by Bart Hopkins
Traffic was tricky in some spots, but soon she was at her location—the first place she had called home in Atlanta. The old warehouse just off Martin Luther King Jr. Drive had been the perfect place for her workspace because it was neatly hidden away from prying eyes. She purchased it the same day she looked at it, surprising the real estate agent with her cash payment. She loved the element of surprise.
She clicked the automatic garage door opener, tapping impatiently on the steering wheel as the door rose. She pulled in and, as soon as the rear bumper cleared the threshold, she hit the button to close the door. She had spared no expenses to make sure she had the best of everything. Her mind was singularly focused. One thing and one thing only held her attention—the man in the back of the van. She never noticed the semi-truck that now sat parked across from her true home.
The tinted windows glistened from the last of the sunlight and the neighborhood trembled as the engine thrummed to life. The sound built to a roar that became persistent and haunting.
She truly enjoyed the process of elimination when it came to problems. Her mother had taught her a few tricks, but her style was purely her own. Sadly, she would have to come back to finish this one. Time was becoming her nemesis. She was determined to meet Kevin on time. She did have a little time for some fun—time to see his face, to see his eyes looking into hers one more time. She knew her pharmaceuticals well and had learned the precise doses necessary to place someone into a deep sleep, or even a coma. She had found that occasionally time was not always on her side and she needed more to accomplish all that she desired. Dom was a big guy. She knew his weight and measurements. Men could be so vain and would gladly give that information when promised a gift. The crumpling sound of the tarp caught her attention and she knew the game was about to really start.
The space was once an old warehouse filled with a decade's worth of detritus from the industrial era. Six months of cleaning out the trash and securing the building from the homeless rabble gave her a blank palette to transform. The original palace of pain was crude, but usable. It had rusty, machine-shop tables picked up at foreclosure sales, basic saws that she found at the local hardware store, a scavenged collection of surgical tools, garnered from hospitals, clinics, and even the dental college, construction drop cloths, barrels of varying size discreetly borrowed, and lots of bleach. Her first victims brought back both distasteful memories and vivid pictures of pleasure to her thoughts.
The years allowed her to evolve her talents—hone her skills and transform the crude into beautiful. Her palace of pain was a remarkable display in depravity. Stainless steel gleamed from every corner. Locked cabinets, when open, showed tools of the trade and were neatly organized for quick retrieval and use. An elaborate drainage system allowed for quick clean up. Industrial refrigerators and freezers stood starkly, waiting for the bi-products of torture to be stored for future use. Surgeons would envy her implement collection and butchers would covet her extensive knife and saw display. Automatic lighting that turned on whenever she entered the building, and went off when she left, was a sweet perk of the trade. The elaborate automated system that allowed her to control anything with a tiny remote control was one of her true design favorites. Grabbing her remote from her oak desk, she clicked into action. Industrial fans whirred, the ventilation system kicked in, video cameras started rolling, and the music of AC/DC flowed from the speaker system.
She slid her specially made rolling table over to the side of the van so she could get Dom and get to work. Her table allowed her to roll the tarp bundle onto it, secure it with sturdy straps, and then elevate it to the perfect working height. The table was her pride and joy. Designed by her, she had it crafted over a two-year stretch by multiple artisans. Nobody who worked on it had a clue what they had made. She caressed her hands along the stainless steel with desire. Her bundle, now rocking, brought her back to the task at hand. She rolled into the work zone and started to elevate the table over the drainage grates. Rose was quite methodical. She expertly sliced the tarp away, and saw the frightened look on Dom’s face as he realized the wicked predicament he found himself in. If only he knew how wicked it truly was.
Dominic Giovanni de Santiago looked into those hazel eyes, finally seeing them for what they were—the eyes of a witch. He knew this in his soul. He’d been seduced by the temptress and lost all because of those pools of passion. He’d lived a good life though and had no regrets—well, there was that one regret. He would always regret the day he had climbed into the seat of that truck.
