Ten Open Graves: A Collection of Supernatural Horror

by David Wood

  When the retching stopped, when Craig finally heard Amy rustling around in the bedroom again, he started toward the bathroom to use the toilet. She stopped him at the bedroom door.

  “Where are you going?” she said. “Bathroom.”

  “Don’t. The toilet won’t flush.”

  He took a step forward. “Well, let me see if I can’t fix it.” She blocked him. “There’s no plunger. I looked.”

  “I have to take a piss.” He tried to sidestep her. She sighed and took hold of his arm. “I threw up.”

  “I know,” he said, gently pulling away from her. “I heard you.”

  He stepped past her into the bedroom and opened the bathroom door. The stench hit him like a slap to the face. He gagged, nearly vomited himself. He held his breath, breathing through his mouth. He stared down at the yellow-green bile stagnating in the toilet and wondered what the hell he could do.

  He had to pee, really had to go. In fact, he had been pissing a hell of a lot lately. Used to be he could go all day and not pee twice. Just once in the morning and he’d be good. Now it was all the time. Even during the night. He would have to get up out of bed two, three times. Sometimes four. And the urge would be so great that he’d panic.

  Amy, of course, told him not to worry about it. Pointed out that since he had stopped drinking he had been drinking a lot more. Coke Zero, blue Gatorade, a can or two of Red Bull a day, and ten or twelve bottles of Fiji water—three of those while reading in bed just before going to sleep.

  But Craig wasn’t buying it. He knew there was something wrong with his prostate. Only he didn’t have health insurance, and anyway, he was frightened as hell to actually have a doctor check it out. To tell him that his prostate was dangerously enlarged. Or worse yet, that it was cancerous.

  But regardless of the cause, right now he’d have to hold it in. He turned, found Amy standing behind him.

  “I told you,” she said. “We can’t fix it without a plunger.”

  “Well, what plugged it up in the first place? I heard you flush it five minutes ago.”

  Her eyes swept over the sink and Craig followed them. Atop the sink Craig saw the Advil bottle. He lifted and shook it, untwisted the cap. Then he swallowed hard.

  “What did you do with them?” he said. “What did I do with what?”

  “You know what.” “The Advil?” “The Vicodin.”

  She hesitated. “Why was there Vicodin in there?”

  He took a deep breath. “Just answer the question, Amy.”

  She folded her arms across her chest and looked away from him. “I did the same thing with your Vicodin that you did with my Advil,” she said. Her tone was low yet defiant. “I tossed them away.”

  “In the toilet?” “Yes.”

  “You flushed them?” “Yes.”

  He squeezed the plastic bottle in his hand, felt the color creep across his cheeks. “What Advil?” he said finally. “This was my bottle from my medicine cabinet back in New York. I never touched yours.”

  She stared at it. “That bottle was in my luggage,” she said.

  “You packed everything, Amy. Not me. I put the bottle with my toothbrush, my mouthwash, my razor, my shaving cream. That bottle had been empty for months. I never threw out any Advil. Certainly not yours.”

  She took a step backward and parted her lips the way she did when she was backed into a corner, when she couldn’t come up with anything to say. “Well, then, I made a mistake.”

  “You’re damn right you made a mistake. Those Vicodin cost me five bucks apiece, and I need them in order to write. They lift me up just enough to stay focused.”

  Amy exhaled. “You’re the one who asked me to pack your shit. You should have done it yourself.” She turned to walk away.

  He followed her. “What does that have to do with any thing?”

  She stopped and spun around, had the nerve to point her finger at him. “What are you doing with Vicodin anyway? You said you were done popping pills. You promised.”

  “First of all,” he said, “my taking a single Vicodin a day doesn’t affect you. Secondly, that’s not the issue here. The issue is you taking my pills and flushing them down the toilet. The issue is you clogging up the toilet and then vomiting in it so that it stinks to high hell and no one can so much as take a piss.”

  A wall of moisture formed across her eyes. “It couldn’t have been the pills,” she said, her voice shaking. “They dissolve.”

