More Stories from the Twilight Zone

by Carol Serling

  She forced a smile. “Thanks. You’ve been really helpful.” She reached for her purse and held out a five-dollar bill.

  “That’s okay.” He waved aside the money, turned, stumbling over his own thick, black motorcycle boots, and bolted out, leaving the door open.

  In all her life she had never seen so many empty eye sockets. And that included a couple bad pirate movies. Three in thirty minutes—all left eyes. What kind of coincidence was that? She walked to the door to close it and heard angry voices coming from somewhere downstairs. Tiptoeing into the hall, she stood and listened. Sounded like Bob and Larry were upset about something. She couldn’t make out the words, but the anger was real. She inched along until she could hear clearly—thankful now for the darkness.

  “You’re flirtin’ with the devil. We’ve been lucky so far—you know that for a fact, Bob Hutchins. There’s no good reason to tempt fate.”

  “Only money. She’s young—healthy. That means functioning kidneys, liver, lungs—maybe there’s someone out there needing a heart. That’d put some green in your pocket.”

  “Let her go. I don’t want to get my three squares behind bars . . . or worse.”

  “Losing your nerve? Never thought I’d see the day.”

  She didn’t wait to hear more. Organs. They were talking about selling organs and they were talking about her. Or parts of her. Get out. She had to get out. She willed rubbery knees to carry her back to the room. Yes, her imagination was working overtime, but her sixth sense was screaming, Hurry. She didn’t know where she would go, but she wasn’t staying there.

  She rummaged through her bags, kicked off the mud-stained Manolo Blahniks without a second’s regret at having ruined an eight-hundred-dollar pair of heels, pulled on a pair of raglan socks, silk long johns, sweatpants, two silk undershirts, and a sweatshirt, then thrust her feet into a high-topped pair of UGGs. All before allowing herself a really deep breath. A scarf and stocking cap, and she was ready to go.

  Wait. Money and identification. Grabbing her purse, she dumped it on the bed, picked out penlight, BlackBerry, billfold, car keys, and stuffed all in the pockets of a quilted, wool buffalo plaid jacket. Then frantically she made one more comb-through of her luggage to find something even vaguely resembling a weapon, but airlines made pretty certain there’d be nothing—no nail file or cuticle scissors.

  She shivered. It was now or never. She slipped into the hallway, closed the door, and turned away from the voices—still debating her demise? She didn’t want to find out. She couldn’t dwell on what might be—she had to concentrate on getting away. Time was on her side, if she made use of her advantage. They wouldn’t be expecting her to leave. Moving quickly and quietly, she discovered another staircase just two doors down from her room—another set of stairs that descended into darkness. She wasn’t good at taking chances, but what choice was there?

  The voices had faded by the time she’d reached the first floor and the door in front of her seemed to lead to a side yard. Her luck was holding; it was unlocked. She slipped out, closing the door behind her and hesitated, listening for someone coming her way. Nothing. The night was clear, but bitter. The snow had stopped and a bright, almost full, moon hovered above. She didn’t have a plan, but instinct said get back to the road. Getting lost in the woods at nine thousand feet in winter might not have pretty consequences.

  But she’d keep to the tree line and out of sight of the house—that made good sense. The snow wasn’t deep, maybe three inches, just slippery. It took her thirty minutes to reach the road by walking along the edge of a stand of aspen. Their black and silver gnarled trunks stood out in crisp relief against the white. She’d never looked over her shoulder so many times in her entire life, but there was no one following her. No cars or trucks, no flashlights, or shouts in the darkness. The night was eerily quiet, moonlight on snow dazzling in its pristine freshness.

  Was she safe? Would they even check her room before morning? Depended on who won the argument, probably. But maybe, just maybe, she had escaped. She would be all right but she needed a vantage point—someplace high above the road that would give her a clear view in both directions. And offer some protection from the elements. It was probably around thirty degrees—below freezing with a slight wind chill. She was dressed for an overnight in the wilds, but not a comfortable one.

