Suspenseful Tales (2011)

by Brandon Massey

  Sometime later, after the ambulance had rushed Craig to the hospital and loved ones had been called, Steven went back to the garage. He approached the chest full of gold that had spewed a swarm of bees onto his brother (amazingly, no bee stings were found on Craig's body when the paramedics arrived; and Steven never mentioned them.).

  Heart thrumming, Steven opened the box.

  The same golden objects that he'd seen earlier lay within.

  He sighed, closed the chest.

  The mysterious circle full of hieroglyphs, carved on the lid, seemed to glimmer.

  Or perhaps that was his imagination.

  * * *

  "How's your brother doing?" Mr. Jackson said. They sat on the old man's veranda. Both of them had glasses of lemonade close at hand.

  "He finally pulled out of the coma," Steven said. "But he's paralyzed from the waist down. The doctor doesn't think he'll ever walk again."

  Mr. Jackson looked down at his own wheelchair and shook his head. "A terrible thing to happen to such a young man. A shame."

  "Some things ain't meant to be sold," Steven said. "A wise man once told me that."

  Mr. Jackson nodded, his face grim and drawn. Steven sipped his lemonade. He reached into his jacket pocket and removed two photographs. He placed the photos near Mr. Jackson's hand.

  Mr. Jackson brought the pictures close to his eyes.

  "Where did you find these, young blood?"

  "In Granddad's garage, of course," Steven said. "I'm sure you've noticed that I've been spending a lot of tim* in there the past few weeks. I'm moving into the house soon. "

  Mr. Jackson laughed--a high, thin sound. Steven had rarely heard the old man laugh, and hearing his laughter made him laugh, too.

  "You know, young blood, you always favored your granddaddy," Mr. Jackson said. "Spitting image of the man."

  "That's what everyone says," Steven said. Mr. Jackson gave him the photos. Steven finished off the lemonade, and stood.

  "Leaving already?" Mr. Jackson said.

  "I have a lot of work to do. But I'll see you around." "Young blood?" Mr. Jackson said when Steven had turned. "Yes, sir?" Steven said.

  "Louis made a good choice in you. You'll do fine. Lord knows, you'll have plenty of time to learn."

  Steven smiled. "Thank you. I appreciate that."

  Steven returned to the garage. Although he'd spent all of his free time in there lately, he hadn't done much cleaning. Cobwebs still ringed the windows, dust covered the floor, and junk filled the garage in no evident order. But, of course, it wasn't all junk. His recent findings (and he seemed to discover more each time he explored), led him to believe that he stood on the humble threshold of one of the most magnificent museums in history.

  He slid the photographs out of his pocket. The first was a black-and-white shot of two black men sitting on the stone steps of what appeared to a brownstone, in a neighborhood that was most likely Harlem. Steven guessed Harlem because the younger man was Langston Hughes, a famous writer from the Harlem Renaissance period. The older man, who appeared to be in his fifties, was Louis Miles, Steven's grandfather.

  Granddad looked the same as Steven had remembered him shortly before his death, and the photo was probably taken in the 1920's. Steven discovered the picture between the pages of a signed, first edition of Hughes' "Not without laughter."

  The second black-and-white showed Granddad and four other black men, standing under a tree. They were dressed in the uniforms of Union troops. Granddad didn't look to be any older than thirty. Steven found the photo inside the pages of a Civil War soldier's diary.

  In addition to the pictures, Steven located Granddad's pendant. He'd assumed Granddad had been buried wearing it, but either he was mistaken, or this one had been created solely for him.

  Attached to a silver necklace, the pendant dangled from a tool-laden pegboard on the garage wall. It was crafted from a piece of silver the size of a half-dollar. On one side, the intricate array of hieroglyphics had been inscribed; on the other, words engraved in English read:

  "Thou shall preserve what would be lost, destroyed, or sold for selfish gain."

  When Steven had slipped the necklace over his head, a strangely pleasant chill rippled down his spine, and a feeling of: rightness settled over him like a comfortable b1anket.