  She stepped past him back into the bedroom and slammed the door. How the hell had he been so stupid? He should have packed the goddamn pills himself. He just never dreamed she’d have any reason to look into the bottle. She had her own fucking Advil; what did she need with his?

  Now she knew he was still taking Vicodin. Probably knew he had been taking them all along. Knew that he’d been spending the few bucks he made writing on the web buying narcotic pain pills, instead of helping with the goddamn groceries and paying her back all that money she’d put out for him for rent.

  Worse still, he had barked at her. Yelled at her for tossing his pills and clogging up the toilet. If she wasn’t leaving before (Of course, she was. She’s been plotting to leave all along.) then surely she was leaving now.

  And now he would have to deal with withdrawal. Not only Amy withdrawal but Vicodin withdrawal, too. And some of the symptoms were just as bad. It would wreak havoc on his stomach, cause him nausea and diarrhea. And thanks to Amy, he had nowhere to puke and shit. He would get headaches and neck aches and various other aches and pains throughout his body. He would sweat (“Get the fuck over here! I’ve got the blow dryer!”) and worst of all, he would fall back into his funk and probably wouldn’t be able to write.

  He stepped into the kitchen and unzipped his fly. Looked down and saw a roach scurry across the floor, crawling beneath one of the warped wooden cabinets.

  He caught his breath. How did people stand having those gruesome fucking things running around the house? The only time he had ever seen one in his own home was in Hawaii, where you didn’t have to be dirty to have a problem. They were everywhere in the islands, and big, too. They thrived in the tropics. Of course, he couldn’t bear to go near them. Couldn’t even get close enough to kill one. In fact, in three years he hadn’t touched a single bug. Amy had killed them all.

  What would I do without her?

  He shrugged the question off and pulled out his penis. Then he urinated into the sink.

  Chapter 13

  Amy lay in bed reading the same page over and over again. She couldn’t concentrate. And this was one of the rare books she actually got to choose herself. Ordinarily, Craig chose her books for her. He wanted her to read books that he had already read himself so that they could “discuss” them. Because he was constantly accusing her of not having anything to say. Of not having any common interests. Of not trying to find common ground.

  Talk to me, he’d say. Talk to me. He had no idea how much she hated those three words. She was quiet. And what was wrong with that? He’d tell her she was the only person he had to speak to, the only person he saw each day. Well, that wasn’t her fault. She’d never told him to quit the law or to work from home. To shut himself off from his colleagues and friends. To bury himself in the apartment all day every day. What right did he have to guilt her into speaking to him?

  She tried again, her eyes following her finger down the page. It was no use. Her mind was racing. She rested the book open on her chest.

  She heard Craig in the kitchen, opening and closing the cabinets, creating a bit of a ruckus. Heard boxes hitting the counter, cans clinking together, some hitting the linoleum and rolling along the floor. What the hell was he doing out there?

  She tried to pay it no mind. She picked up her book and started reading again. Got through one paragraph, then another. Made it to the end of the page and started the next. Then she heard Craig moving across the living room. He was carrying something. Sounded like a garbage bag full of soda cans. The front door creake
d open then slammed closed.

  She sat up in bed and looked over at the phone. She still hadn’t called her mother. She realized now she had been putting it off because she wasn’t quite sure what to tell her. She knew her mother would beg her to come home. And she was afraid she would cave. She didn’t want to leave him again just because of her mom. If she left, she wanted her decision to be her own. And she didn’t want to regret it this time around. If this was going to happen, it had to be a clean break. But it was difficult. Complicated. She knew what was at stake. That there would be no going back. That this time their split would be final. The front door opened again, moaning like a cat in heat. It closed and she heard Craig heading back to the kitchen. Heard him rustling around again.

  Back in upstate New York it was still very early, but her mother rose with the sun. Her father didn’t, but she didn’t really care if she woke him. In fact, her mother would probably commend her for it, would probably say, “I’m glad you woke the lazy piece of shit.”

