Twisted Endings: 5 Disturbing Stories

by Timothy D. McLendon

  “Have you had a chance to check it out yet?” Johnson asked.

  “The post office?” He shook his head. “Not with it being Sunday. They didn’t let me know I had the position until the last minute.”

  “I’m sure you’ll like it just fine. Lake Heron never makes a mistake in choosing the right man.”

  “Thank you. Enough about me. I’m curious, how does one get started in a business like this?”

  Johnson winked at David and set his coffee back on the desk. "Sure. David, go check on the soap for me. We want to make sure it's perfect."

  David left in silence.

  "Wow," Johnson said, redirecting his attention to Mark, "that goes back quite a ways. I'm not sure where to start."

  "Start at the beginning."

  Johnson smiled at distant memories. "Then we’d have to start with Joseph Walker. He wasn’t liked by everyone, but he was a hero to most of us.”

  “Most?”

  “Be patient, Mr. Walton.”

  Mark nodded.

  “I suppose it was in ’42 or thereabouts that he came to this town. Hottest summer we ever had. Appeared on the very street in front of this store. Of course back then it could hardly be considered a street, I mean with all the dirt, rocks and horse manure strewn about. You can imagine that most of these businesses weren't here either, except for that ice cream shop over there.” He nodded to vaguely outside the front window. “Used to be a nickel for a vanilla ice cream cone.”

  Mark glanced at his watch and shifted in his chair.

  "Not to worry, Mr. Walton. This is quite a story and we have just enough time."

  JOSEPH WALKER wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and continued the journey he had begun five days earlier. He had nothing more than a pair of worn out boots, thin leather gloves and a large suitcase in his possession. Getting too old for this, he thought. Someone else must take over.

  He reached the center of town and looked around at the feed store, barber shop and busy saloon. The air was filled with the strong scent of perfume and alcohol. No one bothered to acknowledge him. He coughed into his left-gloved hand. When he pulled the hand away he noticed the bright splotches of blood sprinkled over the glove. I'm running out of time. He shook his head and continued walking.

  “Hey Mister.”

  Joseph turned to face a chubby kid — eleven or twelve years old — with dirty overalls and uncombed hair. He smiled and set his suitcase down. “What can I do for you, Son?”

  The boy eyed the suitcase and pointed to it. “I ain't never seen nothin' like that. Whatcha got in there?”

  “Just a few things to sell.”

  “Oh.”

  “Say, can you tell me where to find 64 Stratton Street?”

  The boy's face lit up. “That's where I live!” His eyes narrowed. “It ain't no boardin' house or nothin'. We ain't got no room for strangers. My pa don't like strangers.”

  “Not to worry,” Joseph said. “I just need to speak with your father. It won’t take long.”

  “What for?”

  “I have something he'll be very interested in.” Joseph pulled the suitcase close and patted it on the side.

  “All right.” The boy stood there for a moment. “My name's Petey,” he declared, holding his hand out.

  Joseph offered his right hand in return. “Nice to meet you Petey. My name's Joseph. Joseph Walker.”

  Joseph listened as Petey rambled on and on about throwing rocks and catching lizards as they walked for a mile toward the house. He just nodded and smiled.

  Petey’s dad was waiting on the wooden porch when they arrived, holding an empty bottle between his hands. “Where ya been, Boy? Get me a beer!”

  “This man wants to see ya, Pa,” he said, pointing to Joseph.

  “I told ya not to bring home strangers, Boy! What're ya, stupid or somethin’?!”

  Petey’s eyes welled up as he stammered, “No, Pa. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it.”

  “You cryin’, Boy? Cryin’s for girls! Get inside.”

  Petey lowered his head and walked through the front screen door as his father kicked him in the rear. The man unbuckled his belt and let it slide from the loops of his tattered jeans.

  “Sir?” Joseph uttered.

  Petey's father turned in disgust. “I ain't no Sir. Beat it, Mister.”

  “I know what you are.” He noticed a terrible gash on the back of the man’s left hand. “I've got something that can change your life forever,” he offered.