It was June 1970. He’d been hitchhiking to Canada, trying to dodge that damn draft. Vietnam was not high on his list of places he wanted to visit. When the notice arrived, he threw what he could carry in a rucksack and hit the highway. He’d gotten to the border of Wisconsin without a problem. He spent a few days working just outside of Burlington. A farmer needed some hands to harvest corn and he needed money. When he hit the road, he stuck out his thumb, and in a flash, a semi-truck came to a slow stop in front of him. A gritty voice spoke from the open window, inviting him in. A shiver went down his spine, but his feet hurt. Rides were hard to come by, so passing one up was pure stupidity. Who knew—maybe the driver would have some weed or whiskey to ease his hurts.
A scrawny old man sat in the driver’s seat of the truck cab. Dom could have sworn the old man shimmered in and out of existence at times, and he knew he wasn’t using anything when he climbed in that cab. “Name’s Dom, sir, thanks for stopping,” he said, holding his hand out.
The man never shook his hand, just mumbled his name, which Dom thought was Smitty. “You goin’ north? I’d really like to get to Canada. You heading that way?” Dom rambled. The old man just nodded and the truck started rolling down the highway.
Dom blinked at the brightness of the lights, listening to the sounds around him. Was that really AC/DC playing Hells Bells over a stereo? Rose wasn’t even old enough to appreciate that music, he thought—a random thought in response to the absurdity of his situation. His body felt heavy and numb, but his mind was clearing. He’d been played the fool after all these years—by a broad. The irony of it all. He knew that Betty Lou was close. He could feel her essence pulsing through him and sensed her anger. He also knew that they would never see each other again. His time had come.
Rose knew Dominic couldn’t feel what she was doing—the drugs hadn’t fully worn off. She’d injected him with the EDTA, an anticoagulant, inserted the tube into his femoral artery, and watched as his blood flowed from his body. Her table allowed gravity to aid the process. She’d have to store the body until she could come back and have more fun—no time for a true torture session—but she knew what would torture him the most. She stood, walked up to his face, and brought her hand to his chin. She turned his head so he was facing her and looked him in the eyes. She fluttered those hazel eyes at him, knowing they had always been his weakness. He couldn’t speak—she’d gagged his mouth—but he could see. She kissed him goodbye and laughed as she saw the spark of life fade from his pale green eyes.
A storm brewed outside the doors of the warehouse as a semi-truck roared with rage—the engine sending smoke billowing into the sky. Lightning flashed and thunder clapped as the neighborhood cowered in fear. The newspaper the next day claimed an earthquake had shaken the area.
Rose dealt with the storage and clean-up process methodically and quickly. Dominic was history in her book. She had hoped for more fun when this time came, but Kevin was waiting. She actually looked back at her palace and dreamed that she would never see it again. The little girl inside her, who occasionally slipped out, hoped she had found the man of her dreams. She drove out the back garage door in a Fiat. She wore a slinky red dress, her auburn hair coiffed to perfection, and her hazel eyes were complimented by her simple, yet sophisticated, application of makeup. She had one stop to make before she met Kevin at the airport—a manicure was a necessity.
The semi-truck pulled into the Nickelback Truck Stop. Old Charlie blinked
a few times—he swore that was Dominic’s truck. The truck looked like it had been to hell and back. Dents rippled across the usually gleaming cab, dirt clung heavily to the tires, and the windows were coated in filth. Charlie waited with apprehension for the driver’s door to open. He didn’t notice the young man who came around the front of the truck, until he was coming through the door.
“Sir, help me, sir,” the young boy begged. Charlie looked at the boy and damn near had a coronary then and there. He’d seen those eyes before—in 1954. He could even smell the old man’s unique combination of Brylcreem and gasoline in the air. The clothes were worse; he’d seen them just the other morning, on his pal Dominic. The hair and body strongly resembled Dom. The voice that was filled with fear was unfamiliar.
“How?” Charlie asked incredulously.