  What was she waiting for? Things weren’t going to change, no mattered how often or how fervently Craig promised. He had assured her that he would change once they got to Hawaii. Fat chance. He still refused to make the bed, left dirty dishes in the sink, wouldn’t order his own food, wouldn’t drive. Still slathered his hands in Purell every time he stepped outside.

  Jeez. Was that the way she wanted her children to grow up? Fearing everything the way he did? And would he want to control the kids the way he controlled her? Sure, he had assured her he would make a good father, and she believed that he would try. But was it even possible, given what he’d been through as a child?

  She heard the front door groan open yet again.

  She was glad she had stayed on the pill. She had told Craig her doctor had instructed her to stay on it until they were ready to try. To keep her period regular. She knew he wasn’t buying it but she didn’t really care. So long as he didn’t argue about it.

  She listened, but didn’t hear the door close.

  She could call her mother and simply tell her they had arrived. That Craig was in the next room and she would call her back later. She could say that everything was just fine. That she was staying. Later she could always say she changed her mind.

  She folded over the page she had been reading and closed her book. She placed it on the night table next to the bed and stared at the phone. Finally she lifted the receiver off its cradle and put it to her ear.

  There was no dial tone, only a crackling noise. She pressed down on the switch hook and continued listening for a tone. The crackling became louder, then she heard a faint voice. It sounded as though it were coming from a distance.

  “Hello?” Amy said. “Is someone on the line?”

  The crackling grew louder and Amy pressed the phone harder against her ear. “Hello,” she said again.

  “...socorro...”

  The voice was speaking in another language. Most likely Portuguese. It was soft yet urgent, gliding along the crackling sound like a surfer on a wave.

  “...por favor...”

  It was the only phrase Amy could make out. At least the only words that made any sense to her. She drew a breath and pressed the switch hook again, trying not to grow too flustered. After all, it was probably nothing more than lines being crossed.

  The crackling was louder now, and so too was the voice. It was a female’s voice, not an old woman’s, but not a young woman’s either.

  “...ajude-me...”

  “Excuse me,” Amy said, though she knew it was futile. “Our lines are crossed. Can you hang up the phone and try again?”

  “...por favor...”

  Amy shouted, “Excuse me but I’m trying to make a call.”

  Then the voice started shrieking. It was much closer now, as though the woman on the other end had picked up the phone and was screaming directly into the handset. Amy held her receiver away from her ear as it rang from the shrill, piercing cry.

  “...fogo!”

  Amy pressed the switch hook again and again. The woman was still there, still shouting. The crackling sound still accompanying her cries. Amy slammed down the phone.

  That’s just great. Her breathing quickened. She wasn’t sure whether it was her frustration over the fact that the lines were crossed, or the woman on the other end who had been hollering in her ear in Portuguese. Whatever it was, she was unnerved—more anxious than she had been all morning.

  She snatched up her book and lay back down. Opened it to the page she had been reading. She started again from the top. The book was an old paperback her mother had lent her and she hated it. But she refused to abandon it because Craig would know. He’d say, “It sucked, didn’t it? Hate to say I told you so.” And then she would have to ask him for another book to read. And once she got through the first few chapters she would have to talk about it. She’d have to “discuss” it, like she was a third grader giving a fucking book report in front of the class.

  The sound came first and then she felt the report in her stomach. She dropped the paperback onto the floor and tried to steady her hands.

  The front door had suddenly slammed shut. And it had sounded like an explosion.

  Chapter 14

  His stomach growled. He stepped out of the kitchen, walked back to the window and watched the dog again. He thought about giving it a name. Him a name. It’s a him, he thought. Poor little thing, probably never hurt anybody. And he wasn’t asking for much. Just a few scraps of food to fill his belly, maybe enough so that those gawking on the street couldn’t see his ribs. The dog was hungry. Craig was hungry.

  (“You have a tapeworm!”)

  But as far as Craig was concerned, the dog alone deserved to eat.