  The man looked down at Joseph's suitcase for the first time. “Yore a salesman, ain't ya? I don't like ya. And I ain't buyin' nothin'.”

  Joseph set his suitcase on the ground and crouched, disappearing behind its large frame once it opened. His hand appeared just over the rim with a small square object.

  “Soap?” He spit alcohol all over himself.

  “You'll like this soap.” Joseph sniffed at it in mocking delight.

  “Beat it, Mister. I got matters to attend to.” He gripped his belt firmly.

  Joseph stepped up to the man and grabbed him by the arm. He used all of his strength to slam the man face down on the porch. He grunted from the exertion. I’m getting too old for this, he repeated to himself.

  “Lemme go!” the man screamed in a drunken stupor.

  Joseph tightened his grip. He took the soap and scrubbed it over the man’s gash, reopening the wound. The man screamed in pain and thrashed about until Joseph finally let go and stood back.

  Petey's father realized he could move again. “Ya may be old, but I'm gonna kick yore butt,” he threatened. He jumped up and raised his fists, ready to fight to the death when he noticed something amazing. He noticed the gash on his hand was gone. “What the hell?”

  THE FOLLOWING day Joseph walked down the next street over with a much lighter suitcase. Once again, he seemed lost. Petey ran up to him, just like before.

  “Hey Joseph. Joseph Walker,” he said, waving his arms in excitement.

  “Hey there, Petey.” He paused for a moment. “I don't think your pa would want you with me.”

  “Aw, don't worry ‘bout him. He seems real happy ‘bout whatever ya brung him.”

  “Well, good. Do you want to help me again?”

  The boy nodded.

  “I need to find these addresses,” he said, pointing to a short piece of paper in his hand.

  “No problem!” Petey scratched his head. “Ya wanna throw rocks with me later?”

  “Petey,” Joseph said, “I would love to throw rocks with you.”

  They went to each of the addresses on the list and Joseph pitched his product to the residents, making a successful sale each time. His suitcase was almost empty.

  “Can we throw rocks now?” It was almost noon.

  “Very soon, my dear boy.” He patted Petey's head, messing up his hair. “I need to catch up on some research, but then we shall throw rocks all afternoon.”

  “Research? Ya talkin' ‘bout the library? Pa says readin’s for girls.”

  Joseph laughed. “You'd be amazed how smart girls are.”

  “All right, I'll be waitin' for ya over there,” Petey said, pointing to a nearby sand hill.

  “Sounds good. Can you point me toward the library?”

  “Go that way,” he answered, pointing to the west end of town.

  Joseph smiled and walked away. He sensed Petey was trailing him from a distance. He resisted the urge to tell the boy not to come. He could be the one.

  Joseph nodded at the librarian when he entered the library and headed for the newspaper rack. He grabbed several days’ worth of papers from Lake Heron and Cone Valley, the next town over.

  He pretended not to notice Petey hiding in the children's aisles as he sat down and pored over the newspapers, circling certain sections with a pencil in the Lake Heron edition. Ten minutes later he pulled out the piece of paper with addresses and copied down another address. He picked up a Cone Valley edition and read the middle page, circling
the paragraph in the top left corner.

  Joseph left the articles he had circled on the table as he stood up, making sure Petey saw them. He put away the rest of the newspapers, thanked the librarian, and opened the front door as if to leave, but stayed just inside the entrance, out of general view. He peeked around the corner and watched Petey walk to the table.

  Petey moved his lips, trying to read some of the words Joseph had circled in a Lake Heron paper. “Bob Daly. A..a..arrested for child mo..mo..mo...” He gave up and looked at another page from Cone Valley. The name ‘Bob Daly’ appeared there as well, but this one had a picture. He tried to read the words at the top but decided to ask the librarian.

  “How can I help you?” the librarian asked. Her glasses hung at the end of her nose.

  “Yes Ma’am. What’s this word?” he asked, pointing to the top of the newspaper.

  She adjusted her glasses to where they were halfway down her nose. “That word, young man, is ‘obituary’.”

  “IS THIS supposed to be a true story?” Mark asked with a smile.

  “That’s something you’ll have to decide for yourself.”