“The truck, it’s the truck,” the stranger shrieked.
Amy came running from the kitchen at the noise. “What the hell is going on…” she started to say.
What happened next, Chuck and Amy refuse to discuss with anyone. Betty Lou rolls in regularly to the Nickelback and they just prepare the meal. Nothing really ever changes on their end; they’ve just stopped looking at the face of the driver. Dominic’s spirit was there that day—for a moment. He waved from the cab of the truck before it transformed back into a gleaming beauty. The young man who was ready to crap his drawers, suddenly stood tall and walked to the bathroom area. Before he went into the shower room, he turned and simply said, “I’ll have the usual, Chuck. Morning, Amy.” They never asked his name, and he never offered. Old Charlie retired in 2010 because Amy had cancer of the thyroid and they wanted to live out her last days in peace. Their son took over the truck stop, as of December 2012, and Betty Lou still makes regular stops. The driver has changed again, but Smitty, Dom, and that other boy are still in there.
“Be careful when you’re hitching a ride,” was the sign that Charlie had made for the Nickelback, “Steer clear of the trucks.”
The manicure was worth every cent. Rose felt like a brand new woman. She drove to Falcon Field to meet up with Kevin. She hoped that this was the start of a whole new life. Kevin was waiting for her at the gates of the airport, a dozen roses in his hand, a smile on his face. His Armani suit fit him perfectly. He stood tall and oozed masculinity from every pore. She smiled as she got out of the Fiat. A man came to her assistance and grabbed her luggage. She could get used to this. Yes, she could. Time was on her side. She was young and happy.
Kevin took her to the limo he had waiting. They shared champagne and enjoyed dinner at a quaint inn that Kevin said was his little secret. She was falling in love. He grabbed her hands in one of his, and took off the glasses he always wore. She looked into the most spectacular, silver-flecked blue eyes, and felt herself falling. She saw Kevin’s lips moving, but heard nothing as her vision failed and she lost consciousness.
The light was blinding when she woke, the ketamine losing hold of her system. She tried to sit up, only to be pushed forcibly down. Her happiness was fading fast. Was this the price she would have to pay?
“Morning sunshine, lovely to see you again,” Kevin drawled. “Welcome to my palace—I hope you like it. I followed your guidance to the letter.” The last thing she remembered was the look of pure delight in those brutal blue eyes.
Little Tchotchkes
Nicki Scalise
Author Dedication
Dedicated to the memory of Dominic Scalise—You allowed me to watch horror movies when I was very young and it was fundamental in shaping my twisted little imagination. Thanks Dad!
Special thanks to: Jon, Joe, Catlyn, Jayne, Barb, Dominic, Jannah and Nia. The advice I received from each of you helped morph the story into one I’m proud of.
About Nicki
Nicki Scalise is co-founder of A Thousand Lives Book Blog. She currently resides in Colorado with her husband and menagerie of pets. When not sitting at her desk staring blankly into space she is hard at work on her first novel.
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Cheyenne Mountain (Apocalypse Anthology):
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Little Tchotchkes
It was a dark and stormy night. Isn’t that how all great vampire tales should begin? Well this one shall be no different. It was just that, a dark and stormy night in the city. It was after midnight and I had been hanging out at one of the larger Goth clubs—my preferred hunting grounds. The girls who frequent these establishments read far too much vampire fiction and are easily swayed into, what they believe, is a little bit of role playing. They romanticize the notion of vampires, each secretly hoping to find their Eric Northman or Damon Salvatore, tame him, receive the immortal kiss, and live happily ever after. Not a single one of them understands the true nature of a vampire. We’re predators—we hunt and we kill. We don’t profess our undying love to silly little girls who like to wear all black.