  Standing on the threshold of the garage, the pendant resting against his heart, Steven exhaled a deep breath.

  "Thank you, Granddad, for trusting me."

  He locked the garage door and went to his car that he'd parked in the driveway, a used but reliable Chevy. He got behind the wheel and started the engine. Quickly, he rolled.

  He'd spotted a rummage sale earlier that afternoon, and he didn't want to miss it.

  THE MONSTER

  It was half-past two o'clock in the morning, and what frightened Jared more than anything in the world was having to get out of his bed in the middle of the night and go to the bathroom. Most times, he'd rather pee on himself. But he was ten and couldn't pee on himself any more. Mom would get upset, and Dad would . . . well, he didn't want to think about what Dad would do to him.

  But the thought of getting out of bed was actually worse than thinking of what Dad would do to him if he peed on himself. See, there was a monster under his bed.

  Jared lay under the covers, his bladder throbbing. It was way too dark in the room; the curtains were closed and Dad wouldn't let him sleep with a night light. The only light came from the clock on the nightstand. The clock digits gave off a ghostly, greenish glow.

  He raised up, his eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness. He held his breath. Listened.

  He heard the monster, breathing softly. It might be asleep. Did monsters sleep? He didn't know. He had never even seen the monster, really. But it was real. It only crawled under the bed at night, and he always heard it breathing, shifting around, or whispering in a strange language that he didn't understand.

  The monster had only begun living under his bed a few months ago. He remembered when the monster first arrived. It had been the night that Mom and Dad had gotten into the worst fight they'd ever had (until then). Crouched under his bed covers, Jared had heard every turn of his parents' battle: the shouts, the breaking dishes, the cries, the scary sound of flesh smacking flesh. Jared had wanted to do something to help Mom, but he was afraid. Later that night, Dad had left the house, and that was when Jared realized that he hated his father--well, stepfather, really. He hated him. Mom taught him that it was wrong to hate people, but Jared couldn't help the way he felt. Sometimes he was sure that Mom hated Dad, too.

  And in the middle of that unforgettable night, unable to sleep, Jared suddenly became aware of deep breathing beneath his bed, as if a big dog had crawled under there and fallen asleep. Summoning his courage, he peeked underneath the bed. He saw the faint glimmer of a pair of bluish eyes.

  The sight had sent him to his parents' room, screaming. Mom thought he was upset about the big fight and let him sleep in the bed with her. Ordinarily, he never would've wanted to sleep in Mom's bed because that was for babies, but he was too scared to go back to his room. He didn't tell Mom about the monster. She would never believe him. Adults never believed anything that kids his age talked about--especially when the subject was monsters.

  When morning finally came, he crept into his room and checked under the bed. Nothing was there. He wondered if he had dreamed up everything.

  That was, until the monster returned a few nights later, when Mom and Dad had another fight.

  There was one thing Jared understood for sure about the monster. It only came around in the late night hours, after his parents had fought.

  He began to believe that the monster was there to keep him company.

  The monster scared him, but in a strange way, he sort of felt safe when it arrived. Kind of like Rob Jenkins, the biggest, baddest bully at his school, who seemed to like him for a reason he didn't understand. Rob frightened him and he was careful not to upset him, but he felt t
hat whenever Rob was around, he was protected. It was weird.

  Mom and Dad had been fighting again that night, so the monster was there. But Dad hadn't left the house. Jared thought Dad was sleeping on the couch downstairs. During the fight, Jared heard Mom run upstairs and lock herself in the bedroom, and Dad had been crashing around downstairs, making so much noise Jared was sure the police would come. But they never did. After a while, Dad finally got quiet and probably fell asleep in front of the TV like he usually did.

  Jared looked at the bedroom door, which was open just a crack. The white door seemed to be far away, like the other end of a whole basketball court. But things were always like that at night, in the dark. His senses got screwy.

  His stomach was starting to hurt, he needed to pee so badly.

  Slowly, he pulled away the covers. Cool air wrapped around his legs. Dad always kept it so cold in the house that Jared sometimes slept with socks on. He didn't have socks on then. He wished that he did, to protect his feet in case the monster grabbed a foot.