  “The librarian would have hung Joseph Walker for writing in the newspapers.”

  Johnson smirked. “Perhaps.”

  “Also, it’s unlikely that child molestation arrests were printed back then.”

  Johnson nodded. “Well done, Mr. Walton. All valid points. You’ll recall that I said he wasn’t liked by everyone. But to others, perhaps like the librarian, he was a hero. You should also know that Lake Heron, Cone Valley and a number of the smaller surrounding cities have always had a strong moral bond. Our number one priority is to protect the children.”

  Mark nodded absently and sucked on his empty mug.

  “David!”

  Heavy footsteps clamored up from the basement again. David entered the room and took their mugs without a word. He nodded at Johnson as he disappeared from the room.

  “Better than maid service,” Mark joked. He kept the napkin in his hand and squeezed it for warmth.

  “Yes, David can be most helpful. I worry about him sometimes, though. He can be a little too trusting. Someone could take advantage of him.”

  Mark cleared his throat. “Are you sure the heat's on? It still feels like I'm outside.” Or inside of a refrigerator.

  “Oh, sure. It's getting warmer. Hope you don't have a fever from being out there.”

  Mark felt his forehead. It did feel warm.

  “David!”

  He appeared in the doorway.

  “You checked the heat, right?”

  “You bet. Should be toasty warm. Soap's almost ready, by the way.”

  “Good, we're just about finished,” Johnson said. “Why don't you stay and hear the rest of the story?"

  David hesitated, but closed the office door before he took a seat next to Mark.

  Mark smiled at him, but David turned his eyes away. Mark scratched his arms. Something didn't feel right. “My arms feel like they're on fire.”

  “Don't worry,” David said, “the soap chemicals can have that effect. Trust me, I know. The itching sensation shouldn’t last more than a couple of minutes.”

  Mark shook his head. “You still haven’t told me how you got started in this business,” he reminded Johnson.

  “Give me one more chance,” Johnson pleaded. “It will all come together.”

  “WHERE HAVE you been, Petey? I was afraid I’d to have to have some fun without you.” Joseph picked up a small stone and threw it at a beer bottle near the bottom of the sand hill, missing by several feet.

  Petey didn't answer at first. He climbed the hill like an eager ant and sat next to Joseph. “Do ya do bad things to people?”

  Joseph sat still. “What do you think?”

  “No.” Petey stared at his feet.

  “Okay then,” Joseph reassured him.

  “My Pa does, though.” He kicked the sand in front of him, then shielded his eyes when tiny specks flew back into his face.

  “I know.”

  “Ya know?”

  “Yes. But not for much longer.” Joseph picked up another stone and threw it as hard as he could.

  “But why were ya lookin’ at them papers?”

  Joseph stopped and put an arm around Petey. “There are a lot of people who do bad things. I'm here to try to fix that.”

  “But how?”

  Joseph gave him a thoughtful glance. He reached for his suitcase and placed it next to him. “By cleaning up the neighborhood.” He opened the suitcase, disappeared behind it, and pulled out a square object.

  Petey chuckled. “With soap?”

  “Can you think of a better way to get clean?”

  “I spose not.” Petey reached for the enticing bar in Joseph's hand.

  Joseph yanked his hand away. “No, Petey. You must never touch this soap. Not without gloves.”

  Petey slid a couple of inches away. “Sorry. Is it expensive?"

  “No, no, nothing like that. Listen, can you help me again tomorrow? It'll be the last time.”

  “You leavin’?”

  “Not for a few more days, but tomorrow I'll be going back to some of the places we’ve already been. Got some unfinished business to take care of.”

  Petey shrugged. “Okay.”

  Joseph smiled, picked up one last stone, threw it at the bottle below, and watched the glass shatter into a million pieces.

  Early the next morning, Joseph walked to Petey's house with a noisy suitcase. Several glass jars clanged against each other inside of it.

  Petey ran to him. “Mr. Walker! Somethin' s the matter with my pa! He don't look so good!”

  “I know.”

  “It’s his skin. Somethin’s wrong. I don’t know what to do. He's mad as a hornet's nest!”