  A mountain juniper about forty feet above her would work. Its low-lying branches offered the perfect cover. Not warm exactly, but out of the wind. Adrenaline would keep her from frostbite. Keep her awake and focused. She needed a plan and she had no earthly idea what it was going to be. At least from that vantage point, she could keep an eye on the rental car. She thought they would expect her to run—not expect her to stay close. But was her logic their logic?

  She heard the car coming around the curve before she saw it. She froze. Friend? Someone who could help? Or someone called by Bob? Then in a wave of relief that left her faint, she realized it was a patrol car. Kenny? It didn’t matter. Anyone in uniform was a welcome sight. She slipped and slid to the edge of the road and, jumping up and down, waved her arms as the car neared.

  In a cloud of powdery snow, the car skidded sideways, ABS whining before shuddering to a stop.

  Kenny opened his door and got out.

  “Hey, are you all right? That looks like your car.”

  “It is. Played tag with an elk.”

  “This is the night for accidents. First snow, I guess. Got a call on one this side of Tierra Amarilla. Roll over. Pure luck that I was out this way.” He’d moved around the patrol car to get a better look. “I don’t think your car’s going anywhere. Guess it’d be best to get you back to Taos and get a wrecker out here in the morning.”

  “Sounds wonderful.”

  He started down the incline. “Then let’s get your luggage and get going.”

  “My luggage isn’t there.”

  He’d slid to a stop by the front of the car. “That’s not your stuff?” He was pointing to the backseat.

  “What stuff?” She clicked the remote on the key ring and climbed down to stand beside him as he opened the door.

  She felt faint and knew she was trembling. But there was the knit dress thrown to one side beside two open suitcases, the water-stained heels on the floor; the contents of her purse spilled out across the front seat.

  “Hey, hang in there . . .” He caught her as she slumped against the car. “Let’s get you back up to some warmth.” He half-carried her to his car, helped her inside, bumped the heater up a notch, then retrieved her luggage.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” He slid behind the steering wheel, handed her purse over, but didn’t seem to be in a hurry to leave.

  “No, I’m not.” She slid the zipper back on the envelope-shaped black leather clutch. Everything seemed to be there and she didn’t need to pat her pockets to know they’d be empty.

  “Were you injured?”

  “No, nothing like that—”

  Then she told him everything. Larry, Bob, the Goth kid, all without left eyes, the room with a camp stove, the conversation that seemed to point at killing her. “Wait, tracks. I wasn’t thinking. There would be tracks from the pickup.”

  He watched her closely. Sympathetic? Disbelieving? She knew she sounded hysterical.

  “Snow would’ve taken care of tracks. But let me show you something.” He slipped the car into gear.

  She knew where he was taking her and wasn’t surprised when he turned down the road to the inn. He pulled into the same circular parking area where Larry had dropped her earlier . . . only now when Kenny stopped and trained the car’s external spotlight straight ahead before sweeping it from side to side, she could only stare.

  The two-story structure was cavernous—burned, gutted, all but the stone façade that supported a part of the roof and two dormers with broken glass. The wide front porch listing away from the structure was missing steps and a railing.

  “When . . .?” She could hear the disbelief
mixed with fear in her voice.

  “About ten years ago. I was a rookie just joined the force. Whole place blew up during a raid—meth lab explosion.”

  “Let’s just go. I don’t want to see anymore.”

  Without comment, Kenny wheeled the Crown Vic around the semicircle and gunned it down the driveway to pop up onto 64, heading east toward Taos.

  They rode in silence; Edie lost in thought. This was not a trick of her mind. Not some paranormal happening that Caryn could use, say “I told you so.” She pressed her cheek to the cool window and took a deep breath. She wasn’t crazy. She didn’t just go off imagining things. Her life was real. There was a perfectly logical explanation for this.

  Kenny broke the silence. “Bob was Robert—”

  “Hutchins, I know.”

  Kenny paused, searching her face before continuing. “He inherited the property from his uncle. Larry was a local mechanic who, along with his son, hooked up with Bob somewhere along the way. But the combination was deadly—cop’s nightmare. Can’t tell you how many times we were out here. If it wasn’t drugs, it was stories about luring unsuspecting victims to their deaths. Offering housing to those stranded on the road—there were even rumors about organ sales. Some people said they’d given up their own eyes to make money.”