  He would have to be fast.

  He got an idea. Instead of swinging his legs over the side of the bed, and risk getting snared by the monster's tentacles (he figured the monster had to have a long, ropy tentacle, like an octopus), he stood on the mattress; it creaked a little beneath him. Quietly, he walked to the end of the bed. He checked the surrounding carpet to make sure that nothing waited to trip him. Then he leaped off the mattress.

  He landed on the floor with a soft thump.

  He looked behind him. Nothing rushed out at him from under the bed. He didn't see a tentacle, or glowing blue eyes. Everything looked normal.

  But he heard the monster breathing. Its breaths were not as slow and deep as before; it drew shorter breaths, as if it were awake. Alert.

  Maybe it planned to catch him when he returned to the bed. If that was what it really wanted to do. He didn't know. He hadn't even begun to plan how he would manage to climb under the covers. He couldn't think about it yet. His bladder was on fire.

  He flung open the door and rushed down the hallway to the bathroom.

  He could barely get his pajamas down fast enough to keep from leaking all over himself. Nasty.

  It seemed like he peed forever. He'd drunk a lot of Pepsi before he went to bed. Mom had ordered a pepperoni-and-cheese pizza for dinner and a twelve-pack of Pepsi, and soon after the pizza got there, she and Dad got into the argument. Jared had taken the cola to his room and sipped it nervously while he listened to them battle. He must've drank four cans worth. Mom would've been upset if she had known.

  Jared had just finished relieving himself and was washing his hands when he heard Dad's heavy footsteps on the stairs.

  Jared frantically dried his hands on a towel. He reached to switch off the bathroom light . . .

  "Jay, what the hell are you doing up?" Dad said.

  Jared froze, hand poised over the light switch. Dad emerged like a giant from the darkness of the hallway, entering the arc of light that spilled from the bathroom. He wore his normal sleeping gear: white underwear. That was all. Dad had been living with him and Mom for three years, and Jared had never gotten used to the sight of the man strolling around in his underwear. There was something disgusting about it.

  Dad carried his black leather belt loosely in his hand, too; it resembled a dormant snake. Both Mom and Jared knew the belt very well.

  "Speak up, boy," Dad said. Leaning against the wall, he dug his hand into his crotch, scratched. "Damn, why you always act like you can't talk?"

  "Umm, I was just using the bathroom," Jared said. "I'm going back to bed."

  "Slow down, little man." Dad raised his hand. Jared smelled whiskey and funk rolling like hot steam from Dad's body; he coughed into his hand. "You know what me and your Mama were tangling about tonight?"

  Jared shrugged. He chastised himself for not escaping back to his room before Dad appeared.

  "Don't act dumb, Jay. It was about your sorry-assed daddy. I don't want him calling my house. I don't care if he's only calling for you. This is my crib and he's disrespecting me." Dad suddenly farted loudly, and the nauseating sound was like an exclamation point. Jared grimaced.

  "The next time he calls here, you hang up on him," Dad said. "You don't say a word to him, and you don't tell your mother. Clear?"

  "But ..."

  Dad sprang from the wall. "But what?"

  Jared chewed his lip. "But . . . he's my father. You aren't." The words slipped out of him, and the instant they did, he knew he'd made a mistake.

  Although Dad had been drinking, he moved toward Jared with startling speed. The next thing Jared knew, Dad had seized him by his shoulders, hefted him in the air, and pinned him against the wall. Terror surged like hot oil through his veins, and he felt himself needing to pee again.

  Dad's face, twisted by fury, floated like a dark moon in front of him. Spittle sprayed from Dad's lips as he spoke.

  "You listen to me, you little bastard. I'm your daddy. That nigga that you think is your daddy—forget him. He ain't here. I pay the bills and take care of you and your Mama. If I ever hear you disrespect me like that again, I'm gonna break my belt over your ass. Clear?"

  Jared could barely breathe. Fear had tightened his throat. When he tried to speak only a thin whistle of air came out.

