the train rolls in and at night I lie in bed counting them, some nights two or three, before I fall asleep.
I walked up to my house with a little pep in my step. Sure, it was bite-ass cold and Victoria was waiting inside with bullshit about some co-worker who was trying to destroy her. I was just happy that I finally let that homeless creep know I’d had it and that the game was off. As ridiculous as it sounds, I felt pretty damn manly about it.
Victoria didn’t even bother to say hello and asked me if I’d been drinking. I told her no, but she didn’t believe me. She goose-stepped over like the damned Gestapo to smell my breath. I told her that I didn’t need to be boozed up in order to be happy, but she wasn’t buying it. It was my fault that she wasn’t pregnant and that I wasn’t taking her fertilization seriously by ingesting alcohol. We used to fuck like rabbits, in cars, on the floor of her parents’ house, in the park. Anywhere and everywhere it hit us. Now she wanted to be fertilized. Fertilized. I couldn’t think of anything less sexual than that. She was a woman, not a goddamn garden. Then she sounded off about the same predictable subjects and I followed my normal pattern of not listening. Adrenaline was coursing through my body. I couldn’t wait until morning so I could board the commuter train and see the reaction on my homeless guy’s face.
I counted trains until about two a.m., when I finally dozed off. That homeless son of a bitch was in my dreams, living in some awful place that reminded me of hell. The air was filled with the perfume of rat shit, sweat, and urine. His face was as unclear to me in my dreams as it was in reality. I kept walking down strange corridors where he was always up ahead, but he would turn a corner before I could get a good look at him. If I could only see him more clearly, I thought. Get a better look at his face. See his eyes up close.
The morning was clear and upbeat. I practically ran to the station and got on board the train. When I got to our spot in the Bronx, the homeless guy wasn’t there. Just his trash can. I was deeply disappointed. In short order the train got sucked into one of the tunnels that led to Grand Central and another boring day of work.
I made calls, talked to clients, and did my best to make a few sales. Packer, my co-worker and the closest thing I had to a friend at the office, was jacked up about going to Vegas in a few days to make a presentation. He gave me the hard sell of how much fun we’d have. Packer saw himself as a kind of cowboy, although the next horse he would see would be his first. Under different circumstances I might have gone, but something told me that I should stay in town. Packer called me a pussy for declining his invite and assured me it would be his most memorable trip ever so he could rub it in my face.
I went to a lunch meeting uptown on the West Side for the new Volvo account and afterward decided to walk back to work. At first all I had was a feeling. It was nothing that I could pinpoint, but I had the increasing suspicion that I was being followed. As I walked through Central Park, passing everyone from students on field trips to old hippies singing Beatles songs, I kept looking back to see if someone was behind me. Every time I looked I saw no one. My thoughts began to run amok. There was no way the homeless guy could be on my trail. Or could he? Could he have somehow followed me to work? No. That is nuts.
&
nbsp; Was I actually enjoying this?
Back in the office I anxiously awaited the evening so I could get on the train and see my homeless friend.
Finally, I was in my normal seat on the commuter train heading home. I counted the seconds as buildings, bridges, and pedestrians zipped past. I looked down at our spot and once again he wasn’t there. He wasn’t anywhere. I got out of my seat and scanned the opposite direction, hoping I could catch a glimpse of him. Again, nothing. No bum, just city streets and life as usual. Deflated, I went back to my seat and casually glanced into the next car. My blood ran cold. My heart rate doubled. There in the next car, looking back at me through the grimy doorway window, was my homeless guy. I could tell that he was staring me down from under his hoodie. He had angular features and a goatee of sorts that seemed to drip oil. I couldn’t make out his eyes. They were hidden in the deep recesses of his shadowy sockets. He didn’t budge or flinch. He didn’t even appear to be breathing. He just stood there staring at me from those black sockets for what felt like an eternity.
The train slowed, the doors hissed open, and I jumped off quickly in the town of Larchmont. I moved with a group of people, hoping I’d lose him in the crowd. He was nowhere to be found as I headed down Main Street. My excitement evaporated as I realized how far I’d gotten from the train station. It was still a couple miles to Mamaroneck. I grew up in this area and knew plenty of shortcuts. I kept looking over my shoulder to make sure the homeless guy wasn’t around.
At Spring Street I decided to cut through the woods to the Flats, which would put me near the Mamaroneck train station. My feet crunching through autumn leaves made a racket. When I stopped, I could still hear the sounds of leaves rustling behind me. It wasn’t the homeless guy. It couldn’t be. There was no way he’d followed me. I picked up the pace and in no time I was in a full-tilt sprint. I’d forgotten that there was a creek zigzagging through the woods. We’d had a lot of rain lately, and the creek was moving fast. I took a deep breath.
At least I’m not bored.
I tossed my briefcase over to the other side and then did my best to feel my way across the wet rocks in the dark. If I found a rock that felt sturdy enough to hold me I’d climb on top. This worked brilliantly a few times until I fell on my ass. The ice-cold water did a fine job of helping me get to my feet and to the other side.
I had to search pile after pile of leaves for my briefcase until I found it with my left foot and tripped forward. My shoulder caught the side of a maple tree and it tore through my clothing and skinned me. I became overwhelmed with nostalgia. The pain of skinning myself was something I hadn’t experienced since I was a child. I picked up my briefcase and weaved through the trees, trying to find my way out of there.
I heard something behind me. Someone or something was crossing the stream. I was struck with the most bizarre thought, and I chuckled because it seemed like the most logical and simple of solutions.
There’s no way I could do it.
I took a few steps and then ducked behind an enormous maple tree. I bent over and felt around in the dark for a large rock. I found a real beauty: smooth, cold, and very heavy. I picked it up and smelled the raw earth that clung to the bottom. I held the rock close to my chest and my quickly beating heart.