  “Not rumors, truth.”

  “Before anyone could prove anything, they’d blown themselves up.” He paused again. “It’s a well-known story in these parts. Popular. Somebody comes up with a new rendition for the paper every Halloween.”

  “That’s it.” She hadn’t meant to shout, but bounced forward on the seat. “I knew it. A simple explanation.” She marveled at the relief she felt, that she heard in her voice. “Was there a feature this year?”

  “Yeah. Even ran a picture of Bob . . . complete with eye-patch.”

  “You know, I’m not saying I saw it; I don’t remember seeing it, but I could have. Hotel lobby, newspaper just lying on a table . . . and then when I went off the road, I hit my head . . . I imagined the story was real. Out there where it happened, my imagination filled in the details.” She looked at Kenny hopefully, but he was busy maneuvering the car past Blueberry Hill at the outskirts of Taos. She took off her gloves and held her hands out to the heater and felt the chill disappear. Hadn’t her suitcases been on the backseat? Exactly where she had left them after changing clothes? She had simply internalized the details of a story of local lore and with the help of a head injury . . . God knows she had always had an overactive imagination—

  “Where should I drop you?”

  “Sage Brush Inn. I’m sure they have vacancies—maybe I’ll get my old room back.” She smiled. Relief. It was like awakening from a nightmare. Maybe she’d sleep in tomorrow morning, have the desk call a wrecker, pick up another car . . . she’d blow off Durango; that was a given. She could never drive that road again. Not for a long time, anyway. She needed some distance on this one.

  “Here we are.” Kenny pulled the patrol car close to the door, retrieved her bags, and set them on the sidewalk just as his two-way squawked. “Gotta go. You take care.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate all you’ve done.”

  He shrugged. “Glad I could help.” That shy smile and then he was gone, back in the car and turning onto the main drag.

  Tough to be a cop. Up all night. All kinds of weather. Always rushing to one catastrophe or another . . . She picked up her overnight, pulled up the handle on the rollaway, and pushed open the heavy, hand-carved wooden doors.

  The desk clerk jerked upright and quickly stood. Must have been sleeping. It was pretty late. Or early. She glanced at her watch. Nine twenty? That would have been about the time of the accident—she must have hit her wrist on something.

  “Room for one?”

  She nodded. What a strange little old man. The thick lenses in his glasses made him look like a frog.

  “Downstairs or up?”

  “Either.”

  “And how many nights will that be?”

  “Just the one.” She couldn’t wait to get back to civilization—her home, work . . .

  “I can give you a break, seeing how it’s pretty late—tonight and tomorrow night for the price of one.”

  “No. Thank you, anyway.” She was freezing. Had they turned the heat off in the lobby? Maybe if she put her gloves on. She thrust her hands into her jacket pockets—no gloves. Of course. She’d left them in Kenny’s patrol car. She wasn’t eager to write off a new pair of cashmere-lined lambskin gloves. She put her purse on the counter and dug out the BlackBerry. She’d call the station and leave a message, then pick them up in the morning.

  The clerk seemed fixated with the BlackBerry, peering at it with those watery amphibious eyes. No, she was being unkind. It was late. She was tired.

  “Is there something I can help you with?”

  “Well, yes, there is. Do you have the number for the New Mexico Highway Patrol?” She saw his hesitation and hurried on, “I need to leave a message for Officer Kenny Walsh. I was in a one-car accident earlier and he gave me a ride back to Taos. I left my gloves in his patrol car.”

  “Officer’s name?”

  “Walsh. Kenny Walsh.” Hadn’t she just given his name?

  Edie took a step back. Only then did her peripheral vision take in the small, open cardboard box next to the register. The label on the end facing her read, OCULAR PROSTHESIS—GLASS/BLUE-GRAY. She willed herself to look at the clerk. Slowly he slipped off his glasses and wiped a glob of yellow mucus from the corner of his left eye with a brown-stained handkerchief. Not an empty socket this time, but a perfectly stationary, large, glassy orb stared back—with a blue-gray iris.