  Dad shook him, making Jared's head knock against the wall. He felt dizzy.

  "Hear me? Is that clear?"

  Tears leaked from Jared's eyes. His throat was too tight for him to say anything, heart pounding so hard he felt like he was going to choke. He felt warm pee streaming down his leg, and the shame that burned through him made him cry harder.

  "Put my baby down right now!"

  Mom's enraged voice cut through the haze in Jared's mind. His mouth flew open, and all he cried out was, "Mama, help!"

  Dad dropped him, and Jared hit the floor on numbed legs. He stumbled, tears blurring his vision, but not even his tears kept him from seeing Mom in her nightgown, coming at Dad with a hammer.

  Bust his head wide open, Mama, bust it open like a watermelon, he wanted to shout at her. But she was so tiny compared to Dad. Even with a weapon, she couldn't beat Dad, he was just too big.

  As Mom swung the hammer at Dad, he snagged her arm in mid-air. He backhanded her across the mouth. She cried out, spun around and struck the wall.

  "I'm the king of this house, goddammit!" Dad said. He took the hammer and smashed it against the wall, paint chips crashing to the floor. He whipped the hammer around in another wild arc, clobbered another wall. Jared was sure he was going to hit Mom. Mom cowered under Dad, holding her lip.

  Jared couldn't stand back and act helpless any more. He just couldn't. He had to help Mom.

  He fled to his bedroom.

  Dad whirled. "That's it, run, you little bastard. This is all your fault anyway, you know that? Everything would be fine if you hadn't been born!"

  Jared made it inside his room. Had to get his hands on something that could keep Dad away from Mom. He could get his baseball bat. Mom had bought him a nice Louisville slugger for Christmas last year.

  He looked back and forth across his room. He didn't see the bat. Where was it . . .

  He remembered that he'd left it under the bed.

  He'd put the bat under the bed months ago, in anticipation of something just like this happening. But that was before the monster had arrived.

  There was no way he was going to reach under the bed with the monster there. No way.

  Outside in the hallway, he heard leather snapping against flesh, Dad cursing, and Mom crying softly. She endured Dad's belt beatings quietly

  He felt like he was going to throw up. He wanted to cover his ears and crawl back under the covers, like he always did. But he couldn't. He just couldn't take this any more. Bat or not bat.

  He rushed to the doorway. Dad's back faced him; Mom was sprawled underneath Dad, her delicate body trembling as Dad popped the belt against her in smooth, rhythmic strokes.


  "Get away from her, you crazy motherfucker," Jared said. It was the first time he'd ever used the "f" word, and it felt strange coming from his lips. "Get away from her right now."

  "What?" Dad looked at him. "What did you say, boy?"

  "I ..." Jared couldn't finish his sentence. He couldn't believe what he'd just said. Oh, was he in for it now.

  Dad charged after him. Jared backpedaled into his room, fists balled at his side.

  He wanted to hide, but there was nowhere to go. The only escape was through the doorway.

  And now Dad was there.

  Dad chuckled, winding the belt around his hand like a whip. "You think you're a big man now, huh? I'm gonna beat the black off your ass.

  This is my house, dammit."

  Jared backed all the way up against the wall. Cold sweat had glued his fingers together. He couldn't have held a baseball bat if he'd had one.

  "Leave him alone," Mom said from the hallway, but her voice sounded frail, beaten. There would be no rescue this time, Jared realized. He would endure this beating like a man. No more crying.

  "Trying to be brave, little man?" Dad said. "We'll see how brave you act when I start popping this belt."

  Jared breathed so hard and fast he was light-headed. He felt like he could be dreaming. He wished he were dreaming and he would awake and everything would be okay in the morning, and it would be only him and Mom in the house (they'd lived there before Dad, though he always called it "my house"), and Dad was gone forever. But that was only a dream.

  He wasn't dreaming. This was real, and Dad was going to get him.

  Dad stalked forward, belt swinging, fingers flexing.

  Jared always closed his eyes when he was getting a whipping. But he wouldn't close them this time. He'd suffer the beating with his eyes wide open.