  “It'll all be over soon. Wait here. I'll take care of him.”

  Joseph walked into the house to find Petey's father lying on the couch. He was covered in moist cloths from head to toe. “Good day, Sir.”

  He looked up. “What have ya done to me?” He tried to stand. The cloth covering his chest fell off. Drops of blood seeped through his skin and dripped like gooey slime to the floor.

  Joseph was silent.

  “Why don't ya answer me?!”

  Joseph waited a moment. “I know what you are. I know what you do to your child. To your neighbors' children. And God knows who else.” He paused for a moment then sat in the rocking chair across from the man.

  “What? What ya talkin’ ‘bout?”

  “I had a drink in Cone Valley a few days ago. Ran into an old friend of yours. Bob Daly. Funny thing, a drunk man will tell you everything you want to know.”

  “Good for ya! Gonna help me or not?”

  Joseph stared at him, deep in thought. “There is one thing. Have you heard the parable of bitter water?”

  The man shook his head.

  “Of course not. That would require reading.” The man opened his mouth but Joseph held out his hand. “A woman drinks this ‘bitter water’ when her husband suspects her of adultery. If the woman is innocent, she conceives a beautiful child from her husband. If not, her belly blows up and she dies. If the woman accepts a divorce, though, she can walk away from the test.” He studied the man’s face. “Do you understand what I'm offering you?”

  “Bitter water? What ya talkin’ ‘bout? What's in that soap?”

  Joseph shook his head. He was giving the man one last chance to repent. To walk away from his evil life. The man would never understand. “I made it myself. It's made from lye, well, lots of lye, glycerin, and a few of my own secret ingredients.”

  Joseph set his suitcase down and opened it, once again disappearing behind its vastness, but this time reappearing with a large glass jar. He walked over to the man and grabbed him by the arm. “I know what you are,” he repeated. “We must all pay for our sins.”

  The man screamed as the pulp of his flesh liquefied into a cocktail of blood and mucus. �
�Oh, God! I'm sorry! Why? Why?!”

  “Because I'm a soap salesman, Sir. I've come to clean up the neighborhood.”

  Joseph managed to catch a pint of the red slimy ooze in his jar. The rest fell to the floor and evaporated in a smelly stack of smoke. He put the jar back into the suitcase, closed it and started to walk out.

  Petey stood at the door, speechless.

  “Sit down, Petey.”

  The boy collapsed on the front porch and stared up at the sky. “I seen what ya did.”

  “How does it make you feel?” He was searching for any hint in Petey's eyes that he would carry on his work.

  Petey stood back up and looked down at the suitcase. “Why? Why’d ya do it?”

  Joseph sighed. “My father was just like yours. I couldn’t allow him to hurt you anymore. Or any of the other children. There are many more like you and me, Petey. Many more. Someone has to fight for them.”

  Petey wiped his eyes, then said, “He got what he deserved.”

  “That's a good boy. Sit back down, Petey.” He waited for Petey to sit before kneeling and opening the suitcase. He removed the glass jars and pointed to the bars of soap that were left. “Soap that heals,” he said, pointing to one side, nearly empty. “Soap that kills,” he said, pointing to the other side.

  Petey didn't respond.

  “I don't have much time left. I can teach you everything I know, but only if you want to learn.”

  “I want to learn.”

  “Good. Now let me tell you about bitter water.”

  “THAT’S CRAZY,” Mark huffed. “Who would ask a child to do such a thing?"

  “There are worse things,” Johnson said, lowering his head.

  “Why would you make up something like that?”

  “This story isn’t made up,” David said with an amused look. “The story’s not even over.”

  “Actually,” Johnson interrupted, “that's the end of that part of the story.”

  “I see the moral lesson. But why would anyone keep a jar of blood and guts?” Mark swallowed hard. He knew the Nazis had used the fat from Jews to make soap.

  “I know what you're thinking,” Johnson said, “and I assure you, it's nothing like that. Joseph was a man of honor. The jar and all of its contents served as a type of memorial. They say Joseph kept a stash of these jars that was a mile wide. No one's ever been able to find them.”