Who’s gonna know? Just do it. Do it, do it, do it. Just kill the son of a bitch. Crush his miserable fucking skull.
The wind blew, the trees creaked, critters crept about, but no homeless guy ever showed up. Eventually I dropped the rock, picked up my briefcase, and moved through the woods once again. Then I started to run. I was running as much from my thoughts as I was from him. I found myself running as fast as I could. The cold autumn air hurt my lungs. I had been only a moment away from murdering someone. No, that’s not possible. That isn’t me. I’m a nice, normal, civilized guy who lives in the suburbs. Get a grip.
Something else was going on inside me. Something bizarre and totally unexplainable. It made me tremble with delight. It was fireworks and butterflies. The adrenaline rush was intoxicating.
I stopped running, caught my breath, and listened. After a long silence I heard the sounds of footsteps rustling through the leaves once again. I could feel him gaining on me.
There were the lights of homes up ahead. I ran and slammed right into a fence and hit the wet leaves hard. I hoisted myself over the fence, landed in the backyard, and hauled ass down to the street.
Luckily I saw a taxi, which I flagged down and took straight home.
My plan was to avoid Victoria and change out of my torn and muddy clothes, but she, ever the cop, headed me off at the bathroom. I told her that I tripped on the way home. She didn’t buy it at first, but I told her a story about falling that had her laughing to the point of pissing me off. A story where I acted like a clumsy fool was totally believable.
Victoria continued droning on and on, and, oddly, she was more interesting than usual. I seemed more in tune with things. The sounds outside. The taste of my food. It was as if all of my senses were heightened. Animals must feel this way, their very survival depending on their ability to stay alert. I grappled with the notion of telling Victoria the truth about all that had happened, but I decided to keep it my dark little secret.
Later Victoria got some wild hair up her ass and wanted to go out. She, of course, didn’t realize that I’d had enough excitement for one evening. I told her that there was no way I was going out, but she just wasn’t hearing it, and we were in the car and heading to Rye Playland to ride the Dragon Coaster, one of the last great wooden roller coasters on the East Coast.
Rye Playland smelled like popcorn and cotton candy, and best of all there was the scent of the old, salty pier. I’d come here since I was a kid, and just the combination of all these aromas brought back memories of a much happier time. Victoria was like a little kid, and it was good to see her this way.
We got on the Dragon Coaster and began that wonderful, terrifying climb. Suddenly, I could have sworn I saw that tall, hooded figure watching us. Victoria screamed with joy and I did my best to join in, although I couldn’t shake the notion that we were being stalked. The roller coaster hit all the turns I’d come to know by heart and we were eventually swallowed up by that big, old, smiling dragon. We spun around in the dark and out the back, where the ride quickly came to a stop.
Back in the park by the big clock, I thought I saw him again, but at second glance he was gone. Victoria asked me several times if I was all right. Even though I told her I was, she didn’t quite believe me.
We stopped at the shooting gallery, where Victoria wanted me to win her some stupid prize. I didn’t like guns all that much and Victoria knew that. It was at times like these that I felt she was testing my manhood.
I was heading to an empty spot at the counter when a gravelly voice called out that I was cutting. I turned and saw a hulking, tattooed biker type flanked by two equally tattooed blond biker chicks. I did my best to apologize, but Victoria stepped forward and informed them that we were first. Victoria was testing me. I knew that there was no way this could end well, so I said nothing. Victoria then moved over to the gun and took her position to fire. The biker dude protested again and threatened to bust me a new hole, whatever that meant.
Before I could respond, I saw him. Saw him for sure, watching us. Tall and hooded. Standing still while everyone else around him moved. I hooked Victoria under the arm and pulled her away. She was like a two-year-old, insisting that she didn’t want to go. I looked her in the eye and made it clear that it was time for us to leave. We headed off, moving through the crowds toward the parking lot. I stole glances behind me as we walked. I couldn’t see the homeless figure anywhere, but I knew he was somewhere in the crowd.
Victoria wanted to know why I hadn’t stuck up for her. She insisted that she wanted to see me act tougher once in a while.
What would you like me to do? Kill him? Cut his throat? Cut out his fucking eyes? Would that make you happy?
She had no idea how clo
se I had come to murder earlier that evening. If I had told her, she would have laughed in my face. What she said next was particularly disturbing.
I let people walk all over me.
There was a kind of finality to it. It was as if this had been brewing in her for a long time and it had finally surfaced. As concerned as I was about rescuing my manhood, I was even more worried that he was out there in the crowd, stalking us.
There was a white stuffed bunny rabbit back at the shooting range that Victoria wanted me to win for her. I laughed, saying I’d buy her one. Then she snapped. The bunny would have been a prize, a victory, a triumph, a way to remember the evening. Then she went off on a diatribe about how keepsakes and souvenirs were important because they reminded you of things that happened in your life. I checked out and stopped listening when she started talking about astronauts collecting moon rocks. I didn’t think it would have done me any good to inform her that it wasn’t the same as collecting seashells.
Then she took me by the hand and pulled me toward the Olde Mill. A few minutes later we climbed aboard one of those rickety old wooden boats and went up an equally rickety ramp, which dumped us into a torrent of water, sending us off into the tunnel of love. Victoria wanted to make out with me, to be ravished. She was switching gears so quickly it was difficult to keep up. One minute I’m some ball-less creep who won’t defend her from bikers, the next I’m some Viking rolling into town to rape her. Her craziness was exciting seven or eight years ago. Now her unpredictability was the thing that made her the most predictable.
I gave her a lackluster kiss, but her lips convinced me to give her more. This would be one of many battles she would win that night. We were soon making out passionately.