  He was saying something, but she felt the room start to spin and wasn’t certain of what she was hearing. Something about Officer Walsh being dead, blown to bits some ten years back while serving a warrant on a suspected meth lab out on 64—

  The BlackBerry clattered to the floor as her knees buckled.

  What lies beyond imagination man often refuses to accept. But it is there that the eye can see the truth in the shadows, along the edges . . . of the Twilight Zone.

  THE COUCH

  Peter Farris

  Time, they say, is of the essence. To turn back the clock is a luxury none of us possess. Yet Herbert Menkel, like many middle-aged men, simply must accept the dour and mundane existence he’s created. A life of routine and quiet despair, confined to a marriage that’s lost any sentiment of love or companionship. But the memory of a strange encounter in his past returns, a moment that could be the key to happiness and freedom. Herbert’s story begins with a simple relic stored in the attic of his seaside Connecticut home . . . and ends . . . in the Twilight Zone.

  Herbert Menkel hated two things in life more than his clownish, shoe-salesman name. He hated his wife and her dog.

  In that order.

  Herbert was downstairs in the basement, feet propped on his old desk, flipping through back copies of Sailing World and Ocean Navigator. He’d been gazing at pictures of a Catalina Mark II Sloop, a forty-footer, when he heard the garage door, then the back door, followed by the woofs of their goddamn golden retriever, Daisy.

  Iris, his wife, and her declarative stomps through the kitchen and living room were not far behind.

  Herb tried to return to the dreamy attention he was paying to the gorgeous sloop, with its large central cockpit and state-of-the-art sail controls. He turned the magazine vertically, like a creep admiring the latest Penthouse, imagining not a pair of luscious breasts but a custom helm seat where he could watch the sun set, adrift in the Caribbean.

  Neither dog nor wife in sight.

  But his fantasy was lost, evaporating, as it did every evening. Herbert followed the noisy routine upstairs, his eyes going from the magazine to the ceiling where every creak and footstep resounded like a death knell. Another day gone. Never to be relived.

  Iris opened the door to the basement, Daisy barking as if an earthquake was imminent.
Herb closed his eyes mournfully and sighed. He felt his head retreating between his shoulders.

  “Herbert! HERBERT! Daisy needs to be walked and fed! I’ve worked like a slave and there’s still dinner to make. HERBERT! ARE YOU LISTENING?”

  “Yes, dear. I’m coming. I’ll walk the dog. Why don’t we order take-out?” Herbert said, his tone soft and gutless.

  “And just throw two hundred dollars’ worth of Whole Foods groceries away? Why don’t we just put the free-range chicken and fresh sage out in the front yard and burn it! And speaking of fire, you better not be smoking those stinky cigars down there, Herbert Menkel! I can smell them from here! You’re going to get CANCER!” Iris hollered, punctuating the end of their conversation with the door slamming and more barks from the nasty beast of a retriever.

  Herbert sighed again. He realized that after many years with Iris he was very good at sighing. A professional sigher. He tossed the copy of Ocean Navigator onto his desk. Looked at the cigar smoldering in an ashtray. A couple more puffs, he thought. He should hear the rush of water through the old pipes any second. Iris loading the washer. Then the television. She insisted on listening to the local news from the kitchen. Which meant turning the volume up so high it rivaled any quality public address system.

  Five minutes and she’ll be back, he figured. Per routine. For Herbert and Iris their first conversation of the day usually took place under such dysfunction. Iris at the entrance to the basement, yelling down. Herb muttering his replies from behind stacks of sailing magazines.

  And she’ll use my full name, he predicted. With total accuracy.

  Just as he brought the wet tip of the cigar to his lips, Herbert heard footsteps. Then the door and its terrible rusty moan.

  “Herbert Menkel, will you puh-lease walk Daisy? I just cannot do it all by myself! HERBERT MENKEL, ARE YOU LISTENING?” Iris said, her voice a histrionic caterwaul Herbert likened to that of a rabid monkey, or a cat being dipped in turpentine.