She was a tiny little thing wearing a tight, purple corset, which shoved her breasts nearly to her throat. Her dark black hair was pulled up into high pigtails, exposing the pulsing life in her neck. Her black skirt flowed around her legs as we moved rhythmically to the beats of Nick Cave and the Bad Seed’s Red Right Hand. She was my chosen victim for the evening and she was going to be all too easy. It only took a few drinks, a little bit of charm, and a tiny bit of attention to snare her in my web. It’s not difficult to do when you look the part and tonight—I was on top of my game. My black patent-leather pants hugged me in all the right places, while the tight, black fishnet shirt highlighted my pectorals and showcased my nipple rings… which, for some odd reason, made all the little Siouxsie Sioux wanna-bes swoon.
As the song ended I took her by the hand and led her off the dance floor. I had been “romancing’ this girl for over two hours and I was getting hungry and impatient. I led her to a dark corner where we found a seat, but there was another couple sitting nearby. The woman was wearing a long, black, flowing dress and straddling the man’s lap. It was too dark to really make out either of their features but not too dark to see they were having a good time, too good to be appropriate in public. My girl giggled at their wicked behavior and I snuggled into her, laying a few gentle kisses along her jaw. She grabbed my face and brought my mouth to hers. I played along, letting her believe she was the one in control. She then asked with a gentle whisper into my ear the one thing I had been waiting to hear, “Want to get out of here and go back to my place?” I only nodded in response.
She took me by the hand and led me towards the door marked with a blinking red exit sign, making a brief stop at the coat check to get her black velvet and burgundy satin cloak. As I watched her tie it around her neck and pull the hood up over her head, I couldn’t help but wonder if this particular way of hunting was getting stagnate. Maybe there wasn’t enough challenge in it anymore. I was still going to drain her dry, make no mistake, a good vampire will never pass up a free meal, but it had me thinking that maybe I needed to shake things up a bit next time.
The other couple brushed passed us in a hurry on the way out the door and the woman winked at me, not with embarrassment, but with what appeared to be pride. As she breezed out the door, her long black dress flowing behind her, I could hear Witchy Woman playing in my mind. Although I was intrigued by her and had a slight regret that I hadn’t found her for my victim first, something in my gut told me I was better off, even if the region a little further south was firmly disagreeing.
The rain had let up significantly but there was a light, yet ominous, mist hanging in the air. The chill was making my girl shiver as we walked to her apartment, yet didn’t bother me in the slightest. She didn’t live far from the club and we made it to her door quickly. She reached down the front of her corset with her skinny fingers and produced a shiny
silver key that had been hanging on a black satin cord around her neck. I watched as her crimson fingertips took the key to the lock. She smiled seductively before opening the door. I followed her in and closed the door behind me. Her living quarters were small, little more than a studio apartment really. I watched as she untied the cloak, folded it in half, and tossed it on the sofa.
“Do you have any roommates?” I asked and she shook her head. Good, that means I can take my time with you. I glanced around the space. It felt all too familiar, similar to the countless others I had been in lately. All black furniture, yards of red lace fabric draped over lamps, H.R. Giger prints on the walls. Jesus Christ on a cupcake with sprinkles, if you’ve seen one goth girl’s apartment, you’ve seen them all.
She took a few tiny strides towards me—her black Mary Janes clicking on the wood floors—until we were toe to toe. She was so petite in stature that I could have rested my chin on the top of her head when she came to a stop. “So what’s your name?” she asked in a sultry voice.
I shook my head. “No, no real names”
“What shall I call you then?”
“What name would you like to call me?”
She pondered the question for a few moments. “Shall I call you Lestat?”
I had to use all of my power not to roll my eyes at her. “As you wish,” I replied, disguising my lack of enthusiasm. Does originality count for anything these days? I was going to enjoy killing her all the more—if only for her lack of imagination. Just once, it would be nice to hear one of these girls not want to call me Dracula, Lestat, or god forbid, Spike. It’s amazing how many rabid Buffy fans are still roaming around wanting me to pretend to be Blondie Bear. At least she didn’t want to call me Edward. Had that been the case, I would have happily foregone my meal to just snap her neck.