  He had screwed up. He’d thought that Lisbon alone could solve all his problems. That the city itself could help salvage his relationship, that its exoticness would somehow seep into his body and inspire him to write. His mother always told him that he couldn’t run away from himself. But he’d tried. He’d tried by fleeing to Honolulu. By fleeing to Lisbon. And it looked now as though neither attempt was going to work. Amy wanted away from him, regardless of where in the world they were. And without her, and without the Vicodin, he would fall into a depression too deep to work. And once he was alone and could no longer work…

  He turned from the window and sat at the table, powered up his laptop computer and logged into his email.

  “Welcome!”

  “Up yours, you old throwback,” he muttered.

  “You’ve got mail!”

  He knew there had to be a way to disable that annoying sound file, but he never took the time to figure it out. It was always so much more tempting to delve right into his messages than to interrupt whatever he was doing and go through the steps of disabling it.

  He opened his inbox and deleted more spam. Then he scrolled down to the message from his agent. He opened it.

  Hi Craig. Just wanted to say have a safe trip to Portugal. I’m very excited about the publication of Libations, and I look forward to reading your next book. Best, Jenna

  Sure, now she was excited. There was a time though when she wouldn’t return his emails for months. A time when she was no longer interested in reading his work at all. A time when she went so far as to terminate his contract. She’d left him, abandoned him, when he had needed her most, when times were tough and the writing wasn’t going well and he needed some guidance, some direction. She had walked out on him then and now she was excited; excited because she’d sold his book, because he was now going to be a published author, he was making her money, a racehorse in her stable. Now she was wishing him a safe trip, she was looking forward to receiving his next manuscript, to reading it, to selling it, to making herself more money.

  Wasn’t it just like a woman to be with you during the best of times and to abandon you during the worst? In that way, wasn’t Jenna just like Amy? Just like Amy’s mother who’d wanted to leave Amy’s father simply because he hadn’t become t
he financial success she’d dreamed he would be. And wasn’t that exactly what he was facing if he and Amy actually got married? Like her mother before her, she would recite the traditional vows, but what she’d mean, what she’d really mean was, sure, she’d take him, for now at least, ‘till debt do us part.

  And after three years, they still hadn’t set a date. He had wanted to get married while they were still in New York. Wanted to fly down to the Caribbean and get hitched on one of the beautiful white sand beaches on St. Thomas or Grand Cayman. He was even willing to flit off to Vegas. But no. She wanted a traditional wedding in her home state where everyone she had ever known could attend. Especially her parents. Well, traditionally, the bride’s parents paid for the wedding. But Amy’s parents weren’t paying for shit. They weren’t even chipping in. So what the hell right did they have to attend?

  He deleted the message from Jenna and moved down the list. He opened the email from his mother.

  well I guess you’re ignoring my warnings and going ahead with your plans. I guess that means I no longer have a son. after everything I’ve done for you, this is how you repay me. by leaving me again. everyone else’s sons stick by their mothers, invite them over, take them out to dinner, spend their holidays with them. but not mine. my son doesn’t work, doesn’t visit, doesn’t listen to a word I say. my son refuses to live his life like a normal human being. that’s all right. see if I care. you’ll be sorry when I’m dead. when all you have left is that whore you’re living with. I’m telling you now, craig, don’t fucking go. you have nothing and NO ONE in portugal and you have no reason to be there. stay in the united states—in the best place on earth—and get out of that shit- smelling new york city and come home to BEAUTIFUL new jersey and GET A JOB!!! start living up to your potential. Don’t be such a LOSER. be a normal human being, be a SON! WORK! make MONEY! pay your BILLS! don’t throw your life away on that dumb whore. She’ll be taken care of anyway, without you. worry about yourself. quit that bullshit writing nonsense—that’s not a way to make a living! you need a REAL JOB, a good-paying career that will make you MONEY so you can be with a good woman who’s not a DUMB WHORE! you’ve wasted 32 years of your life. don’t waste another DAY! this is your LAST CHANCE with me. I told you not to go to hawaii and you see what happened?! if you do this, if you go to stupid lisbon, I’m never going to speak to you again. you’ll be DEAD to me. DEAD!!! stop being such a fucking loser! I love you. come home.